As described in the jacket copy, the plot of The Enormity of the Tragedy reads like a start to a dirty joke: Ramon-Maria, an aging trumpet player, wakes up with an indefatigable erection. Hilarity ensues. But actually it doesn’t. Not to say the book isn’t funny, or that the set-up couldn’t be treated as such, but that’s not what Monzo’s up to here. Parallel to Ramon-Maria’s story—which isn’t all sexual fun and games, since as it turns out, his erection is a symptom of a rare disease leaving him less than two months to live—is the story of his stepdaughter, Anna-Francesca, who steals from him and is plotting his murder. (And—spoiler alert—does eventually push him off the roof of their decaying mansion.)
Monzo treats all of this—Ramon-Maria’s sex and death situations, Anna-Francesca’s affair with a teacher and quest for revenge—in a very straightforward, fairly believable fashion. Ramon-Maria goes for a second opinion, which eventually confirms the first. He takes out a mortgage so as to “live large” for the last few weeks of his life and to provide his stepdaughter (to whom he never speaks) with cash at least. Anna-Francesca stresses about sex, about boys, about flirting with her friend’s lover. Under the surface, crazy shit is going on though, both in terms of the plot and in the emotional lives of the characters.
It’s Monzo’s understated humor and naturalistic approach to the subject, which, to me, is the most intriguing facet of the book. A lesser author could’ve relied upon one-liner after one-liner, exploiting the enormity of the absurd situation, whereas Monzo focuses on the tragedy. (It’s no wonder the book opens with an epigraph from Aristophanes’ Lysistrata.) This book is much more about the inability of humans to connect than it is about penis jokes. Sex plays a role in this—women are sort of overwhelmed by Ramon-Maria, his stepdaughter is afraid of “going all the way”—but the loneliness of the characters is exacerbated by the fact that they don’t even bother to try and connect with others. Several times it’s referenced that Ramon-Maria and Anna-Francesca don’t mind living together too much, since they can go weeks without seeing each other. Neither have any relatives, close friends, etc., and when Ramon-Maria dies, no one really cares. The ending lines kind of sum up the Monzo universe:
Outside a molossus mastiff was observing a whisky-coloured cat. The cat started to run. The dog chased it. The cat tried to get away but found itself trapped in the cul-de-sac with no escape route and walls too high to climb. It turned around, fur bristling. The mastiff stopped. They both looked at each other, motionless. In the distance, a gate squeaked. The cat moved almost imperceptibly, jumped, legs outstretched, and scratched the dog’s cheek striping it in blood. It tried to take advantage of the mastiff’s disarray to make an escape, but the dog jumped nimbly, pounced on the cat, opened its jaws and tore it apart.
My biggest problem with the book is the fact that it feels like the publisher really rushed this. Peter Bush is a top notch translator, and for the most part the book reads really well. It’s riddled with typos though, and one more pass through would’ve made a huge difference. (That and—on a selfish note—Peter Owen should sell the rights to his books to an American publisher instead of distributing them via Dufour. Peter Owen books aren’t really available through stores in this country, and this one, a 222 page paperback retails for $29.95!!)
That said, I hope more Monzo books are translated into English. He’s so well known and respected for his short stories that I feel like we’re only getting a partial picture of a major European writer.
Karel Schoeman’s Afrikaans novel, This Life, translated by Else Silke, falls into a genre maybe only noticed by the type of reader who tends toward Wittgenstein-type family resemblances. The essential resemblance is an elderly narrator, usually alone—or with one other. . .
In Joris-Karl Hyusmans’s most popular novel, À rebours (Against Nature or Against the Grain, depending on the which translated edition you’re reading), there is a famous scene where the protagonist, the decadent Jean des Esseintes, starts setting gemstones on the. . .
There are books that can only wisely be recommended to specific types of readers, where it is easy to know who the respective book won’t appeal to, and Kristiina Ehin’s Walker on Water is one these. What makes this neither. . .
Imagine the most baroque excesses of Goethe, Shakespeare, and Poe, blended together and poured into a single book: That is The Nightwatches of Bonaventura. Ophelia and Hamlet fall in love in a madhouse, suicidal young men deliver mournful and heartfelt. . .
In 1899, Maurice Ravel wrote “Pavane pour une infante défunte” (“Pavane for a Dead Princess”) for solo piano (a decade later, he published an orchestral version). The piece wasn’t written for a particular person; Ravel simply wanted to compose a. . .
Fiston Mwanza Mujila is an award-winning author, born in the Democratic Republic of Congo, who now, at 33, lives in Austria. From what I could find, much of his work is influenced by the Congo’s battle for independence and its. . .
Twenty-One Days of a Neurasthenic is not a novel in the traditional sense. Rather, it is a collection of vignettes recorded by journalist Georges Vasseur in his diary during a month spent in the Pyrenées Mountains to treat his nervous. . .