Memory,
longing and nostalgia collide in Arthur PhillipsÕ first novel ÔPragueÕ
By
J.P. Trostle
After
the Iron Curtain collapsed in 1989, Eastern Europe and its previously
off-limits (and therefore exotic) capitals became the hot destination
for young Westerners. Armed with attitude and the victorious dollar,
American expatriates rolled into cities such as Prague and Budapest
seeking fame and fortune, convinced they were taking part in the
creation of a gilded age to rival that of 1920s Paris - with everyone
angling to be the next Gertrude Stein, Hemingway or Fitzgerald.
That
Arthur PhillipsÕ novel ÒPragueÓ takes place entirely in Budapest
is the first clue this is no mere attempt to cash in on the recollections
of a brief, intense time.
The
book, now out in paperback, was both a best seller and a darling
of literary critics when it was released last year. While ostensibly
about five droll and oh-so-ironic expats living in Hungary in the
early 1990s, ÒPragueÓ is really PhillipsÕ exploration of nostalgia,
longing and the nature of memory. It is also a paean to Budapest,
for which he readily admits a long and Òobsessive love.Ó (Phillips
was one of these cultural invaders of the East, where he lived in
Budapest from 1990 to 1992.)
As
a writer, Phillips is both sharp and playful, sprinkling his text
with clever metaphors as liberally as Hungarians sprinkle paprika
on everything they eat. With his deft use of description and language,
he paints a rich, textured portrait of a city, and a history, in
flux. His characters are meticulously drawn, and Phillips slowly
pulls the reader along as he probes the peculiarities of desire,
unrequited love and perception, before flinging everyone involved
headlong into a collision with each other and history.
Sometimes
itÕs hard to remember this is PhillipsÕ first novel, itÕs that good.
Those
few times (rare, to be sure) when this rookie effort strains the
reader, when the writing seems too clever by half, or the descriptions
thicken until the prose almost stops, donÕt come close to derailing
what is a truly impressive debut.
Never
mind. Push on, and youÕll quickly find bright and insightful observations,
as in this early paragraph:
ÒDespite
its insignificance, there was this moment, this hour or two this
spring afternoon blurring into evening on a cafe patio in a Central
European capital in the opening weeks of its post-Communist era.
The glasses of liqueur. The diamond dapples of light between oval,
leaf-shaped shadows, like optical illusions. The trellised curve
of the cast-iron fence separating the patio from its surrounding
city square. The uncomfortable chair. Someday this too will represent
someoneÕs receding, cruelly unattainable golden age.Ó
Even
the overall structure of the novel echoes and supports PhillipsÕ
Big Themes of cycles, circles, of the chase for something always
just out of reach. Each of the bookÕs four parts begins slowly,
leisurely, before picking up speed and spiraling around like water
going down a drain, ever faster and more chaotic, until even the
paragraphs themselves are pulled apart.
On
occasion, you want to slap his self-absorbed characters, so full
are they of an annoyingly hip and cocky irony, but mostly you want
to shake them and wake them and save them from this longing for
something they can never have. For all of their self-awareness and
insight into those around them, PhillipsÕ characters, like we do,
often fail to see what is right in front of them. It is this use
of literary irony that forms the bittersweet heart of ÒPrague.Ó
After
such an auspicious start, where can Arthur Phillips go from here?
He has joked in interviews that his next book has to be a failure
so he can have the requisite Òbrilliant comeback,Ó but youÕll get
a chance to ask him yourself Monday evening at Quail Ridge Books
in Raleigh.
On
the Net http://www.praguethenovel.com.