The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet
I'm not entirely sure why I even started reading David Mitchell's latest novel. I think it was featured on the iBooks store, so I downloaded the free first chapter and had a look.
That first chapter, though captivating, was really difficult to read. The language was beautiful but full of old words, difficult sentence structures, and a single sentence could contain layers and layers.
Still, that first chapter kept me reading. To explain why would be to spoil the book, but it's a great start. So, I bought the full version.
And I've been reading it over the last few weeks, slowly. Each page, I've had to look up a word or two in the dictionary (thank God for iPad's built-in dictionary!), and I've sometimes had to re-read a paragraph or even whole page to make heads or tales of what is going on. It's been a slow, methodical read, sometimes I couldn't read more than 8 or 10 pages, sometimes I sat and greedily read 50. The book, despite its difficulties, kept me coming for more.
Mitchell hasn't made it easy for himself - he's chosen to write about the Japanese shutdown Era, where, under Shogunate rule, Japan closed itself to the entire outside world, except for one single artificial island called Dejima, from which the Dutch East India Company (VOC), and only the Dutch, could trade with Japan. This Era isn't fictional, neither is the VOC, but it's also not very well known unless you're a Japanese buff.
The story however, tells the tale of one Dutch clerk called Jacob de Zoet, and his life on Dejima. From the weird and wonderful mix of Dutch/American/Irish/English workers on Dejima, to their black slaves, and to the many ranks and officials of the Japanese League of Interpreters. The use of mostly foreign names (and archaic names for places, eg Batavia (the old Dutch name for Jakarta)) makes back-referencing a common occurrence. You'd have thought by 2 or 3 chapters I'd given up.
But that's the beauty of the book - the story captivates you from the very start, and even during the drier periods, you've already set yourself a challenge to get to the end of this book, if only to prove to yourself that you're not just about the "Great Summer Reads". You'll follow De Zoet, his falling for a Japanese (and hence untouchable) midwife called Orito, and then her abduction to a cult nunnery, and the valiant efforts there after of de Zoet (and others) to bring her back.
Mitchell is a master of words - he can describe things beautifully, enchanting the reader and making them feel that they're right there, near the stinking canal on Dejima, watching De Zoet mumble as he tries to talk to Orito. You'll even wince as you witness, first-hand, an example of surgery in the late 1700s. By the time Orito is abducted, the author's claws have hooked in to your flesh, refusing to let go - no matter how hard the last chapter was.
It's difficult to talk about this book any more, without spoiling any more or going into specific story points. I can't recommend it enough to anyone looking for more than just a quick read. It's not an easy book, but this is beautiful, poetic stuff, with a healthy dose of intrigue, love, betrayal, lust, greed, wit, action, trade, and wonderful imagery that'll stay with you forever.
I leave you with this wonderful passage where we find de Zoet, having just confessed to Orito, is left with a fruit that she gave him during their brief encounter:
“Hollows from the fingers of Aibagawa Orito are indented in her ripe gift, and he places his own fingers there, holds the fruit under his nostrils, inhales its gritty sweetness, and rolls its rotundity along his cracked lips. I regret my confession, he thinks, yet what choice did I have? He eclipses the sun with her persimmon: the planet glows orange like a jack-o’-lantern. There is a dusting around its woody black cap and stem. Lacking a knife or spoon, he takes a nip of waxy skin between his incisors and tears; juice oozes from the gash; he licks the sweet smears and sucks out a dribbling gobbet of threaded flesh and holds it gently, gently, against the roof of his mouth, where the pulp disintegrates into fermented jasmine, oily cinnamon, perfumed melon, melted damson . . . and in its heart he finds 10 or 15 flat stones, brown as Asian eyes and the same shape. The sun is gone now, cicadas fall silent, lilacs and turquoises dim and thin into grays and darker grays.”
