Tomorrow in the Battle Think on Me by Javier Marías


I love obsessive writers, such as Javier Marías. Of course, I can’t relate to every writer’s obsessions, but I can relate to Marías’ obsessions with perhaps alarming ease.

Marías is a writer fascinated by language and all the surrounding phenomena (that things are un-sayable, untranslatable, inexplicable, inexpressible, and that whatever we say and mean, it will never mean the same to another person, and everyone is locked inside their own language, and still we try to express and explain what we mean even if the result is unsatisfactory, because telling and expressing [and listening, too]) is always much more interesting than living alone and quiet in a caves, we don’t live in caves anyway, we live on archipelagos, enchanted by 400-year-old words and by their modern interpretations, and that water these words what can they do what can they do, they can – somehow – enable us to express ourselves and understand someone else); and he’s fascinated by the past, the present, and the future (the past-present-future of his characters and everything that comes with the past-present-future: There was; There wasn’t; There is; I imagine there is; I pretend there is even though there isn’t; There could have been; I wish there had been; I wish there hadn’t been but there was; There will be; There won’t be; I hope there’ll be or I hope there won’t be; I wish there was); and with never-ending curiosity he examines (again and again, throughout multiple novels) the layers and connections of pretenses, realities, falsehoods, roles, games, and truths that make up a life, and he always has something new to say.

And I always feel immediately at home in his work, because I feel that what Marías is doing only looks like a sprawling, repetitive, over-complicated and over-complicating and overwhelming and fascinating and infuriating and beautiful mess of random unconnected details – reading him is surprisingly easy because (sometimes) life feels (can feel) exactly like this.

The Infatuations by Javier Marías

TheInfatuationsThe young woman, María has her breakfast in the same café for years – and for years she keeps watching a married couple who also spend all their mornings there. She doesn’t interfere with them, she doesn’t stare at them rudely – she simply likes to see them together every morning, since they are a fascinating couple, and it’s evident at first sight that they love each other and greatly enjoy each other’s company and conversation. Then one day they fail to turn up at the usual hour, and months pass before the wife finally reappears – alone. In the meantime, María learned that the husband had been murdered, and when the widow is left alone at her table, María cannot resist the temptation: she goes over to the woman and offers her condolences, because after years of spending her mornings in the company of the couple, she feels that the widow is not a perfect stranger to her.

María’s friendly words then set off a whole chain of events and relationships: the widow, Luisa invites her to her home, and talks to María about her pain, bereavement and grief with surprising honesty. During her visit, María briefly encounters Javier, an old family friend, and later on they strike up an affair with no hidden catch, no strings attached. However, María would love to engage in a more serious relationship with Javier, who, in turn, would like to win Luisa’s heart – and he’s very determined to achieve his aim.

I know this sounds a bit like the plot of a complicated, soap-opera-like love story where everyone’s heart breaks for someone else, but only „complicated” is true here. And not in any negative sense – the novel is complicated simply because nothing is ever simple or clean-cut in Javier Marías’s stories. In his fictional world, every relationship and every conversation can lead to a virtually infinite number of questions, doubts and alternative stories – because no-one can ever be perfectly sure that what he learns about the other person is indeed the truth, a part of the truth, a version of the truth, or simply a lie (or fiction). In spite of this, his characters always crave for knowledge, and they’re willing (or prone) to accept / believe the stories they hear – and if there are no stories told, they invent some which sound pleasant or authentic enough for them.

The characters of this novel are also enchanted by stories (fictions). Javier, for example, while telling María about his love for Louisa and about his hopes of securing the disconsolate widow’s heart sooner or later, keeps referring to a novella by Balzac – basically he’s assuming that the fictitious story somehow substantiates his real (not fictitious) emotions and plans. Or we can take María as well: she works for a book publisher, so by definition she is closely connected to fictions and made-up truths. During her conversations with Louisa and Javier, María is prone to filling out the gaps in their stories by inventing long conversations and complicated chains of events. Her fictitious conversations and background stories often bear an uncanny resemblance to reality, and it often happens that we only realize 200 pages later – when the truth (or a different fiction) is revealed – that the story we read earlier was „only” a figment of María’s imagination. However, these figments of imagination sound just as believable and authentic as the truth.

