Griffin & Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence (by: Nick Bantock)

Griffin & Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence
by: Nick Bantock

Chronicle Books
1991
ISBN: 0-87701-788-3




A friend of mine, a fellow book-lover and wordsmith, once told me that I am a connoisseur of books, while she, instead, is a binger. Oh really? I thought. I felt an insane desire to defend myself, to somehow prove my lifelong, habitual (over)consumption of entire libraries of books (or at least the aspiration to do so); to protest my innocence of literary snobbery and exhibit my insatiable desire for more, and then more, words to read. Even the most elite of sommeliers, I reasoned, imbibe more than the requisite sips to test for tannins, bitterness, and fruit; certainly they polish off the occasional bottle, even if it be grape-flavored swill.

I, however, am no sommelier.

I have been known to devour entire novels without leaving my sofa and my afghan, save to warm my tea; even then only in between chapters and with much regret. I have been known, to re-read final chapters in order to postpone the inevitable finit, even as I had guzzled the previous chapters without stopping for breath. I have books stacked in every room of my house; some, for the sake of forthrightness and clean living, in plain sight, others secreted, like a bad habit, in drawers and cabinets. I currently have three novels in my car. Books over breakfast, in front of the fire, as I drift to sleep. At least it’s good for my brain and probably won’t damage my internal organs – except for neglecting to eat while at the climax of book five of Harry Po... I mean, Anna Karenina.

I do have a reputation to uphold, after all.

To be fair, however, I must admit that different books require different tactics. Some are quick shots: effective yet over quickly; others offer the heady fullness and depth of conversation over a Guinness; while still others are the lighthearted, colorful airiness of a cosmopolitan.

And then there’s the wine-drinker’s delight. A soft, mellow opening, with a hint of rosemary (“that’s for remembrance”), increasing flavors of fruit and flowers, and a finish both bitter and sweet. That’s Griffin & Sabine: An Extraordinary Correspondence. Short enough for an afternoon toddy, long enough for a week’s worth of tiny, delightful, sips.

Technically, the Nick Bantock’s story of the characters Griffin and Sabine constitutes a trilogy, but I only speak of the first installment, for to do otherwise will hinder your enjoyment of this first. Suffice to say, the second book is a continuation of the first, and the third a variation on the theme. Since this particular book is, though essentially epistolary in nature, so much more than just a book of letters, I’ll offer first the essential story, the first aromatic invitation to further, albeit quiet, intoxication.

This is not your typical romance. Griffin Moss is an artist residing in London. A woman from Sicmon Islands in the South Pacific, Sabine Strohem, sends Griffin a cryptic postcard, complimenting him on his work and requesting one of his “fish postcards.” Griffin, though he has never heard of or met this woman, complies, and so the correspondence begins. Mysteriously, and mystically, connected from the start, the two begin to share their lives, their dreams, and then more with one another. And then... oh! and then.

And now, a tiny sip, only the smallest taste, of this reading experience.

The apparent simplicity of the tale, as depicted in this brief synopsis, seems almost unjust. Indeed, the passions and vulnerabilities of the gentle Griffin and the enigmatic Sabine only truly achieve fruition within the pages of this beautiful book. I found my copy of this book in the Art History section of the bookstore, and with good reason. As I’ve said before, it’s not your typical romance story, and it’s not your typical book. The front of every page consists of a hand-drawn postcard image, created by one of the characters, while the reverse is, of course, the text of the letters. As their relationship progresses, the handwriting becomes smaller: they have more to say. Finally, the postcards become letters inserted into genuine envelopes affixed to the page.

For instance, the first Griffin card, which he sends in response to Sabine’s request, is a humorous illustration of a goldfish flying through empty space, leaving behind a wine glass mid-shatter. The title, according to the reverse of the postcard, is “Drinking Like a Fish.” Sabine’s pieces usually depict some aspect of life in her exotic, island land. Strange distorted creatures that are not so much frightening as they are curious and intriguing, much like Sabine herself.

The artistry that Bantock, an artist himself, employs is, in a word, stunning. Each lush, vibrant postcard represents each character so distinctly, and so marvelously, that even as I’m swept into the story of the correspondents, I spend long moments studying the drawings. They reflect the characters’ personalities and moods, as well the evolution of the story as it, quite literally, unfolds before my eyes. A reader can watch as Griffin’s fears and Sabine’s compassion become manifest in the bold and dark, the stark and vague, the playful and surreal drawings they each produce.

This is a story about art, and words, and love. This is a story of art, and words, and the love of both.

Savor this one slowly, like an old, fine wine. This time, be a connoisseur.

