Panos Karnezis

The Convent is the story of six nuns who inhabit a decaying convent in a remote region of Spain in the 1930s, and what happens when a baby suddenly turns up on the convent steps. The clue to the narrative is given in the very first line: "Those whom God wishes to destroy he first makes mad." It's a simple story told in 214 pages; but like all good literary fiction, there's a lot more to the novel than meets the eye.

And this is very good literary fiction. The writing is characterized by show more lightness of touch and a fluid, understated style that pulled me through the story at high speed. The way the psychology of the characters is brought out in a few scattered paragraphs is just beautiful. Panos Karnezis also has a way of starting and ending chapters that has me wanting to hang on to this ARC for further study.

I was slightly unsettled by what was going on underneath the story. If this was the author's intention--and he hides himself so well that it's very hard to tell what his intention is--he succeeded completely. I couldn't make up my mind whether he was showing what the introduction of sin could do in a place of good, or whether he was laughing at everything the religious characters stood for. I suspect the latter. The novel is rife with images of decay, corruption, foulness and bestiality, although not once are these themes made explicit. They just sit there, waiting to be discovered; everything that Karnezis describes has a surface and an underneath. And of course there is also the convent's almost total isolation from what we'd call civilization; I'm always attracted by themes like this.

The Convent screams "book club"--it's the sort of novel that will provoke discussion, and yet it's not at all "difficult." An exemplary piece of writing. Recommended. show less

In The Birthday Party, Panos Karnezis imagines the life of a Greek shipping magnate named Marco Timoleon (who bears more than a passing resemblance to Aristotle Onassis). The main action takes place over a single day. In his seventies, the still vigorous Timoleon is throwing a party to celebrate his daughter Sofia’s 25th birthday. This extravagant and gaudy event is set to unfold at his secluded estate on his private Greek island, with a massive cake imported from Vienna, a 21-piece show more orchestra, and a guest list that includes family, friends, and an assortment of rich, famous and notorious individuals from all over the world. However, the reader soon learns that Timoleon, a man long accustomed to getting what he wants, has arranged the party with a darker agenda in mind. In order to fully set the scene, Karnezis employs lengthy flashbacks to tell the tale of how Marco Timoleon overcame his humble origins in Izmir, Turkey and, over a decade or so of ups and downs in fortune, turned innate curiosity, ruthless opportunism, a talent for taking risks, and a fearless habit of re-inventing himself to suit the fluid circumstances of a fast-moving lifestyle, into a shipping empire spanning the globe—and, in the process, became the richest man in the world. Loving the spotlight while loathing the scrutiny that it brings, Timoleon moulds himself into a legendary force of nature, feared by competitors and subordinates alike, cruel and even violent when crossed, friend of the rich and powerful, but emotionally distant from those he loves the most. An insatiable philanderer, he cannot stay faithful to one woman for long, and both his marriages—to Miranda, who dies young, and to Olivia, who is invited to the party—deteriorate into animosity and estrangement. As a young man, Marco Timoleon learns what it takes to be successful on a grand scale. But, not surprisingly, this success comes at a cost, and late in his life he bears a burden of many regrets, the chief of which is the death of his son Daniel, who was killed while piloting his small plane in bad weather. Too late, he discovers that having money does not mean he can control his own destiny or that of others. Despite his bad behaviour and the fact that most of his problems are self-inflicted, Timoleon remains the focus of the reader’s sympathy. Undeniably, the novel suffers from its reliance on flashbacks to fill in the blanks, which creates a kind of stop-start rhythm that over the course of the book becomes somewhat monotonous. However, The Birthday Party remains a suspenseful, entertaining and often brilliant novel that provides a window into the life of a man who, by means both legitimate and underhanded, accumulates inordinate wealth but fails to locate the key to happiness. show less

Panos Karnezis’s fourth novel, 'The Convent,' is both beautifully written and deceptively simple. But it is, above all, intriguing.

Set in the 1920’s in an isolated sixteenth century convent in the mountains of southern Spain, the convent is presented as a place neither on earth nor in heaven, but rather it is at the exact midpoint between the two - the place where the sacred and profane meet. And it is the perfect setting for this morality tale.

