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186 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1977
"The old man sighed and agreed with him but maintained also that literate people were lucky because they could store, describe, imprison, exorcise, and identify their memories in written form - the printed word was their escape from the ravenous,
rapacious fearless appetite of memory. [...], by bringing the magic of the written word to Samoa,
had rescued their people from the brutal nightmare swamp in which their collective memory was rooted and from which it derived its ferocity; had turned their people's attention from the irrational madness of their vain and violent blood to the humane light of the word."
"...blood did not betray blood..."
"Sleep on, my friend, while the world dreams of terror."
This book of Wendt's never quite hits the mark. The idea of it is brilliant. Faleasa is a Samoan Lear, who forsakes the rule of his people and descends into darkness—into pouliuli. Only he doesn't. There are some poetic moments in the book...
A quarter moon hung like a curved blade over the heads of the palms bordering the fale. Everything outside was the colour of melted lead, and under the trees, rooted into the sinews of the sleeping ground, shadows crouched and breathed and waited.
... but these are few. Most of the book comprises flashbacks to Faleasa's early life and broad satire of men and manners in twentieth-century Samoa. Faleasa never really gets close to pouliuli.
This would be a pity if Wendt hadn't written so many brilliant books to make up for a less brilliant one. What's interesting about Pouliuli is the way it makes Wendt's underlying philosophy explicit. Wendt is a kind of postcolonial Nietszchean. On the one hand he is a passionate believer in our power to create ourselves. On the other, he is a cynic when it comes to human goodness. Society and history are dead weights. The old gods are dying. We are more likely to thwart ourselves than to unleash our energy in a positive way.
These themes are everywhere in Wendt. It is no surprise to find cripples in key roles in many of his novels. The book Wendt considers his masterpiece, The Adventures of Vela, is an epic poem about a divinely ugly poet who destroys the most beautiful civilisation he finds and worships the all-destructive she-god Nafanua. In Pouliuli the role of divine cripple is taken by Laaumatua, Faleasa's best friend. In my favourite of his books, Leaves of the Banyan Tree there is no cripple, but there is the mad Pepe, whose fragmentary autobiography forms the core of the book. It is a hymn to thwarted human energy.
Pouliuili is a short, easy read. It has many of the virtues of Wendt's novels: simplicity, force, deep roots in Samoan things. And lurking behind it is a remarkable idea that Wendt elsewhere has turned into magnificent art.