inkyfingersinkymind

writing about thinking about writing

Readux: The Historian

Title: The Historian

Author: Elizabeth Kostova

Published: 2005

Genre: Fiction

Date Started: April 24, 2013 Date Finished: June 4, 2013

Rating (out of 5): ★★★★★

Worthy of Note: I had this book (among many others) on my Christmas list, and this one was the only one my brother could find, so he bought it for me. The thing is: I can’t for the life of me remember where I had heard/read about this book for it to get a place on the highly-coveted Amanda’s Christmas List. (Suck it, New York Times Bestsellers.) And given the content of the novel, the only conclusion I can come to is that Dracula made me do it.

One more thing, and this is more of a warning, really: This book takes a lot of cues from Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which I read in university. I was taking a class called Gothic Horror Prose and Film, and of course Dracula was on both the reading and viewing list. So my only encounter with Dracula – as much as I love it – was academic, and I’m afraid the technical tediousness of that might come through here. I’ll try not to write a university compare/contrast essay.

The story that follows is one I never intended to commit to paper.

Dracula and leaving creepy little books around for proteges to find: still a better love story than Twilight. Had to get that out of the way! (And I was worried this was going to get too academic…)

The Historian follows one group of people through the different times in their lives when they found themselves deep in the search for Dracula’s final resting place. Our head narrator and story-compiler travels with her father through Europe in the 1970s. Her father, Paul, tells and writes of his adventures in discovering and trying to solve the Dracula mystery in the 1950s. A third portion of the story comes from letters written in the 1930s by Professor Rossi, who comes to be Paul’s mentor decades later.

The Historian is part novel, part travelogue, a compilation of letters and postcards and narrative woven through different time periods and many different settings. It is a lot easier to follow than that sounds. Elizabeth Kostova, after ten years of working on this novel, is clearly an expert on her own story and I found it easy to get swept up, never coming to a jarring stop over some confusion. Though it may be easy to follow, The Historian is a daunting read. I didn’t realize how long it was until I was about halfway through and thought about just how much story I had consumed already. I am an epic-fantasy reader, so at over 900 pages, The Historian is not absurdly long to me – the thickness of a book only makes me worry about how it will fit in my bag. I think part of the substantiality of the novel is that you have to read and process every single word. To skip even a sentence of description in The Historian is to find yourself punished pages later, when that supposed minor detail comes back magnified.

And now for the rundown of gothic horror techniques. The Historian isn’t a horror novel, but when your subject matter is the Dracula myth and the very real atrocities committed by Vlad Tepes (the Impaler) in the 15th century, there’s going to be violent and unsettling scenes. The horror in this novel is much more in keeping with the gothic horror of the 17-1800s rather than today’s gore and torture porn standards. Any blood spilled is precious. Violence is witnessed with fear. Our heroes are academics, not vampire hunters. They may carry silver daggers and bullets with them, but their greatest weapons throughout the course of the story are their minds as they put themselves to work over hundreds of years of history, finding pieces of a puzzle scattered throughout the eastern and western world. These are my kind of detectives!

Most of the conflict comes not from the supernatural nature of their search, but from the real world. When the mystery takes Paul and Helen to Turkey, and then up into Eastern Europe, the tensions of international politics post-WWII and into the Cold War become their biggest hurdles. How do you ask for any help when almost everything you already know must be kept a secret? There is no escape from these modern realities, even as Paul and Helen travel to old monasteries, to small Balkan villages that keep these old ways even under USSR domination.

The thing that most haunted me that day, however…was the fact that these things had – apparently – actually occurred…For all his attention to my historical education, my father had neglected to tell me this: history’s terrible moments were real. I understand now, decades later, that he could never have told me. Only history itself can convince you of such a truth. And once you’ve seen that truth – really seen it – you can’t look away.

