De pijnboomeilanden

by Marion Poschmann, Annemarie Vlaming (Translator)

Wanneer universitair docent cultuurgeschiedenis Gilbert Silvester droomt dat zijn vrouw hem bedriegt, besluit hij in een opwelling het eerstvolgende vliegtuig te nemen; om afstand te nemen en zijn huwelijk te overdenken. De vlucht voert Gilbert naar Japan, waar hij het reisverslag van de klassieke dichter Basho in handen krijgt. Het geeft hem een doel: net zoals de vijftiende-eeuwse rondtrekkende monnik wil hij de maan boven de Pijnboomeilanden zien. Deze pelgrimstocht biedt hem de mogelijkheid om zich te verliezen in de natuur en zijn innerlijke onrust achter zich te laten. Maar nog voor hij begint, ontmoet Gilbert een jonge student, Yosa, die met heel andere reisliteratuur onderweg is: Het complete handboek voor zelfmoord.

Genres: Fiction, Japan, German Literature, Germany, Contemporary, Novels, 21st Century

110 pages, Kindle Edition

First published September 11, 2017

About the author

Marion Poschmann, 1969 in Essen geboren, studierte Germanistik und Slawistik und lebt heute in Berlin. Für ihre Prosa und Lyrik wurde sie vielfach ausgezeichnet. Zuletzt erhielt sie den Peter-Huchel- Preis und den Ernst-Meister-Preis für Lyrik; ihr Roman Die Sonnenposition stand auf der Shortlist des Deutschen Buchpreises und gewann den Wilhelm-Raabe-Literaturpreis 2013.

Reviews

[Meike · Rating 3 out of 5]

Now Shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize 2019
You have to give kudos to the German Book Prize (for which this novel was nominated in 2017) for regularly celebrating the weird and the outright grotesque - I mean, we are talking about a Prize that is awarded to books like "The Invention of the Red Army Fraction by a Manic-Depressive Teenager in the Summer of 1969" (German: Die Erfindung der Roten Armee Fraktion durch einen manisch-depressiven Teenager im Sommer 1969) (for those who don't know: The Red Army Fraction or RAF was a German domestic terror organization, and in reality, it was of course not invented by a super-sad/super-happy teenager).

So in the spirit of "hey, why not?", we are now confronted with a novel whose protagonist Gilbert Silvester does university research on beards - oh yes, he is a "beard scientist" ("Bartforscher"). One night, he dreams that his wife is cheating on him, and angrily hops on a plane to Tokyo - or wait, does he? The unique thing about this text is that it is impossible to find out whether our weird beard scientist is actually experiencing what is happening or whether he is dreaming and/or imagining this story. There are plenty of hints throughout the plot that keep the reader on his toes, and the ambiguity of what Silvester feels and describes is the main staple of the whole text.

In Japan, Silvester accidentally meets a young Japanese student named Yosa Tamagotchi (Tamagotchi? Does this guy really exist?) who wants to commit suicide because of his exam anxiety and wears a fake beard (yes, I know). Together, they travel through Japan, Tamagotchi trying to find a good spot to kill himself, Silvester, the humanities scholar, following the footsteps of Bashō Matsuo, 17th century poet and author of The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches. Basho's text is considered one of the major works of classical Japanese literature, and it describes the journey the writer undertook with his companion Kawai Sora from Tokyo (then: Edo) to the northern region of Oku in order to "renew his own art". In the midst of their travels, something changes and the book turns into a bona fide ghost story - and it is only then that Silvester starts to shatter his fears.

Clearly, Poschmann is working with the good old doppelgänger motif, mirroring Silvester in the young Tamagotchi (a highly unlikely Japanese family name). The negative sides and shortcomings Silvester berates himself for are transferred back and forth between the two men, giving Silvester, generally not a very empathetic person, the possibility to confront parts of himself. Silvester and Tamagotchi also display different kinds of sadness and desperation, Tamagotchi rather passive and subdued, Silvester tending towards anger, but deeply troubled by his failing career and the conviction that he is not good enough for his wife.

But there are even more mirror images in this text: Just as Basho did, Silvester aims to "renew his own art", and is supported by an (imaginary) travel companion (together, they also write haikus). With his journey, Basho himself honored the travels of the poet Saigyo who lived hundreds of years before him. In the case of Silvester, the outward movement mirrors the movement that happens inside his own minds, and by embracing ambiguities and shadows, he learns to see more clearly (hello Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, who is also quoted in the book).

On top of all that, there are some negative mirror images, juxtaposing Japanese and German culture. And there are trees. Many, many trees, especially pinetrees. In German culture, the forest is connotated as an almost magical place, haunting and full of beauty. The parts of the book in which the German Silvester meditates about trees in Japan and thinks back about the time he spent with his wife, hoping for the leaves to turn red during Indian summer, are some of the best paragraphs in the novel. It is also in the context of pinetrees that Silvester has an important epiphany about the ability to see reality.

So as you can see, there is a lot going on this short text that asks one of the classic questions in fiction: What is reality? I generally love daring and weird books, but in parts, this seemed a little gimmicky to me, plus, more importantly, the motivations of the characters did not entirely become clear. According to the author, this is intentional, as she maintains that the unambiguous is often trivial. I agree, but I'd like to add that when a story remains too ambiguous, it also becomes trivial. That does not happen all the time in this book, but too often for my taste.

So fortunately, this didn't win the German Book Prize, and I have to say that the fact it got nominated for the MBI instead of The Capital or Beside Myself is pretty much a joke (but not a funny one) - so it probably has good chances of winning. :-)

[Antonomasia · Rating 3 out of 5]

While writing this review I changed my mind about the book somewhat.

I would never have read this novel if it weren't for the Booker International longlist - I'd already seen the blurb a few months earlier and decided the book wasn't for me. After the longlist was announced, I requested and received an ARC of The Pine Islands, direct from a very nice member of staff at the publisher, which makes this review a little more awkward than if I'd got the ARC via the impersonal machine that is Netgalley... but this book is, so far, not ranking high among my 2019 MBI reads.

The blurb's phrase "a journeyman lecturer on beard fashions in film" instantly suggests a satire about a hipster mired in mediocrity, but the rest of the description sounds relatively serious. I suspected the novel might sound off-key to a British (if not English-language) sense of humour. And indeed, in the first half of the book, I felt as if I was reading a draft or storyboard awaiting reassignment to a good comic writer who would give zing and real comedy to the faint echoes of Douglas Adams and the academic farces of Tom Sharpe and David Lodge, which were haunting the prose without scaring up any actual laughs. For full-scale comedy it would need specific, absurd examples. Instead, the early parts of the narrative might raise a slight smirk with vague generalisations:

Now he found himself once more in precarious circumstances, making his way from one project to the next, and saw himself professionally left in the dust by former friends who had all got vastly worse marks than he had and who had never expressed a single innovative idea between them. Friends who, to be blunt, were technically less competent than he was. But unlike him they possessed that certain clever demeanour, the kind that was the only valuable thing when it came to careers.
or
As always it was a research project where the results had already been established. He carried out the legwork, amassed the minutiae, confirmed through the richness of the material its significance, attested to the general applicability of its cultural theoretical conclusions, and revealed finally and not without flourish the surprising conclusions, which in reality were not only not all that surprising but had in fact been present in Gilbert’s mind from the very beginning.

That sort of thing can be fine if it is building up to the laughs, but it never gets there.
One cannot fault the translator: substantial line-editing, rewriting and expansion is beyond a translator's remit of rendering the sense and feel of the original work into English.

On the other hand, there are very popular British humorous writers who raise nary a giggle from me, like Jasper Fforde or Tom Holt. Sometimes it *is* just me. (As I'm one of the first English-language readers to review this book, I've no idea how much it is just me with The Pine Islands.) And much like I found with Fforde's and Holt's books, The Pine Islands - although ostensibly addressing more weighty themes - passed the time in an innocuous fashion which provided a break from other things, even if I often thought about how it might be better.

Unlike the typical British comic novel, The Pine Islands also includes stunning, and entirely serious, passages of nature writing:
Plant shadows wandered over the wall, staggered noiselessly through the room, swept over the far end, then froze. They paused, skipped the bedsheet, then swung on further, brushed against his cheeks, washed over him, thinned twigs that touched everything too tenderly for Gilbert to bear. A forest of waifs, disembodied wood, a grey pyre built of shadows. He heard the wind in the pines, heard their monumental whirring, the anti-wood on his wall rose and fell, a long, lonely wandering, and yet … He stood at the window, holding the teacup with both hands. It caught the moon for an instant. Macaques cackled far off in the distance.

