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nigellicus 's review for:
HHhH
by Laurent Binet
-So whatcha readin'?
-HHhH.
-Hhhh?
-No. HHhH.
-HHHH?
-I said HHhH!
-HhHhHhHh? Any GGgGood?
-(Throws book at them.)
Yes, is is very good. A writer tries to turn a historical event which has touched him deeply into a novel, but has intense scruples about the process of inventing fictional novelistic elements when the real events are so compelling. he wrestles with this, he explores his own fascination with the event, he comes u against the limits of attempting a simple truthful and accurate retelling and catches himself more then once inventing details, or possibly misremembering details and being forced to choose.
The event is the assasination of Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague, a great deal of time is spent on Heydrich's life and career and the increasingly efficient orchestration of mass murder. It doesn't take much to make the reader thoroughly invested in seeing the fucker murdered himself, but this is nonetheless done with skill and precision, creating a narrative that feels non-fictional, yet with breaks where the author insists that he is working on a novel, and these breaks actually add to the momentum and the engagement, because the authors commitment to the story is itself so thorough and passionate, his minor literary and historical struggle set against the massive struggle and brutality and sacrifice taking place on the pages.
It races to its end with the breathlessness of a thriller and the inevitability of a tragedy. Perhaps in the end, the story it tell is non-fiction, but the novel is a about a writer trying to tell that story in a way that remains true to his own principles and does honour to the people it describes. Maybe it shouldn't work, but it does, because of the sincerity and heart of the author - the device is not an ironic, distancing alienating one, but one that pushes you right up against the very idea of a modern person looking back at historical events that are themselves distant and trying to make sense of them, almost become a part of them through an exercise of sympathetic imagination. It's brilliant, whatever it is.
-HHhH.
-Hhhh?
-No. HHhH.
-HHHH?
-I said HHhH!
-HhHhHhHh? Any GGgGood?
-(Throws book at them.)
Yes, is is very good. A writer tries to turn a historical event which has touched him deeply into a novel, but has intense scruples about the process of inventing fictional novelistic elements when the real events are so compelling. he wrestles with this, he explores his own fascination with the event, he comes u against the limits of attempting a simple truthful and accurate retelling and catches himself more then once inventing details, or possibly misremembering details and being forced to choose.
The event is the assasination of Reinhard Heydrich, the Butcher of Prague, a great deal of time is spent on Heydrich's life and career and the increasingly efficient orchestration of mass murder. It doesn't take much to make the reader thoroughly invested in seeing the fucker murdered himself, but this is nonetheless done with skill and precision, creating a narrative that feels non-fictional, yet with breaks where the author insists that he is working on a novel, and these breaks actually add to the momentum and the engagement, because the authors commitment to the story is itself so thorough and passionate, his minor literary and historical struggle set against the massive struggle and brutality and sacrifice taking place on the pages.
It races to its end with the breathlessness of a thriller and the inevitability of a tragedy. Perhaps in the end, the story it tell is non-fiction, but the novel is a about a writer trying to tell that story in a way that remains true to his own principles and does honour to the people it describes. Maybe it shouldn't work, but it does, because of the sincerity and heart of the author - the device is not an ironic, distancing alienating one, but one that pushes you right up against the very idea of a modern person looking back at historical events that are themselves distant and trying to make sense of them, almost become a part of them through an exercise of sympathetic imagination. It's brilliant, whatever it is.