The descriptions of scenery in The Historian are amazing in scope. To use my gothic horror book-learnin’, the settings are absolutely sublime. Everything, even ruins and castles with horrific pasts, is enchanting. You get the feeling that the age-old trees and mountains have witnessed centuries of human activity and still bear the memories. Though the main mystery to be solved involves Dracula the Vampire, most of the research and relic-hunting surrounds Vlad Tepes, the real man who fought real wars and spilled real blood. This means that the mystery can only be solved by searching through histories and letters of other real people. There is no all-knowing Van Helsing here. Dracula’s true resting place is a mystery to everyone Paul and Helen encounter. Save for a few telling letters and Rossi’s research from twenty years ago, Paul and Helen are on their own. 

The Historian is equal parts gazing into the past and discovering that history can suddenly come hurtling towards you in the present. Throughout human history, we have invented ways to keep records, to leave marks of how things were, of what happened to us as civilizations and as individual people. The way The Historian is built, through several first-person accounts collected together, proves that the past was at one point the present, and that the two are not as separate as we are comfortable to believe.

 

Real Tears for Fictional Tragedies

Warning: This post alludes to characters deaths in HBO’s Game of Thrones, George R.R. Martin’s A Storm of Swords, Star Trek: Into Darkness. I’ve tried to avoid spoilers to the best of my ability.

On one hand, it was a great weekend. I spent Saturday with my girlfriends, just hangin’ at the mall, catchin’ a movie. Just a couple of twentysomethings doing how sixteen-year-olds do. (When we were sixteen, we were not hanging out at the mall. We were partial IB and are now making up for lost time.) On Sunday, Chris and I went to the Japanese Festival at the Devonian Botanical Gardens and enjoyed the gardens, the culture, and even the rain. We got to watch an amazing taiko drumming performance. The actual physical power of drumming is one of those things to file into the writer section of my brain.

On the other hand, I spent a disproportionate amount of the weekend in misery. I’m not a big crier, though a recent blog post would indicate otherwise. This weekend’s incident wasn’t quite as intense as the one I just wrote about; this weekend didn’t involve the same degree of inhabiting agony, and one of the incidents involved a happy ending so YAY. The other incident was just part of the long downward descent into grim and utter darkness.

Why, yes, one of those incidents was the Red Wedding! Which synonym for awful tipped you off?

First, the more minor incident, which was seeing Star Trek: Into Darkness with my girlfriends. God bless them for going to see that movie with me – they had both seen it earlier in the week, but were gracious enough to dote on me because Chris will not bring himself to watch the continuation of “new” Star Trek. I am not a dedicated Star Trek fan. I watched the occasional Next Generation episode after school, but the majority of my Star Trek knowledge is from general pop culture. I do know enough about Star Trek to know that if Spock is crying, you should be crying. If you are not crying you should consider the possibility that you are a robot.

The scene in question was perfectly done. There was lots of man-crying, which I have a slight(ly twisted) obsession with. The movie as a whole was great, in my non-original-series-dedicated opinion. That scene in particular was mesmerizing and painful in its execution. And, as I said, there is a happy ending.

And then Sunday. Red Wedding Day. I read A Storm of Swords last year, but I knew most of the plot details from the book after Googling it as soon as I finished A Clash of Kings. I was so annoyed with A Clash of Kings that I decided to look up everything that came next to decide if it was worth continuing with the series or not. Luckily A Storm of Swords is amazing to the nth degree even in synopsis form, and thus I continue on with the Song of Ice and Fire books.

I’ll be honest. I don’t care much about spoilers. I think that if the only thing a book/film/TV show has going for it is the element of surprise, then that’s just not enough for me. There should be a degree of craft to every step of the execution, too, and that’s what’s much more appealing to me in any art form.

So I knew the Red Wedding was coming. I knew it was going to be awful, and that was my only expectation. The writing, the performances, the direction, everything about it was what the Red Wedding needed to be. There were moments that, for the “Unsullied” (non-book readers) would have been seen as moments of hope, but to we “Sullied” were moments of horrible irony.

Without giving too much away, there is a lot of death in this scene. Main characters, secondary charactes, whole hosts of unnamed and unseen characters are mercilessly butchered in some of the most violent scenes ever committed to the page or the screen. I dreaded reading it, but got through, and there was still a lot of book left to read. But the show ended on that scene and closed to credits rolling by in silence. Viewers have a week to sit before the next episode, and though I can’t speak for anyone else, Monday has been awful.