And even though the concrete events of the novel could easily be summed up in a couple of sentences, it would be nearly impossible to summarize all these „alternative” stories. And it wouldn’t be worth the effort to try this anyway, since the hypnotic effect of the novel mainly derives from these – and from Javier Marías’s wonderfully complex, repetitive, sprawling sentences. And also from what these delightful, uncanny, magical sentences convey: that despite all ambiguity, infatuations do exist – and they dissolve all doubt in the minds of those who experience them.

A Heart So White by Javier Marías

Once I read some praise for this novel, and I also liked its title very much, so I’m sure I would have read it sooner or later. Then a couple of months ago I came across another blog post about this novel in which the blogger mentioned that A Heart So White is full of eight-line sentences and highly irritating parenthetical interjections. Well, you may or may not have noticed, but I am prone to write eight-line long sentences and parenthetical interjections myself, so I thought that these irritating features might in fact prove quite enjoyable to me. Therefore I asked my sister to borrow this book for me from the library, as I felt a great urge to find out about Marías’s long sentences as soon as possible.

The protagonist and narrator of the novel is Juan, a recently married thirtyish translator, and A Heart So White is basically a long series of his musings, his reflections on the past and his attempts to explain the world to himself. The center of the virtually non-existent story is that after his own wedding, Juan becomes interested in the story of his father’s three marriages, and even though he is not sure he really wants to know what kind of secrets are concealed in his father’s past, his curiosity gets the better of him and he cannot hide from the unpleasant and perhaps even dangerous truth.

As it usually happens in this kind of soul-searching, past-revealing novels, by the end of the story we learn the long-concealed secret of Juan’s father. But as it is, the secret itself is not that very important, and what mattered forty years ago doesn’t really matter now. The secret only serves as a convenient referential point which makes it possible for the narrator to muse (under the pretext that he is working hard to reveal the big secret) about as diverse topics as the changes that occur in the relationship of a couple after they get married; the need to understand everything and the impossibility of not understanding and not knowing; the way hearing and knowing something relates to guilt and innocence; the recurring events and the chance coincidences which abound in everyone’s life; the role language plays in our understanding and deception of the other person; or the way something becomes a secret.

These topics are simply wonderful by themselves, and the way Marías covers them in the novel makes them even more so. I was both fascinated and entertained by the constant digressions of the narrator (everything reminds Juan of something else, so it can easily happen that one character asks a question, and we only get the answer after a two-page long interjection or a description of something that’s just come to the narrator’s mind upon hearing the question), and I admired his efforts to understand and explain everything perfectly (it’s easy to see that he writes so many complicated sentences and parenthetical interjections because every explanation can be refined further, and this constant refinement is exactly what the narrator is after).

The narrator can talk interestingly about anything, but still, I enjoyed his ruminations about the nature of language, understanding and deception the most. This also happens to be one of the most important topics for the narrator, which may come as no surprise, given that he works as an interpreter, therefore it is his job to pay attention to language, voices, choices of words, shades of meaning – no matter whom he is talking or listening to. On the one hand, his job makes his life more difficult, as he is accustomed to listening to and interpreting everything so he cannot let go even in his free time, and if he hears anyone speaking in a language he understands he cannot help but listen and interpret. So Juan sometimes suffers from his need to understand everything, on the other hand, however, he is well aware of the power his ability to understand and translate words endows him with – and he doesn’t hesitate to use this power either.

My favorite example for this is the story of Juan’s first meeting with his wife, Luisa. Luisa works as an interpreter as well, and once she is present as an observer at a meeting of a Spanish and an English politician where Juan interprets. Seized by a sudden impulse (and risking his job), Juan decides that he spices up the boring meeting, so he deliberately mistranslates some sentences in order to steer the conversation to a more personal and exciting direction. And even though it would be Luisa’s task to interrupt Juan at this point, she decides to overlook Juan’s deliberate mistakes. This way the two of them become accomplices in the deception and decide to use their linguistic abilities to influence and deceive others, and in a way change the world according to their whims.

This was only a single example, and the novel abounds in such beautiful episodes. But as I already implied, A Heart So White is just as fascinating when nothing happens, thanks to the structure and language Marías uses: sentences and even whole paragraphs keep recurring in the novel, and all the repetitions (not only of words, but symbols, metaphors, and human interactions and relations) have quite a hypnotic and bewitching effect in the end.

Of course you don’t necessarily have to agree with the narrator’s philosophy – but it’s for sure that you will find it hard to ignore the sheer beauty and pervasive force of his trains of thought.