The World At Night (Paris 1940) by Alan Furst

 

The World At Night (Paris 1940) by Alan Furst

 

I’ve written reviews of Alan Furst’s novels, all of which take place in the dark and somber days leading up to and during the Nazi era.  I get a hunger for them.  When you pick up The World At Night, as with his other novels, you don’t really read them, you live them, your overcoat clutched tightly to your chest, as you wander darkened street, embraced by the heavy fog of war, passing friends and enemies, without full knowledge of who is who.  

 

Furst’s fully packed novels, of which The World At Night is a prime example, blanket the scope of the filthy whirlwind that swept Europe, tearing it apart from 1939 to 1945, capturing the period year by year, from the Balkans to France and England, and Spain, always with a cast of indelible characters that follow crooked roads to survive or perish. 

 

Characters are innocent men and women smeared with the horror of war, as they plot their way from day to day.  And as they do, things always happen to push them into positions they don’t want to be in.  They’re not spies, but circumstances make them spies, still wedged between friend and foe.  They’re not resistance fighters, but many times they must fight. And meanwhile life goes on.  They fall in love, bargain with those they hate, meet in both elegant and seedy cafés, always treading on the razor’s edge.

 

Jean Claude Casson is not Parisian, but he lives in Paris and does his best to mind his own business.  He’s connected with the film world, which even in the midst of conflict carries on the business of making movies, writing scripts, collecting actors, scraping for financing, and finally getting stories on the silver screen.  He knows people.  A lot of people. Some want to use him, in fact most do, for both political and personal reasons.

 

The war in Europe was not just fought on the battlefields, by hordes of well-armed armies and ships and airplanes, but by the common people, the store clerks and farmers, restaurateurs, journalists, writers, and yes, the movie crowd.  Nor was it seldom fought by just one country and within one country.  I mentioned whirlwind and that’s the way it was.

 

Paris, Lisbon, Warsaw, even Berlin and London were a dark and active collection of those who lived underground in every sense of the word.  Trust?  Trust no one.  The need was a tangle of money, weapons, organizations of all sorts, and friendships made and broken for every reason under the sun, moon, and stars. 

 

To use an old cliché (I haven’t heard of any new ones), Furst has a way with words, and his heavy knowledge mined from libraries, letters, and persons who were there, weaves the words into a world of truth, torment, and terror, love and circumstance.

 

I must give you an example of the use of his remarkable prose!

 

He shaved, smelled the lotion he used to wear, then put the cap back on the bottle. Went for a walk. Rue de Vignes. Rue Raffet. Paris as it always was – smelly in the heat, deserted in August.  He came to the Seine and rested his elbows on the stone wall and stared down into the river --Parisians cured themselves of all sorts of maladies this way.  The water was low, the leaves on the poplars parched and pale.  Here came a German officer.  A plain, stiff man in his mid-thirties, his Wehrmacht belt buckle said Gott Mit Uns, God is with us.  Strange god if he is, Casson thought.

 

One of the wonderful things about Furst is how he sets the stage so elegantly, and when the twists and turns and action come, you know the setting, the smell of fresh bread, the taste of the wine, the burn of brandy when you come in from the cold, the deep and unselfish reasons you turn away from a friend, the complications of who you know, and who’s involved and what the stakes are; a perfect tableau for what is to come and why it startles and keeps you reading and makes me wish I could go back to Paris, now that it is Paris once again, and I thank god I wasn’t there when it wasn’t.

 

My other book reviews on Alan Furst:

 

The Foreign Correspondent

 

Mission To Paris

 

Under Occupation

 

The Spies of Warsaw

 

 

 

 

Japan's Most Famous Artist You've Never Heard of: Katsushika Hokusai

 

The Great Artist Himself

Fairly recently, I saw some great art at the British Museum in London.  Most of you have heard of the place, home to the Elgin Marble (which the Greeks are still trying to get back), the Rosetta Stone and other antiquities without number.  Always a delightful surprise to tap into their ever-changing displays. Nice pub across the street too.  Of course it’s called The Museum Pub.  Originality runs rampant! 

