Review: Une vie extraodinaire
Rating: 4 out of 5
Date: 03 29, 2014
4.5 starsFor anyone who read my review of Escaping Barcelona, it’s obvious that I’m pretty damn’ fond of Mr. Martin’s work. In a sense, I’m more critical of it than of other books I review, as this trilogy is literary fiction, and I hold it to high standard. But that also means that I don’t quibble over details, for the character of Rudy is a beautifully wrought, not-entirely reliable narrator, and that finds me sliding over things that others might pick apart as “contradictory”, so used to pop fiction that carefully etches characters, explaining all so there is no need to examine subtext.How is he unreliable?  There are dozens of examples. Here are a couple: “After Barcelona, I no longer have hopes . . .” This is patently untrue, as his continuing struggle forward is indicative of hope. Also, “Something inside me broke and I don’t know how to fix it” indicates that he wants fixing, and still seeks it. These musings are broken with moments of joy; exhilaration. And admiration of the world is rapidly followed by: “. . . the world is rotten. Rotten inside and out, all around me.”Contradictory? Not even a little. Just very human.Perhaps I lack the intellectual experience to be an adequate reviewer of this work. Do I like Henry Miller, as Rudy does [I’m told a couple of times]? I guess. Have I done my time with Camus and Kafka? Sure; who hasn’t? But in this second book of  the Mad Days of Me trilogy, I can taste but not see literary influences that have informed Mr. Martin’s writing, and I apologise if my interpretations are shallow by dint of hard reference.So, with that, I dive into the deep end of my shallowness: one thing stood out for me was the imagery of seagulls – the constant and carefree scavenger; the beast. They fly into and over scenes in a manner that might be accidental . . . but I don’t think so. Mr. Martin is far too adept to have unintended imagery in his work. They tend to precipitate a change, a shift in Rudy’s situation and/or perceptions. Rudy sees the seagulls as the ferry approaches land; later, he observes them from his vantage of the beach: “At least the seagulls are not pretending to be anything else.” Is he a seagull? Wants to be one? He has – metaphorically – lived on carrion. Been carrion. “. . . looking for the next heat current to take them high up in the sky.” Rudy is waiting, too. And later, he speaks enviously of their effortless lives. They are unhampered, as Rudy wishes to be.Or does he?Ah, Rudy. Plus c’est change . . . He is still self-centred. Still spouts cynicism. And still is trusting, naive, and sweet in a manner that, when viewed in light of his disastrous time in Barcelona, bewitches.“For the first time in years, I feel at ease, perhaps dangerously so.” Is this cynicism or percipience? As he seeks simplicity, is he doing his own complicating? Drawn to people like Dominica, who will both right and upset his applecart, does he create his own drama? His own trauma?I began by liking – even admiring – the character of Dominica. Her powers of forgiveness; her generosity to Rudy; to her ex. But she unwound, annoying me and, in the final analysis, left me scorning her. She is too fractured for Rudy and, ultimately for me, does not evoke empathy.Misanthropy and philanthropy hold hands through the novel, following Rudy wherever he goes. As if he’s caught between Kierkegaard and Hegel – the fresh start of a generation swinging on a pendulum – he in one moment is grooving to nature and man, then despising the cruelty he sees and experiences, and then back again. He is a rollercoaster in search of a flat highway; he is an adventurer exhausted by the hills.In a handful of breaths, he is caught in fanciful horror of past battles and the violence man perpetrates on man, then is caught in human timelessness [the old woman under the carob tree]. On seeing the poor side of Eivissa, he decries the penury. And then describes the poor in noble terms [I’m reminded of Gray’s Elegy: “Let not Ambition mock their useful toil / Their homely joys, and destiny obscure”]; then, in another spin, observes them as “real”. Warped beauty.What a romantic soul he is! For a moment, he forgets starvation, crudity, and the dirty, unkempt life of man outside civilised circumstances. He sees “a certain peace soaring from these streets” – as he sees the seagulls soar. Rudy seeks peace, but he’ll never find it from without. He’s a grass-is-greener sort. Wherever he stands, he can see the upside of somewhere else.Ah, Rudy. Poverty still haunts him; he seeks reasons.We get some backstory on him; specifically, his mommy issues. How his mother’s mascara ran when she cried, and she told him mothers cried black tears of pain caused by bad children. The moment is poignant . . . and yet the author does not linger. Merely stabs you and moves along.It’s revealed that he hasn’t seen his parents in years – I had the idea that he had left home not long before going to Barcelona, and now I wonder: how old was he when he left home? And yet he still clings to a sweetness, a naivety, that is heart wrenching in light of all he’s experienced. And later, he is envious of Dominica’s relationship with her mother: “. . . years since I held my own mother’s hand, since we talked.” He mourns this, despite his mother’s obvious cruelty.[There is no convenient place for my standard note on formal style, so I tuck it in here: there is some glitchiness, but not much. Hyphens look like en dashes. A couple malapropisms. Half-a-star worth? Maybe.]I will be reading the last of the trilogy, Eluding Reality, in the coming days. Partly because I need it to be over; I need to know what becomes of this character who invades and occupies my thoughts. And partly because – like Rudy and for Rudy – I hope. My hope harkens back again to Gray – that ultimately, Rudy’s sweetness will not be wasted on the desert air.