This feels attuned to current UK literary preoccupations, as the hero goes to find himself and/or have a form of breakdown via travel and nature. In tacitly suggesting that being out in nature won't necessarily solve everything (and also that nature is half-broken too), it critiques and lampoons the 2010s nature-writing trend in a way that may be refreshing for readers who are starting to find it formulaic. I am unsure to what extent this has also been a literary trend in Germany, or how many of its English-language books have been translated to German - but whether deliberate or no, The Pine Islands could work for the UK reader in a nature-writing context. One of the 2019 MBI judges, Turkish-English translator Maureen Freely, said of reading the 108 submitted books: “We had this almost spooky attention to rumblings on behalf of a natural world that seems ready to fight back, this environmental disaster moment”. Ravaged and intimidating landscapes are evident here in The Pine Islands as they were in the visibly desertifying rural Spain of The Death of Murat Idrissi, the last longlisted title I finished.

There's another reason why this novel might have appealed to the judges - to a group of people who've been reading stacks of newly-translated fiction. One of its themes seems to be the way in which Westerners think about and use other cultures. And rather than making an obviously didactic treatment of that, it takes the leftfield, ambiguous approach of sending a protagonist who seems somewhat detached from reality on a journey. Protagonist Gilbert was previously no Japanophile and didn't especially like the idea of the place, or other countries that favour tea over coffee. He just got on a plane to Tokyo one day in the summer holidays, after taking a bad dream about his wife too literally. It's impossible to be sure just how much, if any, of this actually "happened" in the reality of the book. Gilbert wanders a world of caricature Japanese stereotypes: he befriends a perfectionist young 'herbivore' student who wants to commit suicide at one of the country's legendary locations - not only that, but the young man bows repeatedly, his parents run a tea shop, Gilbert talks of the student's deference to him as an older man - and the lad's surname is Tamagotchi. They also watch a Noh theatre performance, and the beautifully detailed descripion of this is undoubtedly more accessible than those by Kraznahorkai in Seiobo There Below. Gilbert buys and reads a copy of Basho's writings and resolves to follow the 17th-century poet's journey north, after experiencing an epiphany about the beauty and essence of Japanese black pine trees. (He chooses the 'male' black pine rather than its mythological pair, the 'female' red pine, perhaps as he has decided to spend time alone away from his wife.) At the insistence of Tamagochi, they first visit other places - such as the notorious Aokigahara forest. "How bad is this on a scale of Logan Paul?" I wrote in one note during that chapter, suspecting that this book might not have the best reception on social media, due to its being written by a white Western author and centred around stereotyped ideas of Japan. The stereotypes are, on a surface level, less creatively employed than in, for example, the work of Terry Pratchett, as they are used about Japan itself and not about an invented culture which shares features with several real societies.

As with reading Murat Idrissi, I took into consideration that the MBI judges include Pankaj Mishra and Elnathan John, who know a thing or two about colonialism and cultural appropriation, and who consider literature beyond the kneejerk level. So, if a book from the longlist sets off my antennae with "uh-oh, there are sections of left/literary social media that will hate this", I decided that, rather than merely trying to predict what might provoke outraged hot-takes, I should consider what insights into these subjects there might be in the novel: these guys must have okayed the book's presence on the list even if it was not one of their individual favourites. Yes, there is that whole thing about "does replicating something while critiquing/satirising it just perpetuate the problem?" but there has to be more going on than that here. Japan is also an economically powerful country, and to an educated audience the use of stereotypes in The Pine Islands is as blatant as if, in a book about Britain, all the men wore bowler hats and carried golf umbrellas. But as Gilbert is not a weeaboo, it is not directly mocking the subculture of Western male Japanophiles: instead it perhaps shows the ideas of Japan that filter through to the popular imagination of Westerners who don't take a special interest in the place, and the ways in which these contrast and mirror the West's idea of itself.

Writing this review, has, by this point, made me see more to the book than when I typed the first two paragraphs, and my opinion of it has improved. However, Gilbert was irritating and, as most of the novel is a close third-person narrative following his thoughts and experiences, that meant the book was irritating to read at times. He displays very little overt distress, instead preferring to jump to conclusions, or be cynically dismissive, and so he doesn't elicit much sympathy from the reader. (His emotional distress is perhaps projected into the person of Yosa Tamagotchi, whom he feels a duty to help.) Gilbert's know-it-all attitudes on the basis of superficial knowledge made me cringe in recognition of my own similar habits. (Gilbert is overconfident in his insights, whilst his mirror-image Tamagotchi lacks confidence in his own academic abilities.) On the plus side, this Gilbert's 'inner journey' seemed a more realistic portrait of someone gaining a little insight or 'enlightenment' over a short period than its equivalents in most fiction: Gilbert has occasional epiphanies and realises a handful of things, but mostly returns to being critical and arrogant afterwards - substantial change takes years - and sometimes parts of it happen when a person seems off the rails, as he is here. I wasn't sure whether Poschmann was also hinting (or if so to what end) towards the idea that certain "Eastern" forms of spiritual progress, e.g. Kundalini in the yoga tradition, and some Buddhist stages, may look unwell in Western psychology.

Gilbert's academic conclusions about beards had particular need of comedic sharpening (more jargon especially), but when his letters home - which are in a denser and more serious style than the rest of the narrative - got on to other analytical topics, such as comparisons of non-hair-related aspects of German and Japanese culture, I found myself thinking I would rather be reading an essay Poschmann distilled from these observations than the actual novel.

Sublime depth plays an important role in East Asian culture. Profundity, as it’s called, is inconspicuous...
it is subtle, it is conceivably linked with what we also call the sublime in the West. Only it doesn’t reveal itself in power or violence, it isn’t experienced in exorbitance, nor in terms of magnitude or in being overwhelmed. You won’t find it in bold, overhanging and, as it were, threatening rocks … etc., but much more in the quiet contemplation of a dull reed bed or dry autumn grass, within nature without anything particularly eye-catching, in a landscape of emptiness and melancholy. Whether it’s a swamp or grass or bamboo that ultimately forms the contemplative object, turning leaves, a misty field or a cloud-topped mountain – what is ultimately required is a state of mind that allows the sublime to be seen everywhere. It’s believed that this is the cause of the phenomena. And, if anything, it possibly comes close to what is called the Ungrund – the ground without a ground, the undetermined, the abyss – in German mysticism.

I was struck by the extent to which some of these Japanese ideas felt more like home than the German ones, which are from a geographically closer culture - I guess this is through osmosis, after Japanese culture was so popular in Britain and the US in the 90s, although I wasn't so consciously into it as a couple of friends were. The idea of scenery as frightening, as in the Romantic or pre-Romantic idea, has always seemed rather alien to me: but as if on cue, a couple of days ago I was assailed by a Windows Spotlight picture of mountains which were just that, augmented by their mis-labelling as the Carpathians - the setting for Dracula. (An image search showed they were actually the Dolomites.)

Another annoyance stemmed from an old idea that "And then I woke up and it was all a dream" is one of the great cop-outs in fiction. Or maybe, like a lot of these writing rules, breaking it is allowable when done right ... like if at the end it's still only one of the possibilities, as it is here. And if you hint at it as beautifully as this (from another of Gilbert's "letters", where he seems to be reaching in the dark towards an insight:
Waking dreams, images that surface just before the onset of sleep when our functions of thought gradually come to rest, images that still accompany our consciousness on waking, shortly before the return of routine quotidian thought, hypnopompic hallucinations that emerge when a notion is transformed entirely into images, showing a thought in its pre-conceptual, not yet comprehended state, before the synthesis sets in; images, then, which must be able to accompany all my ideas, even when not everybody can always succeed in eliciting them semiconsciously and only half-awake. Are they dreams, daydreams, reveries? Illusions, conceits, visions? These apparitions are said to be delusional, and yet they constitute the base, the abyss of every thought, every feeling. I wanted to cultivate the futile image of the pine from them."

This is a strange novel which became more interesting after reading than during. (Readers who are well-acquainted with both German and Japanese literature will probably find allusions in it to explain the underpinnings of this 'strangeness.') For most of the book's duration I thought its only benefit was nudging me to read Basho, and reminding me (not for the first time) that I know little about German literature. But finishing The Pine Islands means one can step away from the sometimes grating protagonist and think, with less background noise, about the other ideas in the book.

[Sam Quixote · Rating 2 out of 5]

After convincing himself that his wife’s cheating on him, beard professor Gilbert arbitrarily flees to Japan where he equally arbitrarily picks up a book of famed Japanese poet Basho’s and decides to visit the pine islands of Matsushima, which took Basho’s breath away when he visited them. Along the way Gilbert picks up a suicidal young Japanese student, Yosa, and decides to distract him from thoughts of death by taking him to the pine islands with him.