 

Recently, the museum’s featured exhibit was a renowned Japanese woodblock artist. Ever heard of The Great Wave off Kanagawa? The name has so many variations:  The Great Wave of Kanagawa, The Great Wave, and simply The Wave.  Truly one of the most well known works of art, and especially Japanese art.  See the photo above.  Recognize it? What’d I tell you? But do you know where Kanagawa is?  Oh, what gaps in your knowledge.  AND the answer is:  The open water in front of Yokohama and melds into Tokyo bay.

 

Back to the famous art known around the world. Oh, yeah, now you recognize the crashing wave!  But do you know the artist and his unusual story?

 

At this point, most bios flood you with a deluge of where the artist was born, what he did as a child, who his parents were, etc., all part of a gusher that makes you shut down your mind and turn the book into a Frisbee.  I shan’t do that.  Nay, nay!  Let’s stick with cocktail chat.

 

Katsushika Hokusai was an artist’s artist and so oddly amazing I have to reign myself in.  But, never fear, I’ll give you enough of a taste to make you beg for just one more sip.  

 

I ask my three faithful readers, all of whom usually start in at breakfast, to hold off on that second and third martini for just a little while.

 

To begin with, nobody knows exactly when and where Hokusai was born, but 1790 is a good guess.  And by the way, the Japanese language doesn’t put emphasis on any one syllable, so his name is pronounced HOK-SIGH, in one breath.

 

Even though the dates are not exact, he was born and he painted during the Edo era, also called the Tokugawa Period, 1603-1867.  But, why the hell is that important??? At the time, Japan was run as a dictatorship, that for the most part sealed the nation off from the rest of the world.  And here comes the art part:  It was a period of emphasis of home grown art, a time when Kabuki theater, Haiku poetry, and woodblock printing (Ukiyo-e) flourished, and much of Hokusai’s art was done in woodblock.  In fact, The Great Wave was printed over 8000 times.  The Woodblock method grew into printed books.  Hokusai’s woodblock art on view at the British Museum was taken from a book that was never published.  Let's look at a few examples also from that unpublished book.

The Japanese are artists and poets to their very soul. Ukiyo-e (OO-KEY-YO-E) means pictures of the floating world, or sorrowful world, or life that has an ending.  In Hokusai’s day, Ukiyo-e encompassed everything from flowers to steamy erotica. A word about Japanese erotica.  Unlike the porn of today, it has style and grace and although the body parts are there, so is the passion, a story that makes you notice the looks on the faces, the circumstances and the astounding pleasure.

 

I’ve set the stage.  Now let’s look more closely into the life of this fascinating artist, with a blast of information.

 

As a young man, he worked under a handful of mentors and some chased him away because of his originality that conflicted with the accustomed patterns of the day.

 

It’s said he did over 30,000 pieces (not all woodblock) in his life.

 

He changed his name every time he embraced a new style. Hokusai means North Studio.

 

He was married twice and outlived both his wives.  Lots of kids and grandkids.

 

Hokusai didn’t like to clean his studio, so instead, when his workplace became too cluttered and dusty, he moved.  Over the years, he moved 93 times!

 

Talk about dedication to his art, Hokusai worked from dawn to dusk, everyday. And although he created 30,000 pieces of art, a fire destroyed much of his work.

 

A most peculiar superstition:  He began each morning by drawing a Chinese dragon on a piece of paper and then tossing it out the window to ward off evil spirits.

 

His most famous work, The Big Wave, was part of a larger work called 36 Views of Mount Fuji (1830-1832).  Here's another Mount Fuji from the same work, this one almost as famous as the wave.

Always striving for perfection, Hokusai had a very long term plan to get there.  He described exactly how far he would come at 70, 80, 90, and 100 years old.  Sadly, he only made it to 90 (we guess) at his death in 1849.

 

The inscription on his tombstone translates to, Old Man Mad About Painting.  But, the story doesn’t end there.

 

With the end of the Edo period, Japan began to open its doors and Japanese art almost immediately exerted a strong influence on European art, and in particular the Impressionist painters, as well as other painters of the time.  Look at Van Gogh’s cherry blossom branch for one, and  the walls in Monet’s home in Giverny  that are covered with Japanese woodblock art.  It didn’t stop there, but raced into the 20^th and 21^st centuries. 

Vincent Van Gogh

 

Woman Bathing, by Mary Cassatt

The Japanese Style Bridge at Giverny, by Claude Monet

I’d write more, but my three faithful readers….well, you can guess they are itching to look more closely at some Japanese erotica. Just for the sake of art.