Not for the fainthearted, or for ostriches
Like many, I had been overwhelmed and lacerated, by the reading of Powers first book, The Yellow Birds, detailing the experience of the war in Iraq. Powers had experienced that conflict, as a machine gunner. That powerful book was far from being any kind of glorification of war. Powers, a wonderful writer, pulls no punches, does not gloss over the awfulness of conflict, or the kinds of glorified lies countries tell themselves to encourage young men to enlist
A Shout in the Ruins, his second book, explores no less important, destructive, shaming themes which should be faced. He looks at racism, and its foundations in the history of slavery in the States, and the long shadow that has cast, and still casts.
Rawls could see up and down the old man’s arms. They were lined with mark after mark of whip and brine, a topography of the passage of time and pain one on top of the other, a map in miniature of ridgeline and ravine going up into his shirtsleeves in an uninterrupted pattern
This is a complex story, taking place over more than 100 years of American history. The central character is George, a quiet, reflective black man. And on his story, traced from the 1860s, George, now in his 90s. moving towards death (so his ‘present’ is the 1950s) is keen to unearth a mystery about his own origins, as an abandoned child. Those origins lie in the stories of those who had cared for him before he was ‘abandoned’ and why, indeed, abandonment happened. A story of slaves before the outbreak of war. In his 1950s present, American is still a segregated society, a society, effectively practising apartheid, in the South. And the continuing story of casual, unthinking, as well as deliberate racism continues beyond George’s death, in the later story of a young woman he meets, right at the end of his life, and her future, which includes someone damaged by one of America’s later conflicts
Whoever said a rifle on a wall was an opportunity for suspense must have been European. As if there would ever be a question of its getting fired or not in America. The gun goes off when the line gets crossed, and the line got crossed a long time ago, when we were naked and wandered the savannah and slept beneath the baobab trees. When is simply a matter of how long it takes to get it out of the holster, how long it takes the bullet to arrive. Perhaps days or weeks or months, perhaps one’s whole life, but these are questions of distance and trajectory, of time and physics, and not of possibility
This is an extremely difficult book to read at times, but it is one which I felt I had to read. As in Yellow Birds, punches are not pulled. Powers does not labour or over describe the awful violence of racism, rather, sentences are casually dropped in, rather like unexpected land mines, leaving the reader shocked and reeling. The throwaway information about a slave who had run away, and, on recapture, his ‘master’ deliberately damaged his feet, so the young man could not ever run away again, but would only be able to shuffle and hobble – still work, but not run
This is a deeply, deeply, despair filled book. There are wonderfully drawn, complex character, some are of a repellent, vicious nature, many are normally flawed, going along almost unthinkingly with the evil which may be the way a society is structured, others question the wrong, and there are those who are like beacons of what it might mean to strive to be ‘human-kind’ But the lives of those the reader cares about will inevitably also be lives that experience pain, loss, grief
Another major theme is the importance of home and community. The book opens with the destruction of property and community by those seeking to ‘develop prime sites’ and spools back to earlier acts of destruction and violence towards community and home, done by those whose only care is the acquisition of personal wealth and power. Powers makes sure we are aware he is not just writing about America’s past, but about all our presents.
I had some reservations. As I found, at times, with Yellow Birds, which changed points of view a lot – whose story was being followed, at any point – I wished he had been a little more linear. At times there are just too many characters to keep track of, and the narrative might have been pruned, shaped more, to allow trajectory of story to be clearer, the strength of his writing itself to shine out more. There was also a question I was left with, which was unanswered, part of the quest George himself was trying to get to the bottom of, but, then, as I continued to think about this book, long after I had finished reading it – life is also full of little pockets of mystery which never do completely get solved
I received this as a copy for review from the publishers, via NetGalley
It has taken some time for me to write a review, as I needed some time, and distance, to evaluate my rating. The length of time the book stayed with me has meant that the reservations during reading itself, retreated
Lady Fancifull 
He sounds like such an important author to know about. Also that his books require a commitment. I’m curious about both of his titles. Thanks so much for this thoughtful review.