What an odd little book! As contrived as it is, I find the whimsical premise beguiling - throwing caution to the wind and embarking on a pseudo-spiritual pilgrimage at a crisis point in life is one of those moments that defines a person’s life, which usually makes for a good story. Unfortunately that’s not the case with German writer Marion Poschmann’s bafflingly award-winning novel.

I don’t normally get hung up on the point of a novel so long as it’s entertaining but, as The Pine Islands simply wasn’t, I have to ask: whyyyy? What was the point of this academic’s breakdown and pointless quest that led nowhere? Why did he care about saving the life of this young man he’d never met before? Was his wife actually cheating on him? What did he accomplish through all his meanderings?

The ambiguity of the story lends itself to the game of literary what if? so - what if Yosa isn’t real and all in Gilbert’s head? He’s representative of Gilbert’s insecurities (not living up to expectations, not being manly enough). Yosa’s surname - Tamagotchi, which is not a Japanese surname - hints at his being made up as that’s the kind of surname a clueless Westerner like Gilbert might imagine on the spot. I mean, tamagotchi - those stupid little plastic digital “pets” that were insanely popular for a hot minute in the ‘90s??

So that might mean that Gilbert’s suicidal and is trying to dissuade himself from death and look on the bright side of life. Alright - except I don’t buy it. He only thinks his wife’s having an affair after he dreams it and as for not being successful - dude’s a fucking “beard professor”! What the fuck is that?! It’s the kind of silly job you give a character in a bad literary novel. Oh… I don’t know, I’m not convinced that these are reasons enough to fly off to some random country to top yourself.

But then if it’s not about this guy working through his suicidal feelings it’s just a string of random coincidences that don’t add up to anything. And that’s largely why I found this to be such an unsatisfying read.

Beyond the lack of a point, the letters from Gilbert to his wife Mathilda weren’t interesting - I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given that he’s a beard professor but his voice is so dull - and the ending was completely flat and unimpressive. And I really didn’t care for Poschmann’s writing style - SO many run-on sentences! Put a full stop there instead of a comma - not every sentence needs to be a paragraph long!

I read a lot of Japanese fiction and it rarely focuses on the darker side of Japanese society so I appreciated seeing that angle - of course it had to come from a foreigner! And I liked the Westerner’s perspective of Japan as that’s how I experience the country too and it took me back there again. The premise and journey of the characters is original even if it doesn’t amount to much.

Still, The Pine Islands is definitely not a great novel. I didn’t hate it but I can’t rec it either. Hey, that’s almost a haiku!

The Pine Islands sucks,
I didn’t hate it but I
Can’t rec it either

Basho would be turning in his grave if he had one (pretty sure dude was cremated)!

[Melanie · Rating 5 out of 5]

Gilbert has a nightmare that his wife is unfaithful, he awakes in great distress, later that day he confronts her about her infidelity and when she denies any such digression, he packs his bag, takes his passport and heads to the airport and takes the first intercontinental flight available. He ends up in Tokyo, where Gilbert - a researcher in all things beard related - tries to strike up a conversation with a rare type of Japanese, a young man with a bit of a beard. Yosa was just about to commit suicide but as Gilbert talks to him, his politeness does not allow him to continue with his plan. Equipped with two books, Basho's famous travel guide to the backlands of Japan and a Japanese Suicide Manual, the two men begin a journey through Japan seeking out the famed pine trees.

This has been one of the best German literary novels in recent years for me. Funny, quirky, great observation. Gilbert is a man in crisis and yet, he himself does not see it, to him everything around him is in crisis, from the buildings, to nature, to trees. He admits that he is a failed academic, that he is not as successful as he imagined he would be, but he is at the start completely clueless that his in the midst of an epic breakdown. I thoroughly enjoyed this book, in fact, I read it twice, the second time immediately after the first. And that is something that happens very rarely indeed.

I do hope that Suhrkamp finds an English publisher for this book, sheer brilliance and a great representation of modern German literature.

[nettebuecherkiste · Rating 4 out of 5]

Deutschland in der Gegenwart. Bartforscher (!) Gilbert Silvester träumt, dass seine Frau ihn betrügt. Auch nach dem Erwachen ist er – fassungslos – überzeugt, dass der Traum wahr ist. Also tut er das Naheliegendste: Er fährt sofort zum Flughafen und setzt sich in ein Flugzeug nach Japan.

In Japan angekommen, beschließt, auf den Spuren des Dichters Matsuo Basho (der „große Erneuerer des Haikus“) durch Japan zu reisen. An der U-Bahn-Station liest er einen jungen Japaner namens Yosa Tamagotchi (!) auf, der sich eigentlich auf die Gleise werfen und das Leben nehmen wollte. Gilbert kann ihn überzeugen, dass dies kein rechter Ort für einen Selbstmord sei, und bewegt ihn schließlich dazu, mit ihm zu kommen, denn auf seiner Reiseroute befinden sich auch einige der Orte, die in Yosas Ratgeber als gute Orte genannt werden, um sich das Leben zu nehmen. Zuletzt soll es zu den Kieferninseln gehen, einem der schönsten Orte in Japan.

Marion Poschmann beweist mit diesem Roman, dass man lyrische Prosa schreiben kann, ohne dass der Leser bei der Lektüre unentwegt Fragezeichen in den Augen hat. Ihre Sprache ist wunderbar, Metaphern sind gelungen, es ist eine Freude, die Geschichte zu lesen. Und dann der Humor! Wer mich kennt, weiß: Damit bin ich immer zu gewinnen. Allein schon die Absurdität von Gilberts Verhalten, die er selbst in keiner Weise erkennt, ja, er ist sogar der Ansicht, dass die anderen (vornehmlich seine Frau) sich absurd verhalten! Zugegebenermaßen, die Walter Ulbricht-Anspielung von Seite 27 hat einen gewissen Stöhnfaktor. Doch im weiteren Verlauf liebte ich den Humor, Poschmann arbeitet mit Übertreibungen und Demaskierungen – herrlich. Das soll jetzt nicht dein Eindruck erwecken, es handele sich um eine Komödie. Aber Humor ist mir eben wichtig, und wenn dieser Humor albern ist, bin ich halt auch albern ;-)

Der Protagonist verhält sich wie bereits erwähnt absolut absurd, dennoch kann man irgendwie nicht anders, als eine gewisse Sympathie für ihn zu empfinden. Er leidet offensichtlich an einem Minderwertigkeitskomplex, empfindet sich selbst eher als Pseudointellektuellen. In Yosa Tamagotchi spiegelt sich seine Persönlichkeit, was in folgender Passage sehr deutlich wird:

„Sein Gesicht spiegelte sich auf der Oberfläche der Flüssigkeit, und er sah genauer hin. Es war nicht sein Gesicht, es war Yosas Gesicht. Er erkannte genau dessen Züge, die dunkleren Haare, die flachere Nase, die Form der Wangenknochen. Er schob die Schale hin und her, bis er auch Yosas Kinn mit dem Ziegenbart klar ins Bild bekam.“ (Seite 137)

Während der Reise geht Yosa ihm eine Zeit lang verloren, und auch gibt Gilberts Zustand wieder, er ist selbst irgendwie verloren.

Auf der Rückseite des Buches ist zu lesen „Ist das Leben am Ende ein Traum“? Und so stellt sich am Ende auch die Frage, ob Gilberts ganze Reise vielleicht ein Traum ist, ob er vielleicht noch gar nicht erwacht ist und sein Unterbewusstsein ihn auf die Suche geschickt hat.

Ein wunderbarer kurzer Roman, der mich überzeugt hat, dass ich mir auch einmal Poschmanns Lyrik ansehen sollte.

[♑︎♑︎♑︎ ♑︎♑︎♑︎ · Rating 5 out of 5]

I don’t know how Poschmann did it but this novel captures with exquisite perfection the disorienting experience that living in Japan can be, for an attentive non-Japanese person who comes to Japan with no agenda and with some time to look around.

There is such an extreme level of discernment here in this novel...every scene nails it. I would guess most people who have not spent a lot of time in Japan—enough for instance to know about the deeply strange and almost obligatory love every Japanese person professes to feel about Matsushima—would feel like this book is exaggerated satire, when actually it just is the way Japan IS.

I’m kind of in awe and a little woozy from the experience of having just finished this excellent and very funny book, so maybe I will come back and try to be more coherent in my review in a few days. I lived in Japan for years and this novel hit me hard with a lovely nostalgia for a place I still love so its impossible for me to know how anyone else without this experience will react to it.

[Karen·]

Now who would have thought that a novel about beards and suicide and pine trees could be so utterly delightful.

Have you ever wondered why the Pope is always clean shaven but the Patriarch has a long beard?

