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The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard FlanaganRichard Flanagan’s powerful The Narrow Road to the Deep North is in many ways an immense achievement. It took some twelve years to write, during which time he tried a number of different forms for the story, realising each time he had failed, before he settled on the one that appears in the published novel. It was a very personal journey, because his father was one of Weary Dunlop’s POWs on the Thai-Burma Death Railway. For Flanagan, this was a book he always knew he would write. It was the advancing age of his father that finally got it finished; his father survived the war (as well as the cholera he had during his internment), passing away at the age of nearly 99 just after Flanagan had told him he had given the manuscript to his publishers. That this man passed with such poetic timing should perhaps come as no surprise because poetry is one of the foundation stones upon which this fine novel is built.

The title of the novel is the same as haiku master Basho’s epic haibun, and each of the five sections of chapters is proceeded by an epigrammatic haiku that reflects the chapters to come. And those chapters are the prose equivalent of haiku, compact things that generally run for no more than four or so pages, many shorter. Like haiku, they contain multitudes of understanding, depicting human nature at its most loving, needy, compassionate and diabolical.

The story centres on the deeply flawed but magnetic Dorrigo Evans, a Tasmanian surgeon, although it fans out to encompass the experiences of other captives as well as their captors, both during their time building ‘the Line’ and after the war. I suspect another author would have told the story of the many solely through one central character’s experience, but Flanagan chooses to branch out beyond the story of Dorrigo. Some readers might find this a little discombobulating, others will appreciate the linking of disparate lives on both sides of the war with the themes of poetry, survival, and what it means to love.

The story opens with Dorrigo as a boy, growing up in Tasmania, his earliest memory of a light-filled church hall. Already we have hints of salvation and its twin: suffering. We also have poetry, for Dorrigo grows up as a bookish lad, and often quotes from Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’:

My purpose holds,

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars until I die.’

Like Odysseus, Dorrigo will be held captive in a distant land, unable to return to the woman he loves.

The narrative structure is fractured, which seems an apt approach given the way war fractures the lives of its participants and their families. Although generally progressing from Dorrigo’s childhood to old age, there are numerous time slips, with Flanagan taking us forward and back to key moments. One of the early moves is forward, to Dorrigo with his lover Amy, where we get an early reference to Basho’s haibun. Dorrigo recites ‘Ulysses’ to her as he looks ‘to where, beyond the weathered French doors with their flaking white paint, the moonlight formed a narrow road on the sea …’. It’s a perfect image, and deeply resonant, for that is the road he must travel.

I mentioned survival above, and it is one of the great underlying themes of the novel. As a younger man, Dorrigo goes to the mainland, to Melbourne University, where he studies medicine. Surrounded by the elite, he finds that while he loves his family, he is not proud of them. Their ‘principal achievement was survival. It would take him a lifetime to appreciate what an achievement that was.’

For all his flaws, Dorrigo is at his best as the commanding officer of the POWs in the camp. At one point, when desperately hungry, he’s presented with a (contraband) steak by the cook, and although his mouth is flooding with saliva, he refuses to eat it, telling the man to feed it to the sick men in the hospital. He laments the way he is failing his men, as a doctor and a leader. His love for them is absolute.

There are some wonderful characters amongst Dorrigo’s men, including the artist Rabbit Hendricks, Lizard Brancussi, Jimmy Bigelow, Jack Rainbow, the outcast Rooster MacNeice, and Darky Gardener aka the ‘Black Prince’, a man who could got things by trading the black market, even when he’s on the Line.

The horrors are endless, gut-wrenching. Dorrigo ‘persuaded, cajoled and insisted on the officers working, as the ceaseless green horror pressed every harder on their scabies-ridden bodies and groggy guts, on their fevered heads and foul, ulcerated legs, on their perennially shitting arses.’ And these were the officers – the rest suffer even more.

When these horrors have been indelibly inked into our minds, Dorrigo is faced with an impossible dilemma, forced to choose one hundred emaciated souls to march one hundred miles through the jungle to another camp, knowing most will die along the way. Does he send the very sick, or ‘just’ the sick? It’s heartbreaking stuff.