Six nuns go quietly about their lives, show more seeking God in their solitude and working at small jobs to support the convent. Their contact with the outside world is usually limited to a once weekly trip into town for supplies and a monthly visit from their confessor, Bishop Estrada.

However, an infant boy abandoned on the convent steps acts a catalyst and brings change to the seemingly static convent. The sisters are all too soon divided by the questions his arrival creates. How did he get there? Why was he left at the convent? What should be done with him? Can he stay? Should he go? Is he a gift of God or a temptation sent by the devil?

The reader can easily hazard an answer to several of those questions since the narrator has obligingly provided not so subtle clues to his history. Perhaps the greatest impact of his arrival is on the Mother Superior, Sister Maria Ines, who decides that she must keep the boy in order to earn her own redemption. Or perhaps it’s on the ambitious Sister Ana, who sees the infant as an agent of the devil and is determined to force his removal.

The conflict between the two nuns creates an atmosphere of mutual distrust that spreads throughout the convent as each of the nuns becomes increasingly isolated from the other sisters.

As the omniscient narrator spins the seemingly straightforward tale in a leisurely, assured style a battle between the forces of good and evil, sanity and obsession, plays out. The surface simplicity of the story belies the underlying moral and psychological complexity.

'The Convent' is at once a beautifully written tale and a thought-provoking portrait of the nature of good and evil. show less

This book was a delightful surprise for me. It is, at times, a dark and upsetting story—it’s not in any sense a whitewash of the church or of the cloistered life. But it also reveals the beauty and comfort of the cloister, and most important, it shows that the people who live within a convent’s walls are as varied and complex as the people on the outside.

The novel is set sometime after World War I at an isolated convent in Spain. The once bustling site is home to only six nuns—or at show more least it was until the day Sister Lucia finds a suitcase with a baby inside at the convent door. Mother Superior Maria Ines, who is still grappling with her own heartbreak and sin, accepts the presence of the child as a sign of God’s grace, and she becomes obsessed with the child’s care. Other sisters are more skeptical, particularly the ambitious Sister Ana; she comes to believe that the child is sent from the devil himself. Most, however, love the child, even as they worry about Mother Superior’s overprotective attitude and her unwillingness to tell the bishop about the child.

This is exactly the kind of story that could easily devolve into sentiment—you know the story, the presence of a baby warms a bunch of cold hearts and makes them love for the first time (Six Nuns and a Baby, perhaps?) But Karnezis doesn’t go there. The presence of the child actually draws some of the tensions underlying the convent’s life to the surface. Mother Superior Maria Ines’s reaction to the baby shows how even seemingly good impulses can be taken to disturbing levels, given the right circumstances. And this book takes some extraordinarily dark turns. There are some devastatingly unpleasant moments as the tensions within the community, and especially within Maria Ines’s own mind, mount. Karnezis has such an eye for detail that these moments are especially haunting.

There are some times when the characters’ interpretations of events are almost laughably ridiculous. Sister Ana in particular makes some discoveries that lead to an obvious conclusion, but she doesn’t go there. Instead, she builds an elaborate story to support what she wants to believe. I suspect that the success of the book with readers will vary a great deal, depending on whether readers can accept (though not necessarily believe) the characters’ tendency to choose supernatural explanations when natural ones are staring them in the face. I found it fascinating—and revealing of how we do tend to interpret events on the basis of what we want to believe, rather than on what actually is.

Although I could have done with more development of the supporting characters, I liked what Karnezis did with them, given the short length of the book. Most of the sisters are depicted as kind, loving women, but they are not perfect saints, with eyes directed only toward God. Each one has her own little obsessions. At only 214 pages, the book didn’t offer much room for more than a little texture for the supporting characters.

Overall, this book was a wonderful surprise. It’s dark and unsettling, which I love, but I especially love that Karnezis embeds the darkness in the characters’ own psyches, not in the church. People who are overly ambitious, crippled by guilt, or mentally unbalanced bring those qualities with them to the cloister. The closed environment, steeped in spirituality, might affect how these qualities manifest themselves, but is the characters, and not the cloister itself, that are the source of trouble. This is, at heart, a book about people, not a diatribe for or against faith. It is that which makes it a success for this reader.

See a longer version of this review at my blog. show less