There's a hierarchy of popular sites for suicide. The more awe-inspiring the scenery, the more dignity to death.

Trees let light dapple through. But pine trees are black clouds against the blue summer sky.

Marion Poschmann has the lightest of touches, her breath a warm breeze that gently lifts the hair, leaves a frisson of coolness on the skin and opens deep colours in a transparent pool of water. Dive in.



Jackdaws caw and chack
Black suited businessmen
They squabble and fight.

Re-read in July 2020:
Playful and profound.
We cannot escape from inside our own consciousness.
Note to self: read more by Marion Poschmann.

[Semjon · Rating 5 out of 5]

Die Kieferninseln ist ein sehr poetisches Buch über eine ungewöhnliche Reise nach und durch Japan. Wie ein Gedicht so lässt auch dieser Roman vielfältige Deutungsmöglichkeiten zu, und jeder Leser wird seine ganz eigenen Interpretationen und Empfindungen beim Lesen verspüren. Es wundert mich daher nicht, dass die Meinung hier so stark auseinandergehen. Mich hat das Buch von der ersten Seite an gepackt. Obwohl ich Bücher selten zweimal lese, kann ich mir jetzt nach dem Ende gut vorstellen, dieses kleine Büchlein irgendwann nochmal zur Hand zu nehmen. Genauso wie ein Gedicht, das man immer wieder gerne liest.

Gilbert ist ein im Vergleich zu seiner gefragten Ehefrau eher erfolgloser Dozent, der seine Fähigkeiten durch die Gesellschaft nicht wertgeschätzt sieht. Beziehungs- und Selbstreflexionsunfähig ist es auch, so dass er einen Traum, in dem ihn seine Frau betrügt, zum Anlass nimmt, so weit wie möglich sich von ihr zu entfernen und ihr dabei auch noch die Schuld an der Ehekrise zu geben. Obwohl er Teeländer nicht mag, wählt er als erstbesten Flug die Maschine nach Tokio. Er fühlt sich hin und hergerissen von diesem Land. Recht bald trifft er den jungen Yosa, der seinen Selbstmord plant. Es gelingt ihm, sich als die schützende Hand von Yosa, auf einer Pilgerreise durch Japan zu begeben, zunächst zu den beliebtesten Selbstmordplätzen des Landes, später auf den Spuren eines bekannten Haiku-Dichters, der 500 Jahre zuvor auch schon eine Reise in den Norden unternommen hatte.

Im Grunde weiß man nie so recht, was Schein und was Sein ist in dem Buch. Obwohl Gilberts Ehefrau äußerst abweisend auf dessen Flucht reagiert, werden seine liebevollen detaillierten Reiseberichterstattungen in Briefform immer wieder den Erzählfluss aus der Ebene einer dritten Person unterbrechen. Außerdem nehmen die Träume Gilberts immer groteskere Formen an und so wird die eh schon skurrile Geschichte fast schon makaber, witzig, absurd, auf jeden Fall äußerst humorvoll und unterhaltsam.

Ich mochte vor allem die Art, wie Frau Poschmann die kleinen Besonderheiten des Lebens beobachtet, und sie dann sehr lakonisch in wunderbare Worte packt. Ich kam oft aus dem Dauergrinsen nicht mehr heraus. Ob das die Ausführungen über den Bartwuchs in der Religionsgeschichte, die Form des Tanzes in der japanischen und europäischen Kultur oder die vielen uns fremden Sitten und Riten im japanischen Alltag waren. Ständig erkannte ich wieder neue Parallelen bei den dargestellten Figuren zwischen Gilbert, Yosa und auch dem Haiku-Dichter Basho. Das Buch war einfach eine Wohltat. Es ist ein schönes Beispiel, dass zeitgenössische anspruchsvolle Literatur auch mal leicht und verspielt und nicht inhaltsschwer daherkommen muss. Sehr empfehlenswert.

[Jerrie · Rating 2 out of 5]

I really did not understand what the author was trying to do with this book. I understand that Gilbert travels to Japan on a whim and decides to follow in the steps of Basho. In Tokyo, he meets a young man following a book on places suitable for suicide. At each spot in their travels, the reality doesn’t fit the splendor described in their respective books. No suitable spot for suicide is found. The majesty of Basho’s Japan no longer exists. Otherwise, there is little sense to be made of this. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[Paul Fulcher · Rating 2 out of 5]

Hi from Tokyo - 
Cherry trees no longer bloom,
only bare concrete.

Gilbert read his poem through a few times and concluded he had reached the heart of the matter.

The rules of the haiku, which he had learnt from the appendix of the Bashō book, had been perfectly realised within these lines: five, then seven, then once more five syllables, an allusion to the season, a sensuous impression, universal and seemingly impersonal, in which a sensitive reader would have nevertheless been able to decipher profound emotion.   

Book 12/13 from this year's Man Booker International List.

The Pine Islands has been translated by Jen Calleja from Marion Poschmann's German language original Die Kieferninseln, which was shortlisted for the 2017 Deutscher Buchpreis.

Gilbert Silvester wakes up one morning (or does he?):

He’d dreamt that his wife had been cheating on him. Gilbert Silvester woke up distraught. Mathilda’s black hair lay spread out on the pillow next to him, tentacles of a malevolent pitch-black jellyfish. Thick strands of it gently stirred in time with her breathing, creeping towards him. He quietly got out of bed and went into the bathroom, where he stared aghast into the mirror. He left the house without eating breakfast. When he finished work that evening he still felt dumbfounded, almost numb. The dream hadn’t dissipated over the course of the day and hadn’t faded sufficiently for the inane expression ‘dreams are but shadows’ to be applicable. On the contrary, the night’s impressions had become steadily stronger, more conclusive. An unmistakable warning from his unconscious to his naïve, unsuspecting ego.

Convinced of Mathilda’s guilt, and with her unable to convince him otherwise, he leaves his house and takes the first available long-haul flight, which happens to be to Japan - to Gilbert's horror, a tea not a coffee country:

A tradition of visibility, of being present, of clarity.  In coffee countries things are overt.  In tea countries everything is played out under a shroud of mysticism.

But he, Gilbert Silvester, had bee forced by his own wife to an avowed nation of tea.   He was even willing to consider this Japan - with its gruellingly lengthy, exceptionally detailed, indeed devastatingly pretentious tea culture - to be the most extreme level of tea country, and so all the more excruciating for him, all the more sadistic of Mathilda to think it was reasonable to make him do this.  But he was not going to hold back any longer, he was going there, out of pure freedom, out of spite.

The flights there sets the scene for the initial impressions of Gilbert on Japan, which are largely a succession of cliches:

The Japanese stewardess, long black hair put up in a knot, presented him tea with a dazzling smile. Of course, her smile wasn’t for him personally, but it soothed his entire body, as if someone had poured a bucket of balm over him. He sipped his tea and saw that she maintained this smile as she made her way through the cabin, that she bestowed it on each and every one of the passengers, immutable, a masklike grace that fulfilled its purpose with unsettling efficiency.

On arrival in Tokyo, Gilbert, a lecturer specialising in beards (!) approaches the first Japanese person (out of many clean-shaven men) he sees with one, rather inadvertently saving him from suicide. Gilbert and the man - with the unlikely name of Yosa Tamagotchi, and whose beard proves to be fake - embark on a road trip across Japan, in the footsteps of 17th Century poet Matsuo Bashō and his The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, itself a trip in the footsteps of the 12th century poet Saigyō.

Gilbert's ultimate destination is to see the moonrise over the pine islands of Matsushima, a sight reputed to have left Bashō lost for words, but enroute the duo visit various famous suicide sights documented in Yosa's handy guidebook, 'The Complete Manual of Suicide', while he searches for an ideal place to finish what Gilbert started, and Gilbert entertains Yosa and the reader by explaining Japanese culture to him, as he learns about it himself, and writing haiku (a special commendation to Jen Calleja for translating them) such as the rather odd one that opens my review. And as the novel and their journey progresses, if Gilbert's knowledge of Japan seems to remain at a low level, there is certainly some beautiful nature writing.

It all makes for a rather odd mix, and the author's purpose isn't entirely clear - are we supposed to take Gilbert's rather shallow musings seriously? or is this a satire on a Westerner abroad gaijinsplaining the local culture and discovering himself? or a travelogue/ nature novel?

It's not that the novel isn't aware of this issue e.g. after pondering a Zen-type issue Gilbert opines was it a contradiction, was it a paradox, was it perhaps obvious for a Japanese person - but I found myself comparing it, rather adversely, to two novels by European authors about Japan which I did enjoy:

- Amélie Nothomb's Fear and Trembling - like the author, the narrator 'Amélie' is a young Belgian who spent her first 5 years living in Tokyo (Nothomb was daughter of a diplomat) but the novel describes her severe culture shock when she returns to the country in her mid 20s to work at a Japanese company. The novel is satirical but the joke is in many respects on Amélie (author and character).