It is here Flanagan does something brave: he makes the leap into the Japanese mindset as an attempt to understand how men can treat other men with such barbarity. We see into the lives of two Japanese commanders, the amphetamine-addicted Nakamura and his evil superior Colonel Kota. To them, the POWs are less than men, had they been Japanese they would have killed themselves because of the shame of being captured. Their purpose now is to serve the Emperor.

It is not just Dorrigo who is placed in impossible situations. Nakamura is placed in one by Kota, who demands more be done in less time. Despite Kota rebuffing Nakamura’s entreaties for more men and machinery, the two bond over Japan’s great destiny, and also over the haiku that reflects the Japanese spirit:

They grew sentimental as they talked of the earthy wisdom of Issa’s haiku, the greatness of Buson, the wonder of Basho’s great haibun, The Narrow Road to the Deep North, which, Colonel Kota said, summed up in one book the genius of the Japanese spirit.

In lesser hands, the post-war tracing of the captors could have been a mistake. In Flanagan’s hands we get to see the great weight carried by survivors and perpetrators, as well as more disturbing truths, such as that of one Japanese engineer-cum-guard, who says the time he had spent building the railway was the happiest of his life. Such is human nature, sadly.

But it’s not all about the war. It’s also about love in all its guises, be it the love Dorrigo has for his men, the men who he believes he is failing, and the love that burns between Dorrigo and Amy. It also explores love’s darker obsessiveness, ownership, the lies people tell out of spite.

The second section of chapters starts with a haiku from Issa:

From that woman

on the beach, dusk pours out

across the evening waves.

For Dorrigo, everything pours out of Amy, light, love, a hopeless inviolable need. It is a lovely linking of Amy and the waves that carry the narrow road of moonlight across the seas that are calling him. Held while he waits to be shipped off to war, their affair is brief but all consuming.

They meet by chance in Adelaide in late 1940 at a book store (where Max Harris is launching Angry Penguins!). They are instantly, magnetically, attracted to each other. The meeting is brief, a few minutes of talking about poetry (and penguins), with no names exchanged. But he meets her again at his uncle Keith’s pub. For yes, Amy is married to Dorrigo’s uncle, many years her senior. And while nothing happened in this next meeting, ‘everything had changed.’

The same is true for Amy. She seems to seek oblivion in it, in them. For her, love ‘is not goodness, and nor is it happiness. … It was the universe touching, exploding within one human being, and that person exploding into the universe. It was annihilation, the destroyer of worlds.”

In an interview with Philip Adams, Flanagan said we intone ‘lest we forget’, but we do forget, and quickly. As a counter to this, there are two indelible truths I hold after reading The Narrow Road to the Deep North. First, the novel is an unforgettable testament to Weary Dunlop’s men and the other countless thousands who lost their lives in the name of the Emperor’s madness. The second is, while built, the railway was soon swallowed by the jungle, whereas the poetry of Basho lives on hundreds of years after his death. As Dorrigo learns, survival is the incredible achievement. (I’ve already dusted off my Basho and dived back into the world of haiku.) Ah, if only there were more poets and fewer warmongers. If only there were more Richard Flanagans.

The only lingering doubt is whether the story could have been even more powerful had it possessed a tighter focus on the one POW rather than fanning out as it does. Some will like it, some will have misgivings. I suspect that as much as Flanagan tried to write a fictional character who was not his father, he could not help but explore how war affects all its participants, not just its famous leaders. In some ways they all travelled on that narrow road together.

It’s hard to believe he has not won the Miles Franklin Award. While Alexis Wright would also be a worthy winner for The Swan Book (my review), this just might be his year.

Flanagan is appearing at this year’s Sydney Writers’ Festival, which starts next week. I’ve got my ticket, so expect some additional musings on The Narrow Road over the coming weeks. You can also listen to that discussion between Flanagan and Philip Adams here (about 52 minutes from memory, and well worth it).

The Narrow Road to the Deep North by Richard Flanagan

2013

Vintage

467 pages

ISBN: 9781741666700

Source: the bookshelf rainbow (aka purchased)

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What is it with Japan? Mysterious land of things small and perfectly formed – haiku, bonsai, sumo … ok, so sumo is the exception (and more than balances out the distilled essence of the poet and the plant!) 

