Her descriptions ground the reader in the world she has created. You can smell the spices in the market in Bain and taste the soil in Tyom. You can almost see "the clarity of light [that] can stop the heart." There are numerous nods to other literature, including the Hebrew Bible.
The book requires slower reading and more careful attention than I usually give to novels from the “new books” shelf at the library. I had to adjust my “listening” and be more attentive to the story, as if I were getting to know a person. (As Jissavet suggests, a vallon is jut, a book is a person, a soul.)
While Samatar's world making has clearly been influenced by Ursula K. LeGuin and other writers, she doesn't plagiarize; the story is her own creation. References to superstitions, books, historical events, old sayings, and even games give a sense of a complete world. I cannot tease out and identify the real world places and times that Samatar used to create aspects of her world; her creation is that complex.
After reading a LeGuin book, I usually say, “I loved it, but wonder if I really understood it.” I have to say the same thing about A Stranger in Olondria. It is obviously about language and books, but there are several other themes. One may be about how people respond to the fact of death and the gift of life. (What of the beloved survives.) Another may be about "illicit" love. It is also about clashing beliefs and world views. Class and social hierarchy. It may... be about recognizing that people are more important than books, an understanding that Jevick has in varying degrees throughout the novel.
The narrator, Jevick, is raised in an "unsophisticated," island community. His family and the island are described in sensual, appreciative detail. After Jevick’s father, a pepper merchant, returns from cosmopolitan Olondria with a tutor, the boy is introduced into the wizardry of words and begins a love affair with books.
When Jevick's father dies, he eagerly assumes responsibility for his father’s business and travels to Olondria. He is more interested in the life of the city and the books in its shops than in his business transactions. As I read about his explorations, the fragrances of the city of Bain rose from the page and, his casual references to names, streets, books, and beliefs gave me a sense of a larger culture.
Both Jevick and the reader barely notice that there is a religious conflict in Olondria between a group that reveres people who are in communication with the dead, whom they call angels, and followers of the Stone who oppose "speaking with angels." After attending a festival that the followers of the Stone are trying to abolish, Jevick begins to be haunted by the spirit of a girl he met on the journey to Olondria; she had been traveling to a holy city hoping to be healed of kyitna, a terminal disease. After they parted, she died but her body was not cremated, so she is trapped and haunts Jevick.
The haunting is devastating and he is unable to hide what is happening to him. The followers of the Stone try to cure him of what they consider a mental illness (and he wants to be cured), while the followers of the goddess Avalei hope to use him as an oracle. He agrees to communicate their questions to his "angel" after the priestess of Avalei promises to obtain the angel's body so he can cremate it and be free of the haunting.
As the story progresses, Jevick quickly grows from a young bookworm into an adult human being with real feelings, an ability to enter into relationship, and an appreciation for life and love. His focus moves from books and art to people and relationships. I was surprised but grateful when Jevick cared more for a friend’s life than for his own desperate goal to free himself of the ghost haunting him. He learns that a book isn’t interchangeable with a person or a place. A book may be a kind of “external soul,” but people are more than the words in a book (and sadly, some people, like his brother, may be unreadable).
Jevick loves books and resists a more personal interaction with the "angel." However, she demands that he write her life story. Eventually, he does listen to her story and write her anadnedet. While doing so, he falls in love with Jissavet... who has been selfish and very unlovable. (Spoiler: by writing her life story, he allows her to die, so the reader must question the assertion that a vallon is jut.)
He realizes the importance of people, but is distressed to learn that the follower of Avalei want to do away with books. He asserts that one should not have to choose between “cold parchment or living flesh.”
When he returns to his friends and family on the island, "this glimpse of their new lives, so full of grace and generosity, affected me like the sight of a beautiful painting, like one of those dark and melancholy paintings of Olondria in which only a tiny corner is laden with light." He becomes a teacher of writing and stories, but he is a teacher of more than words.
I suspect that a significant part of the book’s message is contained in the meeting between Jevick and his former tutor, Lunre, near the end of the story, but I'm not sure what that meaning is! Are Tialon's letters, which he gives Lunre, an anadnedet? Are the two men embarrassed because Lunre had created a new and very different life for himself? In different ways, they have each lost their native land, but Lunre has found a way to become part of his new community, while Jevick is somehow isolated even in his role of teacher; he's still back in Olondria. If you read the book, please let me know what you think of this chapter!
It’s interesting that the name of Jevick’s home, Tinimavet, contains the word ‘mavet’ which means ‘death.’ The names of both his home and his angel contain the word "island." (No man is...)
Is the book about death or about learning to live in passionate and respectful relationship with others? Is it a metaphor for the ba'alot ov and the Deuteronomists? What is this book about? Please read it and tell me!
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Cool new word: formicative. “Formication is the medical term for a sensation that exactly resembles that of small insects crawling on (or under) the skin.” (wikipedia.org)
I can't resist! Here are two quotes from the book. **Beware!** They are SPOILERS.
From page 265: Those years, the years she lay in the doorway: every one of them hurts me, and every hour has an individual pain. Lost hours, irretrievable, hours that I would have taken up and treasured and which were scattered abroad in the mud. Hours in which she lay alone and deserted by her friends. But had I been one of her friends, had I eaten those stolen fish in the fields, had I been blessed, like them, with that inconceivable good fortune—nothing could have parted me from her. Not the kyitna, not that hair with the color of poisonous berries, which I would weave into ropes to bind me close to her side, not the hatred of all the world, not the danger of sickness, contamination, which I would have welcomed with tears of joy. Yes, I would have clasped that hair, that waist, and inhaled her frightened breath in the hope that the curse would swell to make room for me, that we might be together, safe, removed from everyone else in the honor and preference which death had shown for us. To be, like her, an aristocrat of death, who would bury us under his scarlet blossoms. To suffer, like her, from torrid fevers. To clutch her hand as I struggled for life, to hear her words of comfort gathering the transparent coolness beyond the stars.
From page 274: Tears poured down my face. The flames were eating their way to the heart of the box. What was left there, Jissavet, my love. Your broken, delicate bones. Fragile fingers, ankles like cowrie shells. And a ball of hair, perhaps that ball of flame which burst up suddenly like a star, with a coarse, tragic, appalling odor. Other odors were there, despoiling the freshness of the day: something like resin, spices, a tainted revolting sweetness. I covered my eyes with my hands and sobbed, sitting on the ground, one hand pressed on that sad collection of volumes spotted with ink like blood. She’s going, I thought in panic. And she was. She lifted away from my heart, tearing it as she vaulted into the sky. Her foot snagged in my veins, ripping away, floating free. She was climbing that dark and trembling ladder of smoke. “Jissavet!” I cried. I snatched up the books and held them to my chest, unable to burn them now, gazing up at the sky. There, where the smoke was fading. Where the sky was the purest, most tranquil blue. Where she had gone alone, no jut to take her hand. Lighter than snow or ashes. Where she had entered at last the eternal door, leaving me inconsolable in the silence.
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