- and the quite brilliant Seiobo There Below by László Krasznahorkai, which discusses many aspects of traditional Japanese culture, but does so from a position of respect, knowledge and erudition.

Unfortunately Pine Islands, while enjoyable to read, falls badly between these two stools. It isn't clearly satirical enough to be the former (although it is definitely aiming, indeed trying a bit too hard, for 'quirky') and certainly not erudite enough to be the latter (some lyrical nature writing aside). Poschmann herself may well have a deep understanding to rival Krasznahorkai's but for the reader it is filtered through Gilbert's shallow musings.

This review from Antonomasia provides a more detailed take: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

And this from Meike draws out more of the author's intentions from interviews in the German press: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

Although I note that both seem to ultimately share a sense of bemusement.

2.5 stars - I'm going to round down to 2 as another novel I feel disappointed has made the MBI list compared to others that missed out.

Thanks to the publisher for the ARC.

[Jenny (Reading Envy) · Rating 3 out of 5]

This book set in Japan has been translated from.. the German? It's a bizarre experience because you have this German narrator and it changes how I perceive the story - is he speaking in German to the Japanese man he's traveling with? Does the man understand him or is he making that assumption? Gilbert also spent two years in the United States on a failed academic stint, so he might even be using English, but I don't have the assumption that Yosa knows English either. It was on the shortlist for the Booker International Prize last year but I think it only recently came out in the states.

Honestly, it felt like someone interested in Japan threw all the things they knew about it into a pot and tried to come up with a plot to string it all together - Basho and haiku, the Nihon Sankei or the "Three Scenic Places" (roughly), Aokigahara Jukai forest (known as the Suicide Forest), even design elements of the Japanese aesthetic.

It starts with a man who is an academic who studies beards. He has a dream that his wife is cheating on him and he wakes up so sure this is true that he punishes her (she seems okay with it) by flying to Tokyo. Nobody really grows a beard in Tokyo. And he likes coffee, not tea. So why Tokyo? Unclear. Does he speak Japanese? Unclear, as the entire book is translated into English.

He meets a man who wants to kill himself but for some reason allows Gilbert to take over his life and they travel to various spots that Basho once traveled.

In between Gilbert writes letters to Mathilda, his wife, which allow the author to throw more of those details about the "cool stuff in Japan" - but we already know his wife is not actually interested in his research, his interests, and is not interested in hearing from him - why would he even write to her? Why not just keep it at the random haiku? The narrator seems to think it is all resolved in the end but I had a pretty clear sense that what happens next is not what he is hoping.

The publisher blurb describes it as charming and playful but those are almost as bad as describing a book as "funny" because you're assuming the reader finds the same things charming and playful as you. I found the narrator difficult, the situation super depressing, and as for my time... at least it was short.

I had a copy from the publisher through Edelweiss; the book came out stateside April 14.

[Michael · Rating 4 out of 5]

DIE KIEFERNINSELN ist ein durch und durch literarischer Text, voller Anspielungen, Spiegelungen und Ver(w)Irrungen. Gilbert, der traurige Protagonist des Romans, findet sich in seines Lebens Mitte in einem dunklen Wald, abgekommen vom rechten Weg - man hat von so etwas schon gehört; seine akademische Karriere hat nie richtig Fahrt aufgenommen und seine Bart=Forschungen haben sich ins Abseitige verloren. Er ist ein Mensch mit vielen Unzulänglichkeiten, derer er sich mehr oder minder bewusst sein dürfte, denn warum sonst sollte er seine Ehefrau nur aufgrund eines Traums verlassen, in welchem sie ihn mit einem Referendar betrügt? Aber so absurd, wie es den Anschein hat, ist das gar nicht, denn "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities" (Delmore Schwartz). Und auch wenn Poschmanns sprachmächtiger Roman vor Skurrilitäten und Humor birst, hat er doch eine traurige Grundierung: Der moderne Mensch ist austauschbar: kein Job, keine Beziehung ist so sicher, dass nicht eines Tages ein anderer an die Stelle treten mag.
Seine Flucht – er spricht lieber vom Ausweichen - führt Gilbert vom kapitalistischen Kaffeeland ist mystische Teeland Japan, wo das UBW des Tagträumers die Regie zu übernehmen scheint. Japan ist auch das Land der Selbstmörder, und kaum angekommen trifft Gilbert auf Yosa Tamagotchi, der sich gerade das Leben nehmen will. Aber Tamagotchis muss man am Leben erhalten, und so füllt Gilbert seine Stunden und Tage nun damit, ein Auge auf Yosa zu haben, ihm die beliebtesten Ausflugsziele für Suizidenten madig zu machen und dem Pilgerweg der Haiku-Dichter Basho und Saigyo zu folgen, dessen Ziel der schönste Ort Japans ist: die Bucht der Kieferninseln, Matsushima, vorzugsweise dann, wenn der Mond über den Schwarzkiefern scheint.

Wie Poschmann eine Lebenskrise zu einer Don=Quichotterie macht, das ist ganz großes Kino, humorvoll und sprachmächtig erzählt. Die starke Rolle, die das Un=Bewusste spielt, und Poschmanns Humor erlauben es ihr, zwei Gegensätzlichkeiten in dem Roman zu kombinieren, ohne dass diese sich gegenseitig korrumpieren: das Schwere und das Leichte. Eine an der Oberfläche absurde Reise, die eine Pilgerreise ins Innere ist. Dabei ist Gilbert gar nicht der spirituelle Typ, sondern ein reinrassiger Opportunist. Aber auch dem Clash dieser Gegensätze lauscht Poschmann mit Witz Charmantes ab. Schön klingen die japanischen Themen:

"Dies sei ein beliebtes Thema der klassischen Literatur, zwei uralte Kiefern, Mann und Frau, an weit voneinander entfernten Standorten wachsend, sind im Geiste einander verbunden. Es zeige auf einfache Weise verschiedene Ebenen der traumhaften Realität."

"Die Japanische Rotkiefer, Akamatsu, um die es sich hauptsächlich in diesem Wald handele, gelte als weiblich, erläuterte Yosa, während die Japanische Schwarzkiefer, Omatsu, die vorwiegend in Küstennähe und also auch auf den Inseln wachse, für männlich gehalten werde."

"Die Wanderung als Lebensreise, das hieß, man stand an der Kreuzung und konnte wählen, ob man ging oder blieb, ob man den bisherigen Traum weiterträumte oder ihn gegen einen anderen tauschte. Und der eine, so die buddhistische Auffassung, war, an der ewigen Wahrheit gemessen, so irreal wie der andere."

Aber Gilbert hat ein Ziel vor Augen, und das soll mit westlicher Zielstrebigkeit erreicht werden:

„(Gilbert) nahm sich vor, auf der weiteren Reise das Thema Kirschblüte ganz außer Acht zu lassen und sich aus Gründen der Effizienz, der Logistik und der Jahreszeit auf die immergrünen, langlebigen Kiefern zu konzentrieren."

Yosa wird kurzerhand in die Rolle des Schülers unterworfen, menschliches Interesse an ihm hat Gilbert nicht.
Wie kommt es, dass ausgerechnet dieser Mensch sich auf eine poetisch=spirituelle Reise begibt?
Aber ist sie das überhaupt, oder erlebt er nur ein Reiseführer=Japan, für das er sein Bett nicht verlassen muss, weil er es imaginiert? Sind Yosa und Gilbert am Ende gar eine Person, die träumend das Bett gar nicht verlassen hat?

Fest steht, dass die Autorin zu Japan ein sehr viel innigeres Verhältnis hat als ihr Protagonist. Ihrer Erzählhaltung ist das Offene sehr viel näher als die Festlegung, und über Japan schreibt sie:

"Der Osten hingegen ziehe es vor, die Dinge nur vage aus dem Hintergrund hervortreten zu lassen, ihre Wandelbarkeit und Unvollständigkeit vor allem anderen in Betracht zu ziehen, so dass es den Höhepunkt ästhetischer Erfahrung bedeutet, wenn man von einem Gegenstand nur einen Schimmer erhascht."

Dieses Zitat könnte auch für die Poetik Poschmanns stehen.
Erwähnenswert ist noch, dass die Autorin auch Lyrikerin und Essayistin ist und in DIE KIEFERNINSELN nicht nur die Sprache lyrisch ist, sondern - passend zum Thema Japan und zum Aufenthalt der Autorin in diesem Land - Haikus eine gewichtig=leichtgewichtige Rolle spielen.