On the KTG Hint of fruits and tannins scale, Griffin & Sabine earns a perfect 5 out of 5. I temper this slightly with the caveat that this particular book requires a little more... physical reader / text interaction. Readers must open envelopes, unfold letters, then refold them; not to mention the absorbing (and possibly for some, distracting) pictures and paintings on each page. Of course, the story holds up on its own without the images, but, honestly, they add such richness, it's worth taking the time to carefully peruse them. Just something to be aware of before embarking on this more than palatable - indeed, intoxicating - work of art and fiction.

Craft: ÂÂÂÂÂ

Story: ÂÂÂÂÂ

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Overall Rating: ÂÂÂÂÂ

Good Omens (by: Pratchett & Gaiman)

Good Omens:
The Nice & Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch
by: Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman (or... Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett)

"In the Beginning, It was a nice day."

Wry British wit and the dark edges of razor-sharp world-views, juxtaposed with the kind of silliness that only the meeting of two eccentric literary minds can produce render this novel one of the best, most humorous saunters in the dark days of the end-of-days that this reviewer has experienced in a great long while. Pratchett and Gaiman bring readers the story of what-might-be-if-we-don't-pay attention, as well as what-happens-when-angels-and-demons-join-forces. I have learned, after years of reading science fiction, both good and less-than good, that it takes a certain amount of charm, coupled with a great deal of craft, to pull off a modern-day fairytale for grownups. This one works beautifully.

Pratchett and Gaiman work chronologically. The first chapter is the first chapter; or, the genesis is Genesis. We meet our two main characters that, incidentally, are not exactly the protagonists that one might expect in a story of the dawn and inevitable twilight of mankind. Aziraphale is the angel of the fiery sword, standing guard at the gates of Eden, and Crowley, who is, as-yet, unnamed, slithers and hisses in his role as the great tempter. Do not, however, mistake him for his boss. You know: Lucifer.

Fast-forward several millennia, and we have the beginning of the last eleven years of the end. The apocalypse begins with a birth. Two, actually. And after the bumblings of an absent-minded devil-worshipping nun and some awfully brilliant quips about the state of mankind, the state of satanic cults everywhere, and the (take a deep breath) "Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast that is called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan and Lord of Darkness," (and...exhale) the circumstances, as it were, begin to spiral out of control. Aziraphale and the now-called A.C. Crowley, creatures from opposing sides in the great battle for the souls of mankind, decide to join forces to protect Earth from ultimate doom.

And then there's Agnes Nutter, the witch and an ancestor to Anathema Device (a woman, not a weapon), whose book of prophecies is the pivot point for either the salvation of the world or its penultimate destruction. I'd say her appearance throughout the book, though ephemeral, is the lacy web that binds everything together. That, and the rampant - and rambunctious - linguistic and pop-culture humor. Pratchett and Gaiman set their oddball angels, fallen and otherwise, in a western culture that only mildly suits them, but also provides multifarious opportunities for readers to nod and laugh at the "inside" joke, as, for example, Crowley wonders who "Moey and Chandon" might be as he listens to "S. Bach's Mass in B Minor, vocals by F. Mercury."

Eleven years pass and two young boys, under the semi-watchful eyes of the spirits from the sundry afterworlds, begin to grow up and come into their own. Then, as they say, all heck breaks loose. Without giving too much away, I'll just say that M25 London orbital motorway gets rather fire-and-brimstone-ish, and the Albrecht Dührer's old friends make a theatrical entrance.

"Kids! Bringing about Armageddon can be dangerous. Do not attempt it in your home."

The amalgamation opposing forces and the rampant - and rambunctious - linguistic and pop-culture humor, make for a tightly woven fable for everyone: American, British, saintly, or otherwise. This novel demonstrates the qualities of the finest detective novels, with unpredictable characters, deep suspense, and reader engagement in the story. Reading this story without both laughing aloud and quirking an eyebrow thoughtfully is impossible. Pratchett and Gaiman certainly know how to show us a good time.

Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman write of an Armageddon that doesn't exactly fit into the traditional Dührer vision of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. In Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch, the "end-of-all-things" is rather droll. Actually, strike that; in this novel, Armageddon is hilarious, since the good and the bad guys generally muck things up on all sides, and the rise of Hell takes place first on the overcrowded M25 London orbital motorway (for Georgians, that's the British manifestation of Spaghetti Junction on I-285, so I'm sure the resemblance to the dark pits below is evident). Take a gander at the future, brave readers; it's a bit more comical, and survivable, than you might expect.

On the KTG Apocalyptic Scale of Doom, Good Omens earned a more-than-respectable 6.5 out of the 7 signs : I loved this book. I marked it down in craft by half a point because tongue-in-cheek humor and dark comedy can, at times, be wearying (as I learned when I attemped to read all of the Hitchhiker's Guide's at once. Whew). Gaiman and Pratchett pull it off, as far as I'm concerned, without a hitch, but I can see it as offputting for other readers. Besides, if it earned all 7, the world ends and nobody gets to read it anyway.