Hello again, welcome to the much-anticipated second installment of The Friday Haiku .  Well last week was definitely a tease, as I mentioned the ultimate expression of minimalism: a one-word haiku.  Brace yourselves, for here it is:

tundra

Cor van den Heuvel (Curbstones, 1998)

What a sublime haiku!  So evocative, with the merest hint or sense of season, it is wistful, epic, expansive, remote, vital, romantic, bracing, it hints at ‘survival’; there are just so many emotive reactions from a single, perfectly formed image.  I dare you to ponder that one word for a time and not conclude as I have… the Dilettante thinks it is a haiku masterpiece

A one-word masterpiece?  Yes!

(This raises some very interesting questions about ‘authorship’ – it reminds me of the race of painters to minimalise everything down to the blank white canvas).

What do you think? 

The D!

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A new adventure for the Dilettante’s blog: following in the footsteps of ‘Teaser Tuesday’ in a sense, but with Haiku: I’m calling it The Friday Haiku.  Each week I’ll post a haiku for people to muse over, as well as the occasional discussion about Haiku itself. 

The reason?  I recently came across a flash-fiction competition with a word limit of just 300 words.  It’s hard to develop plot, character, action, climax, and denouement with dialogue, humour, and other accepted (and expected) features of fiction in that amount of words … and it got me thinking about minimalist ‘stories’.  A believer in serendipity – I am reading Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami in which haiku is mentioned – I decided to investigate the art of haiku – and as anyone who knows anything about Haiku will tell you, it is most definitely an art. 

There are a few guiding principles of haiku, particularly haiku written in Japanese, including the accepted 17 moras written in a three-line 5-7-5 pattern.  But even the great Japanese master, Matsuo Bashō – himself a noted traditionalist – occasionally bent the rules, writing at least one haiku of 18 mora (shock horror!).  For Basho, more important was the sense of ‘lightness’ – or karumi.  Basho was a Zenist and karumi is linked to Zen principles.  This ethos allowed Basho to step outside the accepted rules of Haiku, but more importantly re-invigorate the thrust of Haiku altogether.  Later, a new school of Haiku, the Soun – or free verse school – began to loosen to format itself, with less emphasis on the number of lines and syllables, and more on the essence of the poetry itself.  At its most minimal, Haiku has been reduced to a single word(!) which may seem ridiculous at first, but when you read some haiku and then read that single-word Haiku, it’s hard not to be moved and convinced by it – but more on this particular Haiku … next week! 

Two of the other principles of haiku – which Basho’s work shows clearly – are the use of a seasonal word – or kigo – and a ‘cutting’ word – or kireji – which lends the verse ‘structural support’ and “may cut the stream of thought, suggesting a parallel between the proceeding and following phrases, or it may provide a dignified ending, concluding the verse with a heightened sense of closure.”

So what makes good Haiku?  Lucien Stryk in his excellent introduction to On Love and Barley – Haiku of Basho, writes: “… the poet presents an observation of a natural, often commonplace event, in plainest diction, without verbal trickery.  The effect is one of sparseness, yet the reader is aware of a microcosm related to transcendent unity.  A moment, crystallized, distilled, snatched from time’s flow, and that is enough. … it is likely to give the reader a glimpse of hitherto unrecognized depths in the self.”  It is the ultimate form of the old advice to all authors: show, don’t tell.  The Haiku poet shows us a moment, a scene, and we are left to see it for ourselves, to ponder its meaning and mystery.  This ‘mystery’ is a crucial element as Matsuo Basho puts it “The haiku that reveals seventy to eighty percent of its subject is good. Those that reveal fifty to sixty percent, we never tire of.”

So how to begin The Friday Haiku?  As a starting point, I selected perhaps the best known haiku by the acclaimed Japanese master, Basho, Old Pond

古池や 蛙飛込む 水の音

furuike ya kawazu tobikomu mizu no oto

This separates into on as:

fu-ru-i-ke ya (5)

ka-wa-zu to-bi-ko-mu (7)

mi-zu no o-to (5)

Translated into English:

old pond . . .

a frog leaps in

water’s sound

Very ‘Zen’!  What do you think? 

The Dilettante…

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