Black Dog of Fate felt like three different books, none of which were fully formed and fleshed out, and none of which were worth the buildup that I had from the beginning of the book. Peter Balakian, known foremost as a poet, then a scholar, writes of his family history and his journey of learning more about his Armenian past and the horrors of the Armenian Genocide that his family never talked about. That he is a poet was evident in his pages, with his overly descriptive imagery and ethereal imaginings of his family’s dreams and flashbacks. As someone who likes more authoritative, historical, nonfiction texts, I didn’t like that whole lot.
But what was lacking the most in Balakian’s book was a sense of cohesion from start to finish. The first 100 pages were simply about his upbringing, again with way too much description of his family’s clothing and food choices, his teenage antics, etc. I understand that Balakian was trying to illustrate his American life and cultural in relation to his distant older Armenian relatives. But there were no hints anywhere that there was anything to learn from them, only vague foreshadowing that there would be more talk of Armenia later—which was obvious given the premise of the book. But without those glimpses of Balakian hearing about his family’s past as a child and a young man, tt was just a boring memoir of adolescence.
Then, the middle part of the book was when Balakian started to learn more about Armenia. This was the most disappointing part of the book. Perhaps because I’ve already read Balakian’s other book, The Burning Tigris and his translation of Armenian Golgotha, but the general details of the genocide were already known to me. So I understand adding a background of what happened for those who don’t know, but I was disappointed that there was little to no actual reaction from Balakian in the moments when he found out these certain details that concerned his family, especially when his aunts opened up to him after years of silence. How did he feel? How did he react? We don’t know! Balakian mentions being at working doing pickups and drop-offs, some of which he missed and others of which went numb in his memory because of his reading of Ambassador Morgenthau’s memoirs of the genocide, but other than that, there is no reaction. Not even in the conversations with his family: it’s straight dialogue, with no feeling.
And then in the last third of the book, it’s clear that Balakian is writing what will become, six years later, The Burning Tigris, with its more in-depth look at what genocide is and how nations have responded to it and how the Armenian Genocide has been distorted and denied more and more over the decades since. This part felt like an essay, and in this case an essay I’ve already read. Only in the last two chapters does Balakian come back to his family and attempt to make the full-circle connection to his upbringing and his familial knowledge. But it’s not very profound and not even very effective.
After my recent readings of other books (again, that Peter Balakian contributed to or wrote entirely), I was hoping this would be more a personal, family tale about his own life. But instead I found a disconnected, disjointed, confusing narrative of a hodgepodge of experiences and facts that didn’t make sense together.