Marion Poschmann’s The Pine Islands (2017; Trans. Jen Calleja 2020) was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize in 2019. The jury describes it like this: “A quirky, unpredictable and darkly comic confrontation with mortality.” Her first book was published in Germany in 2002 and, since, her work has been consistently recognized and lauded there. The Pine Islands is the first of her books translated into English.
A reader’s success with this story resides in their comfort with travelling in Gilbert Silvester’s company. Gilbert is on the move and distraught because he has had a dream that his wife cheated on him; this spoiler-free passage illustrates some key aspects of his nature and his story:
He couldn’t recall later on whether he had shouted at her (probably), struck her (surely not), or spat at her (well, really, a little spittle may very well have sprayed from his mouth while he was talking animatedly at her), but he had at any rate gathered a few things together, taken his credit cards and his passport and left, walking along the pavement past the house, and when she didn’t come after him and didn’t call out his name, he carried on, somewhat slower at first and then faster, till he reached the next underground station, and disappeared down the steps, one might say in hindsight, as if sleepwalking. He travelled through the city and didn’t get out until he reached the airport.
Poschmann can write succinctly. The passage preceding this one is populated by a series of two-and-three-word-long sentences, as Gilbert confronts Mathilda (who denies everything).
So within a couple of pages, readers have a hint that it’s going to be the journey—more specifically, Gilbert’s recounting of the journey—that matters here.
Because, after all, one can break down a leaving into a series of minute observations, mechanics of a scene as Gilbert itemizes his packing process and movements.
Or, one can simply speak of travelling, of leaving.
When readers meet Gilbert, he has already travelled to Tokyo. From there, much of the book is preoccupied by his meeting Yosa Tamagotchi, a young man and fellow traveller, with a copy of The Complete Manual of Suicide in hand. For readers who have travelled to Japan, the movement between recognizable destinations will hold independent appeal, but Gilbert’s experience of various destinations is rooted in psychology rather than geography.
There is talk of trees and forests, visibility and presence, and the ghostly figure of seventeenth-century poet, Matsuo Bashō. Bashō is known not only for his haiku, but for a 2,400-kilomentre-long journey in the north of Japan which he viewed as a pilgrimage rather than a trek, an act of devotion to an earlier poet, Saigyō.
The Pine Islands is a short novel and its resolution is surprisingly satisfying; simultaneously, it’s the kind of work that would reward rereading. Gilbert’s questions about what we expect from and value in life, how we react when our expectations are not met, and how we navigate and create difficulty remain largely unanswered:
“A panoramic view. Haze in the bay, a few shapes, flecks much of it couldn’t be made out. As always, an exaggerated amount of fuss had been made over a banal landscape. From above, the islands just looked like mossy stones in the fog. Was he disappointed? He really didn’t know.”
More important is the question of what we do when we really don’t know the answer. It’s a startlingly relevant question for these times.
I remember seeing the mixed reviews for this book, but from everything in your review it sounds like something I’d like. I do often like books other people are not so sure about… And I love the translated books that come to Canada! I wish I had time to read more of them.
This was an odd little novel. I remember remarking that I liked the ideas more than the execution. The Murakami-esque surreal touches stood out for me.
Even though I wished that I’d known more about Japanese literature as a whole (pre-Murakami I have limited experience), I enjoyed the balance of exposition and tightly written scenes without that. And it made me laugh a few times, which I wasn’t expecting given some of the themes which soon emerge.
I see this is a Coach House book-yay! They are a wonderful publisher. I’m really interested in translations actually, when they are published in Canada you know the book is going to appeal to at least a few people, because why else would it have plucked from another language for us Canadians? I sort of see it as another vote of confidance I guess.
I agree! They also published one of my favourite translations from last year, Dominique Fortier’s Paper Houses, about Emily Dickinson. Definitely a press to watch!
I remember quite enjoying this last year (which seems an age ago now) but being surprised that it was shortlisted for the International Booker Prize.
I have a sense that there were more layers to the pilgrimage themes and the echoes of the poets’ words/works than I was properly appreciating (without that background). But, even so, I found it a pleasure to read.
So interesting! Your response to this is much more positive than some reviews I’ve read, with some thinking it shouldn’t have been shortlisted! I’m intrigued now…
Whenever I spot a dramatic shift in style (like in this example, super short sentences preceding long–and even funny–expressive sentences) I retrace my steps to see what I’ve missed, because it makes me realize that the author is making choices there that reveal something about the story they intend to tell. I do enjoy pulling at the threads, to see what construction laid beneath the framework that I might have missed if I’d not stepped back for another look.