You are welcome, Valorie, thank you. He is not a comfortable writer, not someone who writes in order to let the reader escape from reality but he is one who writes with the intention of making the reader be fully aware of the reality we are in
I don’t think this is for me right now, but it sounds like an extremely powerful book. I recall there being some criticism of The Yellow Birds when it came out. Something to do with the prose style, a feeling that the writing was almost too beautiful given the subject matter of the book? Do you have any thoughts about that? I’d be interested to hear your perspective.
What an interesting comment/question. For me, the beauty of the writing matters. I’m comparing it with a powerful anti-war painting -Guernica. It’s power comes not just from the admirable sentiment – but from the artistry. A book with the anti-war sensibilities Powers expressed but written less well, would not have packed such a punch. It is the fact that he resists cliche that insinuates and disarms the reader, laying them more open to the jarring nature of his subject matter. The beauty of his writing is not being used to sanitise or glorify or even titillate what is unspeakable, it is there because that is how he uses language. I wonder, a little, is it (criticism) something to do with the fact that this beauty and finesse in style is unexpected from a combat soldier, a grunt, rather than someone who writes about war from afar? Powers is difficult, needling, challenging because (I’m talking about Yellow Birds here) he takes the ‘right’ position, but also has been inside what young men face. The soldier is taught to kill. Powerful taboos must be set aside . How can a person be human-kind and also hold the gun, be afraid, all the time, of the other young man also trained to kill. Nuance, complexity, beauty of language is what can knit up the weighty oppositions.
Yes, I would in places have liked to see more shaving back/editing to keep the storyline clearer. There can be a sense of ‘what’s going on here’ , though, reflecting afterwards I could also see how that mirrored exactly well, what IS actually going on, this doesn’t make sense, experienced by characters in the book
Gosh – it does indeed sound like a powerful, if painful, book. I’m not as brave as I used to be about reading this kind of difficult stuff (I think I would struggle with some of the books I read in the past about the Holocaust, for example) but maybe I need to stell myself and stretch myself a little more.
I’m trying to decide if I’m ready for this, after reading “The Hate You Give,” “Sing, UnBuried, Sing,” and “The Blood of Emmett Till” this spring. I had to take a breather after that. My son read “The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks” this spring, too. I only read parts of it as it was another powerful example within the continuum of literature describing racism and oppression in the U.S.
Regarding one of the comments above about the beauty of his writing being objectionable. I don’t believe anyone has said that about Cormac McCarthy’s dark prose, have they? Perhaps it was a criticism from those who think that beautiful sentences make the topic a source of beauty and potentially of admiration? I think that beautiful sentences carry a reader along when reading about a difficult topic, helping us make it through the book without abandoning it in despair.
Gulps in admiration of your son. Henrietta Lacks is a tremendous, absorbing, angering book. The admiration is son’s taste in reading. I had him at not being a teenager yet?
I agree with you about what beautiful writing does, and it also makes us properly pay attention. Something which clichéd writing doesn’t. You also know with Powers that descriptions of violence are not designed to titillate or provoke the kind of part horror part indulgence fascination response. He genuinely provokes outrage, shame and disgust at our capacity for brutality. He makes for very uncomfortable reading (in the best way of it) as you (i) think ‘who would i have been, living in that time, raised in those cultural norms?’ But you can’t read too many of these kinds of books in too short a time. It does become vital to get some hopefulness injections!
My son just turned fourteen. When we first met on the net, he was most likely nine or ten. Time and tide wait for no man, as they say. Sob.
Gosh. A teenager! It’s still an advanced read
A strong review of a powerful book! For me, the quality of writing brings an integrity to the story and allows greater immersion in the story (as well as the pleasure of th earth of writing). I’m looking forward, not to the trauma in this book, but to sharing something of George’s life and of pondering again inhumanities in the history of people – for me this is important.
Thanks, underrunner. I have the same need to remind myself of our inhumanity. And it is only good writing which takes me into some identification with each, or most, characters in the story, preventing me from a kind of complacency about myself, in some way. The inhumanity of the ordinary, as well as its reverse, the humanity of the ordinary, both have parallels within me, and I think indifference/boredom/failure to engage with the suffering of other is a permanent danger for all of us