[Steffi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Einen Bartforscher – ja, genau, einen Bartforscher, und behaupte keiner, dass es in dieser Disziplin nicht interessante Erkenntnisse zu gewinnen gäbe – verschlägt es nach Japan. Was schon deshalb ungewöhnlich ist, weil er, Gilbert Silvester, die Welt in Tee- und Kaffeeländer unterteilt und als passionierter Kaffeetrinker da doch eigentlich nicht hingehört. (damit teilt er einiges mit der Leserin, die sich für Asien nicht sonderlich interessiert und auf guten Kaffee nicht verzichten kann!). Aber warum tut er das? Weil ihn ein Traum davon überzeugt, dass seine Frau ihn betrügt. Kann man doch verstehen, oder?

So der Beginn dieses Büchleins, das sprachlich brillant, mit feinem Humor und skurrilen Einfällen auf allerhöchstem Niveau unterhält. So ganz nebenbei erfährt man bei dieser Reise Gilberts, zeitweise begleitet von einem potentiellen Selbstmörder, einiges über japanisches Theater, japanische Landschaften, japanische Kiefernformen, japanische Literatur. Und um Verwandlung geht es immer wieder. Und Traum? Und dieser Antiheld Gilbert erinnerte mich mehr als einmal an Bill Murray in „Lost in Translation“: belächelnswert, melancholisch, berührend.
Und es geht um Literatur. Wie sie einen antreibt, wie sie Rückzug von der Welt bietet, wie sie sogar zu einem finalen Rückzug von der Welt animieren kann (Werther-Effekt). Aber auch den Blick öffnet für Schönheit.

Und zur Form muss man unbedingt ebenfalls zwei Dinge sagen: Man kann tolle Geschichten auch auf wenigen Seiten erzählen, liebe Verfasser von Ziegelsteinen! Und: Danke Suhrkamp für dieses wunderbar gesetzte Buch! Es handelt sich um eines der Bücher, bei denen ich vorne und hinten nachschlage, um zu erfahren, um welche Schrift es sich handelt. In diesem Fall leider ohne fündig zu werden.

Absolute Leseempfehlung!

[Gumble's Yard - Golden Reviewer · Rating 2 out of 5]

An uneasy mix of:

- Sub-Bill Bryson travel book full of banal “who knew?” observations on Japanese society

- Logan Paul levels of offensiveness (how does almost exactly the same crass approach to exactly the same sensitive topic, get a YouTube star publically shamed and dropped by sponsors and a novel MBI shortlisted?

I guess the answer is “bought to you by the same jury that shortlisted a book which made fun of the severely handicapped”

- A very sub David Lodge academic farce

- An excessive as well as excessively signalled use of the “perhaps this is all just a dream/imagination” plot device; a device where even a single, subtle use could be accused of unoriginality

- A pine-centred discovery (as opposed to pine-scented disinfectant) of the role of nature as a cure for stress

- An examination of Japanese poetry


The real problem the book faces is that the only real excuse for the some of the crassness in the first two elements, is that, as signalled by the third element it is mean to be a satire - admittedly a very badly written satire (both for the obviousness of its targets and the lack of amusement in its approach) – but still a satire, with the German academic, not Japanese society or suicidal men, the target.

However the more serious turn the book takes as the latter two aspects take precedence (and even feature occasional outbreaks of actually quite good lyrical writing) sits extremely uneasily with, and even cast doubts on, the satirical intentions.

Another disappointing addition to a very underwhelming MBI shortlist.

[Manybooks · Rating 2 out of 5]

There is indeed with regard to Die Kieferninseln (the English title of which is The Pine Islands) very much lyrical and descriptive beauty contained in Marion Poschmann's writing. However, while this might often and indeed be sufficient for me when or if I am reading poetry, in a work of prose fiction, there always always (in my humble opinion) will also have to be at the very least a decent and workable combination of writing style and factual thematics present for me to in any manner consider a novel, a novella, a short story as both readable and enjoyable.

And sadly, with Die Kieferninseln, I for one just have not been able to stomach and accept what Marion Poschmann's oh so beautifully written words actually have to say and the deeper meanings and philosophies they hold or may hold. Because and truth be told, from the entire premise of Die Kieferninseln, from main protagonist Gilbert Silvester callously leaving his wife simply because he had a dream that she was having an affair to his meandering and often rather strangely depicted travels in Japan, I have certainly very much found Die Kieferninseln not at all an entertaining or engaging reading experience (and yes, I admit that on a personal and emotional level I do have major issues with the fact that Gilbert simply ups and leaves his wife for Japan because of some silly dream that she was being unfaithful to him). Therefore, while I still do think that Marion Poschmann's general writing style is both beautiful and delightfully lyrical, the actual contents and the presented themes of Die Kieferninseln do leave very much for me to desire and to even accept as readable, interesting, as acceptable. And yes, I can and will thus only consider but two stars for Die Kieferninseln and with my two stars really existing only because the author's writing style is truly beautiful (for I do in fact find what Marion Poschmann actually says in this novel not at all to my tastes and making me incredibly angry, majorly pissed off to put it bluntly).

[MaggyGray · Rating 5 out of 5]

Ein Büchlein mit einer Wucht, wie ich sie selten zwischen zwei Buchdeckeln erlebe, besonders dann, wenn es mit nicht mal 200 Seiten daherkommt.
Marion Poschmann ist ein Stern am Autorenhimmel und zu Recht ein nicht unbekannter Gast auf den Long- und Shortlisten des Deutschen Buchpreises.
Auch wenn ich die Beweggründe von Gilbert, sich auf nach Japan zu machen, Anfangs ein kleines winziges bisschen hanebüchen fand, so sind doch die Beschreibungen von Land und Leute hinreissend. Der junge Selbstmörder Yosa ist ein weiteres Teilchen eines sehr warmen und sehr wohligen Ganzen. Leider kommt er Gilbert abhanden, das fand ich doch ein wenig schade.

Unbedingt lesen!

[Abbie | ab_reads · Rating 2 out of 5]

Thank you so much @serpentstail for helping me in my quest to read lots of the International Man Booker longlist! While The Pine Islands wasn’t exactly the right read for me, I have HUGE respect for the translator Jen Calleja for tackling this one, and the other translators undoubtedly involved, because not only was it translated from German to English, but also haikus translated I presume from Japanese to German to English - what a feat!
.
A quiet and understated novel, The Pine Islands follows Gilbert, a lecturer who is researching the symbolism behind beards, who wakes up one morning convinced that his wife cheated on him and so flees inexplicably to Japan. There, he meets a suicidal young man named Yosa, and together they embark upon a pilgrimage to the Pine Islands, following in the footsteps of a Japanese philosopher and poet.
.
The translation was beautifully done, and I appreciated many of the profound passages, but ultimately there was just too much philosophy and existential musings in this one for my tastes. I do love quiet novels, but this one was just a bit too quiet and I often struggled to grasp exactly what point was trying to be made - if any.
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There also seems to be a trend with the International Man Booker, as the first two I read (this and Celestial Bodies) draw heavily on the poetry, in this case Japanese poetry in the form of haikus. Poetry and philosophy are just not my fortes, but I know they are a lot of people’s jam, so I still would recommend this novel as there was nothing *wrong* with it, it simply wasn’t for me!

[Shkurenko Sanya · Rating 3 out of 5]

Неудавшемуся профессору (сейчас пишет работу на тему «Мода на бороду и образ Бога») приснилась измена жены. Так и не разобравшись с кем она ему изменила во сне, он обиделся и имея скудное представление о Японии (а по тексту и не скажешь) укатил туда искать успокоения, решив повторить путь поэта Мацуо Басё, книгу которого купит только по прибытию в аэропорт Токио. В начале поездки ему встречается японский парнишка с накладной козлиной бородкой, который не оправдал ожиданий родителей, а также одержим призраком женщины-лисицы. От этого любой захочет сигануть под поезд. Гильберт решает помочь пареньку покончить с собой в более прекрасном месте чем вокзал. Благо у Йоса есть с собой целая книга - «Полное руководство по самоубийству», где описаны все возможные способы самовыпила �� самые живописные уголки в ближайшей местности для этого дела. Вдвоём веселее, егегей, давай вместе искать для Йоси лучший вариант. Только господин Г. Сильвестр немец (ему чужда загадочная восточная душа) и имел ввиду желание юноши самоустраниться из жизни. Он хочет философствовать, стать пилигримом и следовать жизненного пути Басё. И они последовали. А ходят они в красивых пейзажах, по сосновым лесам, едят вкусную еду, посещают театр кабуки и пишут хайку. В общем, развлекаются как настоящие туристы. И это самые лучшие и тёплые моменты в коротенькой книге. Мне впервые попадается роман вызывающий такие love/hate чувства, где на сюжет становится прям совсем пофиг, но как же хочется побывать во всех этих местах. Даже не очень красивых. Ведь сейчас только так можно бюджетно побывать в Японии.