It was hard to fall asleep. When I got dressed this morning black was the only option in my head. All day has been that weird post-crying hangover, part head cold, part relief that it’s over, part “if ‘The Rains of Castamere’ is stuck in my head for one more minute, I’m going to bash my head against the desk.” Ugh.

Now that is some damn good writing. Kudos to everyone involved in the production of last night’s episode, because it has been haunting me like few other fictional experiences have.

I’m the girl who cries at fiction more than she cries at life – a sign of a pretty good life, if you ask me. The grief will pass, but even then I’ll keep it close at hand in the writer section of my brain. I’ll probably have to play “Map of Tasmania” on a loop for two hours before “The Rains of Castamere” finally gets out of my head. (Talk about beautiful writing – what a beautiful piece of music.)

Oh, and Fun Fact! (Though no one in my family was as excited about this as I was…) The Red Wedding was inspired by real massacres that happened in medieval times. One comes from Scotland, where the Campbells invited the MacDonalds to their castle under the guise of hospitality, only to kill all MacDonalds in attendance. I am proudly half MacDonald! So maybe it’s no mystery where I get my bloody fascinations from.

My Writing “Thing”

The oft-trotted-out advice is “write what you know.” In my experience, most writers take this as an invation to learn something new so thoroughly that they eventually know it well enough to write about it. Usually this blossoms from an already-existing interest, one that a writer may have studied casually for a while, or maybe one that just occurred fleetingly to the writer while she was staring at the wall one day.

And in this age of the Internet, you can learn pretty much anything with one little visit to Google. Writers these days have it good in the available references department.

It’s often pretty easy to find what these underlying interest are in a writer’s work. Yes, we as writers love plot and action and character and language, but then there’s that other “thing.” Tolkien took the language “thing” to a whole other level and basically created an entire universe from the grain of fantastical languages he created when he was a kid. Elvish culture is a lot easier to sell when you wrap it up in an epic tales of war and friendship and love and betrayal. Reading Pillars of the Earth, it is clear that Ken Follett has a “thing” for historical architecture. Amid all the other crazy shit going on in the Song of Ice and Fire books, George R.R. Martin often pauses amid the bloodshed to let you know what people are eating, usually a combination of medieval cuisine and whateverthehell else sounds like it would taste good. I’ve heard from friends that Robert Jordan would often STOP EVERYTHING to describe a lady’s gown. And say what you want about Dan Brown: the man has clearly logged a lot of hours looking up stuff about the Renaissance and staring at the Mona Lisa.

My “thing” appears to be medicine. This has surprised even me.

Maybe I watch too much Grey’s Anatomy?

Maybe I’m trying to root my story in my characters’ bodies and dole out realistic consequences to get rid of some of the ridiculous “sword and sorcery” baggage that comes with writing fantasy?

Oh God. Maybe my mom was right when she told me I really wanted to be a doctor…

Yeah, people in my book wear clothes of somewhat-described colour and shape. Yeah, they eat and drink sometimes. And yeah, buildings and mountains get some attention. But my book is mostly about the people, and apparently the varying ways in which those people require medical attention.

My book is heavy on the swords and sword-related injures, and easy on the sorcery. If someone is going to stop bleeding, it’s going to be because someone with medical know-how stepped in, not because of spells or prayer or magic/magick(s)/majick/whatever is the trendy spelling these days.

I spend a lot of time looking up herbal treatments for migraines, bloodletting, bruising, how to wrap injuries, natural poisons, natural remedies, which organs are in the immediate vicinity of where Sir Whatshisname just got ran through.

Maybe I do want to be a doctor… just in an age when doing this stuff would’ve gotten me a nice witch trial and an prompt burning at the stake.

For my current project, I opt to change the old adage to “write what you learn.” I’m learning a lot about ancient medicine, and how to hunt pheasant, and what the difference is between a doublet and a jerkin. I’m also learning how to write a whole damn book, and that one’s not so easy to Google.

But I’m also in the fiction business. And that means that sometimes I do just get to make stuff up.