Byron Edgington, click
here to update your pages on AuthorsDen.
Blogs by Byron Edgington
Book review Friday: Dementia, by Hans Peter Braendlin 8/2/2013 4:14:39 AM
Don't start this book unless you can immerse yourself in its intricate, interwoven inner dialogue and stream of consciousness. A remarkable journey. Here we have a stream of consciousness tour de force, a man’s sojourn through his own life, through his own thoughts, as others in the care center glide all around him, dreamlike.
Carl is a physician, or was, and he is enthralled with Gloria, another client of the home. Gloria is a cancer patient. Her plight stirs Carl’s altruistic and even romantic impulses, forcing a rush of mental images and reminiscences from Carl like a torrent, throwing him back to events of his earlier life: being a young, idealistic college student at NYU; sharing an apartment in Manhattan with friends whose lives will intersect with his throughout the book; finding his passion in oncology, then traveling the world doing work that fulfills him, meeting the loves of his life— first Caroline, then Marlene, and the children who result.
This is a remarkable book about the workings of the human mind. Lacking chapters, or even sub-headings, the novella forces readers inside Carl’s mind, to see the world through his eyes and even more, through what he thinks. Often, the point of view is from some omniscient observer telling us what Carl thinks, what he sees, a third person telling, as if Carl’s spirit has drifted up and is proclaiming what it sees, almost a ‘royal we’ kind of vantage point.
The title is well chosen, unless we allow ourselves to believe that Carl is indeed in Dementia. By book’s end, we freely question the term. As the author writes on page 77, “How do you give meaning to what is deranged?” That’s the question we all must answer. Carl seems to have found his own answer. Using amazing dream sequences, drifts of inner dialogue that sweep readers along through a life rich in detail and purpose, Braendlin keeps us mesmerized by the depth and clarity of what are, after all, the thoughts of an old man at the end of his life. We disappear inside the consuming narrative to hear a master storyteller recounting his experience, and we’re held rapt by it. Then, in an instant, we’re snapped awake by the latest realization that all that beauty, all that rich, hypnotizing detail has led to more violence and dark, human passion. We become that old man in his wheelchair, day-dreaming about old friends, ancient lovers and a vanished life, only to have reality intrude, crashing into our beautiful mental scene, just like in real life.
The book has a strong undercurrent of beauty Vs violence, art Vs evil, tenderness Vs depravity. Much of this conflict is portrayed beautifully by symbolism: Marlene’s art demands alcohol, which leads her to wound Carl, cutting off his ability to perform surgery; Carl’s ability as a surgeon allows him to avenge his daughter’s death and get off scott free. He even has a name for this conflict. On page 73 he calls it “...the collusion of pain, anger and compassion.” It sounds like real life, and Carl relives it in his hyperactive mind, while scheming to gain Gloria’s hand. In the end he does, confirming the well established altruism Vs violence undercurrent. Without revealing too much, ‘Nurse’ is the victim of the lovers’ ache to be together.
Being immersed in the streaming style of the novella is not without problems. Characters come and go, and are sometimes hard to track. With the exception of Marlene, who jumps off the page, they lack physical detail. Geographies are difficult to follow as well. Jonathan needs more backstory, or his instant decision to defend Carl may not work.
On the other hand, the work contains wonderful foreshadowing, and truly beautiful dream-like sequences that draw readers in so deep that their conclusion is harsh, like the clang of a clock. Like Chekhov’s pistol on the mantel, the bottle of Glenlivet Scotch appears time and again, then is finally put to use in a very unexpected way, a clever use of the objective correlative.
A key phrase appears on page 77. Carl has been living inside his own head again, then seems to trip over a revelation so disturbing he questions his own sanity. Is all this happening, he asks, or “Maybe it’s just your mind?” It’s that microscopic gap between reality and fantasy that makes us shiver and keeps us talking to ourselves, just like Carl does.
A suggestion: don’t begin this work unless and until you can reasonably expect to disappear into it. This is not a casual work you’ll pick up and put down. Read it in a wheelchair if you can. Allow yourself to sink into its depths. You’ll be glad you did.
Byron Edgington, author of The Sky Behind Me, a Memoir of Flying and Life.