[Lina · Rating 3 out of 5]

Ungewöhnlich. Ist durch seine Abwegigkeit witzig. Die Beschreibung des Theaterstück war meine Highlight.

[Jolanta (knygupė)]

Matsushima
松島
Pine Islands
Šiek tiek sumišę mano jausmai del šios Man Booker International (2019) long listed nedidukės knygutės...

Šios istorijos pasakotojas Gilbert'as susapnuoja, kad jo žmona neištikima jam ir tuoj pat išvyksta į Japoniją. Šiaip jau jis yra didelis barzdų ekspertas ir į Japoniją, kur vyrams trūksta kokio tai geno padorioms barzdoms želti, jam vykti nėra jokios priežasties. Na, bet skrenda būtent ten.
Užtikęs haiku meistro Bashō knygą ir įkvėptas jo piligriminės kelionės į tuometinę laukinę ir pavojingą šiaurės Japoniją, Gilbert'as išvyksta į Matsushima (松島) - Pine Islands. Jo bendrakeleivis- Tokijuje sutiktas studentas Yosa, ieškantis tobulos nusižudymo vietos. Skirtingų tikslų vedami abu jie patraukia į Savižudžių mišką. Beje, ar tik jis ne Gilbert'o vaizduotės vaisius? Kaip ten bebūtų, jie abu kelionės metu kuria haiku. O jie maždaug tokie:
Hi from Tokyo-
Cherry trees no longer bloom,
Only bare concrete.


Pasakojime nemažai intertekstų/aliuzijų ne tik į minimus Bashō, ar kito poeto -Saigyō (kuris irgi keliavo tuo pačiu maršrutu ieškodamas išsigelbejimo ir nušvitimo), bet ir į Murakami'o kūrybą.

Šiaip jau, man pasirodė šiek tiek komplikuotas tas romanas. Ar dėl vertimo, ar dėl kitos priežasties, nežinau...bet man jis sunkiai ėjosi skaityti. Ir mano skoniui šiek tiek per miaaaniškai skambėjo jis. Nors turiu pripažinti, kad tikrai vertas dėmasio. Toks tekstas-meditacija.

[Pat · Rating 2 out of 5]

Tja, wer mich fragt, wie das Buch so ist, würde ich entgegnen: Toll! Eine wunderbare Sprache, ein toller Einblick in die japanische Kultur und damit gleichzeitig ungewollt amüsant. Ein wirklich schönes Buch.
Aber... Mir war es tatsächlich zu inhaltsleer. Die Ausschweifungen der Autorin sind wirklich sprachlich toll... konnten mich aber nicht derart fesseln, dass mein Geist bei der Sache bleiben konnte. Vielleicht habe ich es auch einfach nur in der falschen Situation gelesen. Auch möglich.

[Zygintas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Pirmas sakinys: Jam prisisapnavo, kad žmona jį apgavo.

Yra bent du būdai, kaip perskaityti šią knygą:
1) leistis į pažintinę, tačiau pakankamai eklektišką kelionę po Japoniją ir barzdas. Dažniausiai skeptiškai žiūriu, kai grožinę literatūrą apie kitos kultūros šalis rašo užsieniečiai, tačiau vokietės Marion Poschmann pasakojimas apie Tekančios Saulės šalį neerzino: sužinojau nemažai naujų detalių (nors pagrindiniai stulpai stereotipiniai: mandagumo etiketas, savižudybės kultas, Macuo Bašio, haiku ir pan.), patiko Vakarų ir Rytų kultūrų palyginimas (net jeigu jis tebuvo paviršutiniškas).
2) pagrindinio veikėjo kelionę į Japoniją laikyti iliuzine, t. y. Gilbertas Silvestras keliauja ne į Tekančios Saulės šalį, o į save. Studentas Josa irgi tik iliuzinis – pagrindinis veikėjas keičiasi: nužudo savąjį aš ir išsivaduoja nuo, neslėpkime, pakankamai nevykusio dabartinio gyvenimo. Traktuoti "Pušų salas" pagal Zigmundą Froidą ir kt. sunkiau, nes kelionė į ir po Japoniją atrodo labai reali, tačiau tada visai kitaip atrodo autorės pasirinkimas, ką rodyti iš Japonijos kultūros – ironiškas požiūris į stereotipinę Japoniją: mandagumo etiketas, savižudybės kultas, Macuo Bašio, haiku ir pan. Šitas skaitymo raktas keistesnis, tačiau daug įdomesnis.

Du dalykai, kurie trukdė mėgautis romanu:
1) Gilbertui Silvestrui prisisapnuoja, kad žmona jį apgavo, ir pabudęs jis ją aprėkia, sumuša ir apspjaudo. Tačiau jam neatrodo, kad tai labai Big Deal ir pagrindinis veikėjas per visą knygą laukia žmonos atsiprašymo – skaitydamas romaną ilgai neatsikračiau šitos neskanios pradžios. Ir negaliu suprasti, kodėl autorė pasirinko tokią pradžią.
2) teksto sunkumas. Ir tai nėra vertimo problema. Be to, kaip suprantu, tekstas sunkiai einasi ir kitomis kalbomis, net ir originalo (vokiečių). Ir niekaip nerandu, kur trūksta sklandumo: romane daug eklektiškos informacijos (čia ir barzdos kultūroje, ir savižudybės Japonijoje, ir medžių lapų spalvos kitimas Kanadoje), tačiau akivaizdžių baltų siūlų nematau. Bet kažkoks nepasitenkinimo jausmas lieka. Iš kitos pusės, autorė ir rašo, kad Japonijos kultūroje jausmas, akimirka yra svarbiau nei pažinimas, kuris akcentuojamas vakarietiškoje mąstysenoje ("Bonaventūra randa Dievą daiktuose ir per daiktus, o Bašio atranda daiktus Dieve ir per Dievą.", 81 p.).

2019 m. trumpasis The International Booker Prize sąrašas.

[Ellinor · Rating 5 out of 5]

Klappentexte versprechen oft viel mehr, als ein Buch letztlich bietet. Die Kieferninseln bildet hier eine wunderbare Ausnahme. Der Beschreibung, der Roman sei „von meisterhafter Leichtigkeit: tiefgründig, humorvoll, spannend, zu Herzen gehend“, kann ich nicht viel hinzufügen. Ich freue mich sehr, dass ich endlich einmal wieder einen modernen deutschsprachigen Roman gelesen habe, den ich kaum aus der Hand legen konnte und bei dem ich mich nicht wieder drehen und winden musste, um mir doch noch eine höhere Bewertung abzuringen. Das Buch ist zwar nicht durchweg so spritzig wie die ersten Seiten, das Ende fand ich jedoch ganz wunderbar. Und ebenso natürlich die Haiku, hier merkt man einfach, dass die Autorin Lyrikerin ist.
Das Buch wurde für den Deutschen Buchpreis 2017 nominiert und nun bleibt nur noch zu hoffen, dass die Jury diesmal eine bessere Entscheidung trifft als oft in den Vorjahren.
(Vielen Dank an Netgalley/den Suhrkamp Verlag für die Bereitstellung eines kostenlosen digitalen Leseexemplars!)

[Calzean · Rating 2 out of 5]

German culture and ideals meet Japan.
A strange book about a strange academic (who specialises in the meaning of beards in films) has a dream that his wife is unfaithful. He takes off on a whim to Japan (which is seems to know a lot about), goes on a journey trying to trace the journey of Basho and writes some Haiku. There's plenty of Japanese cliches from Mt Fuji, bullet trains, toilets, bathing habits, food, music, apple blossoms, etc. Also plenty of German references to philosophy and dreams.
The academic writes strange letters to his wife, apparently meets a young Japanese man intent on suicide, finally finds some happiness (I think). Not sure what this was all about.

[Rebecca · Rating 3 out of 5]

A man wakes up from a dream, convinced that his wife is cheating on him, and sets off for Tokyo on a whim. Once in Japan he embarks on a Bashō-inspired pilgrimage to the pine islands of Matsushima. This Gilbert Silvester, a beard historian, acquires an unlikely companion: a young man named Yosa, who’s looking for the best place to kill himself and takes Gilbert along to cliffs and forests famous for their suicide rates. Although there are still cherry blossoms and kabuki theatre, Gilbert soon learns that this isn’t Bashō’s Japan anymore.