Craft: € € € € € € 1/2
Plot/Story: € € € € € € € 1/2
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Overall Rating: € € € € € € 1/2

Lempriere's Dictionary (by: Lawrence Norfolk)

Lempriére's Dictionary
by: Lawrence Norfolk

I'm actually not finished with this particular volume yet, and I'm not actually sure that I plan to finish. Actually.

Lempriére's Dictionary one of those books that are admirable in their ambition, but are awkward in the attempt. (It appears that today is repetition/assonance day. So let it be written...)

I picked it up because as I was reading A.S. Byatt's Possession on the "eL" in Chicago, my good friend noted that Lempriere's Dictionary was one of Byatt's favorite novels. Since I had fallen into a passionate love affair with Possession, and since this same friend had advised me to read Byatt, it seemed only fitting that I should read the literature that my new favorite spinner of tales so admires. It begins delightfully, with a bang, as it were, and I can certainly see the attraction for a writer of Byatt's interests, that is, investigations into classical literary endeavor and "inside jokes" that assume the reader is familiar with all of the literary and classical allusions the author makes.

Norfolk is, without a doubt, an accomplished scholar in the field of classical literary studies. The sheer scope of his references tell of a bright, interested mind and a doctoral (at least) level of intense study and passion, and he crafts a fascinating, and well-wrought, mirror-story of a young man of the 18th Century caught in a web that reflects and is connected to not only the story of his ancestors, but that of the ancient Greek mythologies - the good ones, the dark ones, like Danae and Prometheus, rather than the familiar and somewhat light-hearted Narcissus and Persephone. Norfolk, like Byatt, also has a flair for turning a quiet phrase, a short sentence at the end of a chapter or a section, into the eerie voice of premonition, or serpentine hissing of dark malevolence. He conveys violence in a chillingly soft voice, and obsessive infatuation is a threatening shadow just at the edges of sight, but ever-increasing.

Thus, in terms of language, imagery, style: Norfolk is a master. He knows language, and he knows his classics. He kind of makes me wish I could read in Greek…

The story is something like this:

A young man, John Lempriére, son of Charles Lempriére, lives in a little country house in the, well, French countryside. I don’t think they’re actually French, though their surname seems to indicate so; they speak English, and John has no trouble when he gets to London. But I get ahead of myself.

John Lempriére, a real 18th century scholar, has an overly active imagination and a voracious interest in classical Latin and Greek literature. He is engaged to instruct the local lord-type-fellow in this field, which is great, because John is in love with said lord’s daughter, the gorgeous and lively Juliette. His father is murdered in a fashion that corresponds, in John’s mythos-bent brain, to the tale of Acteus and Diana. John then heads to London to begin his dictionary of classical characters. Then, the plot thickens. A bit too much, actually. My friend, Jenna would say that Norfolk added a bit too much corn starch to the recipe and got dumplings instead of sweet-n-sour sauce.

Apparently, there is a conspiracy amongst not only the merchants of the East India Company and some dastardly evil-doers, but also amongst classical historians. I am currently slogging through a section in which I can’t tell if the pirates are good guys, bad guys, or comic relief, and the glowing algae isn’t helping. Yes, I’m serious. And, while there is such a thing, I am still trying to discern the reason for it’s presence at this juncture in the novel.

John’s attraction to the mystery of the conspiracy is encouraged by his own vision of the violence in London, the murders, riots, and wild parties as concurrent with the classical tales of which his dictionary is composed. I use “concurrent” intentionally, because it seems as if John cannot, or will not, delineate the mythology from the present terrors, and I am therefore stranded in-between my understanding of the ultimate reality of the 18th century story and my shaky grasp of the ancient traditions and their implications.

I won’t say that it’s a good read; its classical allusions are far too erudite, its plots and subplots so convoluted (Publisher's Weekly calls it a “choked jungle” and “bloated”), and its ambition so exceeds its construction that reading is mostly hard work. I’m a pretty smart gal, and I can hold my own in tough literature, but there’s a reason I’ve been putting off reading Ulysses and its ilk, and it ain’t ‘cause I don’t think I can handle it. I just wonder if the effort will pay off. Obviously, Lempriére’s Dictionary is hardly a Joycean work of stream-of-consciousness or absurdity, but my point remains the same.

I will say that, at times, Norfolk sweeps me up in imagery and poetry, and several “moments” in the story have stayed with me throughout the reading and the current occasional forays back between the pages. If you do decide to start in on this one, watch for the scene in the ceramics warehouse. Quite unnerving, I must say.

On the KTG Zeusian Bolt scale, this rating is based only on a "thus far," of course, since I haven't completed the book. It earned the second Bolt for the ingenius nature of the parallel plot structure, similar to that which I loved in Possession. (out of 5):

Craft: +++
Plot/Story: ++
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Overall Rating: ++