From the haikus he composes and the letters he writes to Mathilda back home, we track his inward journey as it contrasts with the outward ones he undertakes. I enjoyed the surreal touches – Yosa says he once dated a woman who was actually a fox – and the Murakami setup (the wife’s adultery and the hair patterns are reminiscent of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle).

Somehow, though, for me this is a book that succeeds more in its ideas (searching for the essence of a place but only finding the clichés; coniferous versus deciduous trees as a metaphor for what lasts in life versus what fades) than in its actual execution. It never all quite comes together and, come on, what actually happens to Yosa?! I think we’re meant to question how much of this has been a dream or a fantasy. It’s ambitious and intellectually impressive, but something about its dignified detachment is hard to be enthusiastic about.

(Do watch Lost in Translation, one of my favorite films, afterwards.)

[Natascha · Rating 1 out of 5]

Ich halte mich kurz. Das war überhaupt nicht meine Art von Roman. Es liest sich wie für Literaturkritiker gemacht und nur mit einem Gedanken geschrieben, nämlich um dort Anklang zu finden.

Mich als Leser konnte Marion Poschmann damit aber leider nicht überzeugen, denn Die Kieferninseln besticht weder durch eine interessante Geschichte noch durch tiefere Einblicke in eine fremde Kultur oder gar einen besonderen Erzählstil. Einige ihrer Landschaftsbeschreibungen sind wirklich gelungen und zeichnen ein gutes Bild von Japan, doch macht sie es sich auch da recht leicht und greift auf bekannte Merkmale Japans zurück.

Ich stehe mit meiner Meinung zu diesem Buch eher alleine da, aber manchmal muss man eben gegen den Strom schwimmen um auf der richtigen Insel anzukommen.

[Eric Anderson · Rating 3 out of 5]

I’ve always found something tragically endearing about men who abandon their lives to go in search of themselves. For instance, I’m fascinated by the painter Paul Gauguin who virtually abandoned his middle class family to live and work on his art in self-imposed exile in French Polynesia. You could say there’s a philosophical tension here between a man’s expression of his free will and his obligations to his family, but it stinks all over of masculine arrogance and pride. It’s understandable that an individual wants to be fulfilled, but rather than take constructive steps towards achieving a more satisfactory existence so many men violently tear themselves out of their self-created environments to “find themselves” and start anew. Often women are left with the fallout of their rapid exit: paying their debts or caring for their children. Such is the case in Marion Poschmann’s “The Pine Islands” which begins with husband Gilbert Silvester waking from a nightmare that his wife has cheated on him. He viciously confronts her though there is no evidence of an indiscretion. Consumed by his paranoid fantasy he abruptly flies to Japan to follow a the classic poet Bashō’s pilgrimage through the rural north of the country. Poschmann hilariously skewers the manly vanity of his chaotic journey while taking seriously his ontological quest for meaning.

Read my full review of The Pine Islands by Marion Poschmann on LonesomeReader

[Marisa Fernandes · Rating 5 out of 5]

Candidato ao prémio do livro alemão 2017, e embora sem ter vencido o mesmo, "Die Kieferninseln" [A ilha dos pinheiros] de Marion Poschmann foi o primeiro romance em língua alemã que li na totalidade. E gostei muito.

Para quem está a aprender alemão, mesmo que há alguns anos, pode não ser a leitura mais fácil do mundo, mas vale a pena insistir e persistir, procurando ultrapassar as dificuldades que possam surgir na compreensão e que se relacionam, acima de tudo, com a existência de muito vocabulário novo. E uma parte considerável desse vocabulário respeita a aspectos da cultura japonesa, sendo que esta é central na obra.

A história centra-se em Gilbert, um investigador alemão de barbas, que um dia acorda de um sonho com a convicção de que a mulher, Mathilda, o traiu. Estando naquilo que alguns denominam de uma crise da meia-idade, Gilbert parte em viagem em direcção ao Japão, um país do chá. Inicialmente sem ter grande fascinio pela cultura deste país, Gilbert vai ficando cada vez mais interessado na mesma à medida que a história progride. Logo no avião, depara-se com um livro de Bashõ, um poeta japonês, conhecido por ter desenvolvido o haikus, uma forma de poesia simples, na qual observando a natureza procura transmitir aquilo que lhe vai na alma. Bashõ foi um eremita viajante, tendo viajado diversas vezes pelo Japão, admirando a paisagem do país e, entre outras coisas, as amendoeiras em flor. E é este contacto com Bashõ que lhe servirá de guia de viagem pelo Japão. Bashõ e o jovem Yosa, um japonês com um manual completo de suicidio na mão, que Gilbert conhecerá numa estação de comboios.

Sem querer avançar com grandes detalhes acerca do desenrolar da história, a verdade é que no final nos questionamos se toda história contada no livro não será apenas um sonho de Gilbert... Será que todas aquelas peripécias se verificaram de facto?

Uma das coisas que mais me atraiu neste livro foi, de facto, as várias referências que nos são dadas acerca da cultura do Japão (e a sua comparação com a cultura ocidental), verdadeiramente fascinante. E fascinante ao ponto de eu ter ido procurar seguidamente um livro de poesia de Bashõ, que desconhecia e estou a adorar. É muito interessante conhecer outras culturas!

Sobre a escrita da autora, devo dizer que gostei do estilo. Ela é poetisa também e penso que isso já nos permite tirar algumas conclusões acerca da forma de escrita dela. Fiquei fã e com vontade de ler outro livro de Poschmann!

[Gintautas Ivanickas · Rating 4 out of 5]

Būna knygų, kurios įtraukia savo siužetu, būna, kurios paperka charizmatiškais veikėjais, būna, kurios žavi giliomis mintimis. O būna knygų, kurios ima savo nuotaika. „Pušų salos“ man buvo būtent tokia – nuotaikos knyga. Kažkas ginčysis, kažkam kitaip – sutinku, visi mes skirtingi. Bet man nutiko būtent šitaip.
Profesorius Gilbertas Silvesteris susapnuoja, kad žmona jam neištikima. Nubudęs ją tuo ir apkaltina. Žmona viską neigia, kas, žinoma, tik įrodo jos kaltę. Gilbertas susikrauna lagaminą, sėda į pirmą pasitaikiusį lėktuvą – ir štai jis jau Japonijoje. Nežinia, ką čia būtų veikęs, jei ne Tomagočis. Ne, ne tas žaisliukas, kuris kadaise buvo populiarus, o jaunas japonas, iš anksto įsitikinęs, kad neišlaikys egzaminų ir nuvils savo tėvus, todėl nusprendęs nusižudyti. Du keistuoliai susipažįsta ir keliauja per Japoniją ieškodami geriausios vietos, kur Tomagočis galėtų užbaigti savo nevykusį gyvenimą. Maršrutą jiems padeda rinktis Gilberto oro uoste nusipirkta knygelė – poeto Macuo Bašio kelionių užrašai.
Knyga keista, neretai laukan prasimuša kažkokios siurrealizmo gaidelės, kartkartėmis pasineriama į žalios atspalvių, barzdų (Gilberto profesionalaus tyrinėjimo sritis) ar pušų rūšių vardinimą per kelis puslapius. Ir dažnai net nesupranti, kas tave išlaiko prie pasakojimo. Na, ne herojai juk? Gilbertas – bjaurus savimyla, Tomagočis – bestuburė ameba. Tai gal siužetas? Tai kad išoriškai nelabai kas ir vyksta. Na, kelionė. Kita vertus, pagrindinė kelionė vyksta herojų viduje – realiai jie keliauja ne LINK, o NUO. Nuo problemų, nuo savęs. Ir tikėtis, kad nuo savęs pasislėpsi pasaulio krašte – net ir profesoriui naivoka.
Keista, labai savotiška knyga. Kažkam gali patikti, kažkas spjaudysis. Netikėtai pačiam sau, rašau tvirtą ketvertą iš penkių.

[César Carranza · Rating 2 out of 5]

Pues me recordó a varios libros, pienso que es un poco la intencion, me recordó a Murakami, un poco la manera de contar las historias desde los japoneses contemporaneos, la ausencia de la mujer, un vacío sobre una investigación que de entrada es demasiado especifica... En fin, me parece que la historia recuerda a muchos libros, pero bueno, de qué va? Un señor se pelea con su esposa debido a una pesadilla, entonces la pelea crece y se va a Japón, a buscar algo, entonces uno acompaña al protagonista en su camino, al que se adhiere un adolescente que quiere suicidarse, en este punto me recordó mucho a Ärto Pasalina, con el libro de Delicioso suicidio en grupo, de aquí para allá encontrando el mejor lugar para hacerlo... No me pareció muy entretenido, como que algo le falta.. Creo que se puede leer muy bien pero como se ve una película mientras haces ejercicio o hablas con alguien, solo como un pasatiempo