Andrew Ervin (1)Reviews

Clever, good premise, humorous/not sure how dark. Made me really want to drink some Scotch.

“Pouring a glass of whisky felt less like the right thing to do and more like the only thing to do (124).

In this fast-paced detour of a novel, Ray embraces the dream adventure to discover what it would be like to live on an island with no one around on a completely different level; moving to the island where the locals knew Orwell as Mr. Blair; where the locals don’t really want Ray there to sort himself out and there is a very distinct possibility that a werewolf roams the island.

The rich, piquant descriptions of the scotch will have you running off to research so you can enjoy a wee dram of your own. The humor and Ray’s misadventures on Jura will keep you reading.

A successful adman whose campaigns have changed society for the worse suffers a midlife crisis and takes refuge in the Inner Hebrides where he drinks copious amounts of high-quality whiskey and tries to get his life back in order. "Burning Down George Orwell's House" doesn't work for a number of reasons. The author's descriptions of Jura, the alcoholic paradise in question, are quite well done, as are its descriptions of the subtle flavors of the whiskies produced there. But the islands inhabitants come off largely as a collection of improbable, picturesque eccentrics, with the possible exception of Farkas, the island's troubled, thoughtful master distiller. Worse still, the book features not one but two beautiful, alluring young women whose purpose is to demonstrate to our protagonist that a better life is possible. I encourage you to look up the term "manic pixie dream girl" to see exactly what I mean. The novel's main character isn't particularly captivating either: he's obviously what is referred to in polite conversations as A Problem with alcohol, but this is played mostly for laughs, rather than serving as a window into his personality. The author wants you to believe that his character's falling apart inside, but the novel's tone makes him seem like the hapless victim of a series of wacky misadventures.

While I admit I didn't know that Orwell wrote his magnum opus on an isolated Scottish isle, "Burning Down George Orwell's House" doesn't have a lot to say about the great man himself. I get the feeling that the author had an interest in Jura and merely used old Eric Blair as a convenient plot device. The gentle art of advertisement is probably best paired with Huxley's "Brave New World," anyway. The book even asserts that "1984" is the finest novel of the twentieth century, an opinion that I'm going to have to take exception to. Even so, while you could spend a lifetime poring over that novel's political and social implications, "Burning Down George Orwell's House" is pretty simplistic when it comes to its politics. They're entirely focused on easy contemporary American dichotomies. There's a middle ground between marketing SUVs and renouncing capitalism and/or careerism entirely, but the author can't seem to find it. Shallow and underthought, this novel is one to skip.½

I loved this little gem of a book by Andrew Ervin. It's based on a couple places with which I'm familiar, Chicago and a Scottish island in the Hebrides, and the story is by turns funny, sad, and fantastic.

It's pretty simple. A young Chicago advertising guy is living the yuppie lifestyle, but is having problems at home and at work (where he has moral qualms about the agency's clients). He decides to chuck it all and move temporarily to the island of Jura, which is where George Orwell wrote the novel '1984'.

The problems he faces are many: he has bad shoes, an unhealthy addiction to fine scotch whisky (the best of which is made on the island), a populace of eccentric islanders who distrust anyone who wasn't born there, constant rain, a possible werewolf on the loose who dumps his 'kill' on our hero's front porch every morning, a young lady with whom he has a complicated yet chaste relationship, various attempts on his life.... I could go on and on. I wouldn't say it's a laugh-out-loud book, but it'll definitely cause a chuckle or two per page.

I live in Chicago and have visited the area near the setting for the novel in the Scottish islands, and his descriptions of both seem pretty spot on. It's a well-written story that's funny and weird, with a happy ending. What more can you ask?

Fun read but could have been better, all the talk of scotch whiskey was beyond tedious.

I think everyone has held the “cottage by the sea” dream aloft in our imagination, thinking at times it to be the ideal solution for when life gets messy or our decisions turn out to be disasters. I can see my cottage so clearly that I wonder where I saw it; what gave me the definite image of the white shutters on the gray siding, the crisp brick chimney placed just so? Climbing roses tumbling down around a small fence, with the ubiquitous Adirondack chair (painted bright turquoise) facing a lovely calm bay? Was it described in a book? A dubious Hallmark movie?
Or, maybe… was it in an advertisement? Someone selling paint? Easy-Gro plants? Detergent? You may find yourself questioning the origin of your dream cottage (admit it…you have one, if not by the sea, by a lake) when you get submerged in Andrew Ervin’s new novel, Burning Down George Orwell’s House.
Sure, we know that such a fantasy, were it to happen, would be full of inconveniences. It would be completely worth going without electricity, internet, and Amazon just to be able to think and get away from other humans. And this is the plan that Ray Welter makes a reality when he heads to the island of Jura, just off the Scottish mainland, fleeing both a failing marriage and a dubious job decision as an advertising executive at the cutting-edge firm, Logos. Cutting off all ties to his life, he packs a few books and sets out to find the time and space to think.
“Ray wanted to know again, to be able to delineate right and wrong in an un-deconstructed world of certainty. He wanted to feel the security of binary opposition. Good and bad.”
To be sure, Ray’s cottage is far different from ours in its providence: it was once the home of George Orwell, writer of one of the most readable books on the required reading list of any high school. I studied 1984 in 1984, and everyone in our age bracket immediately understood the significance of Doublespeak and Big Brother. It seemed extreme, but possible. In the thirty years since, it isn’t inevitable, it simply is.
Getting a cold and bumpy start, Welter finds that many inconveniences are eased by drinking whisky and napping. Lots of whisky. In fact, it appears to be the only thing that keeps Jura functional, and the good stuff is distilled right on the island. The rain is endless, and the few residents he meets are an odd and cantankerous bunch that makes me fear Gerard Butler may be as bizarre and scary as them. That thought alone would garner a dram of whisky.
While intending to study Orwell and get a sense of what inspired his most original and frightening vision of the future, Welter offends nearly everyone in his journey, until he’s finally alone at the cottage (more like a palace but I’ve committed to a cottage). And then, with the dream a complete reality, and the nasty world behind him, and the cottage fire going, Welter is surprised to find himself a bit lost, maybe even bored. Having time to think may not be in his best interests:
“As long as Ray could remember, since he was a little kid running amok in the endless rows of corn, his mind had contained partitioned rooms he knew not to enter; in them were countless self-perceptions better left un-thought about and which generated moods that later in life –particularly after his career at Logos took off – his personal safety required him to avoid. But left by himself for days on end, half-dozing next to a dying fire, with the large amounts of whisky unable to fight off the constant din of the rain, he couldn’t help himself from picking open those locks and peering inside.”
Strange parallels of his life twist into irony that is Orwellian. The first week there, he feels watched, as if every movement is being observed by a nefarious unknown. And while he wanted to observe that gorgeous and refreshing seascape, the rain blots out any vision: he’s blind to what he’s looking for. Death pays a visit too, as he’s being gifted with disemboweled animals on his porch, attributed quite simply to one of the islander’s being a werewolf.
As werewolves go, this one is pretty wise. He tells Welter, “remember that the difference between myth and reality isn’t quite as distinct here on Jura as you might believe.” This dichotomy plays out in both the scenery and his interactions with the island’s residents in scenes that are often tense but sometimes very funny.
Welter’s study of Orwell is distracted by an abused young woman (of the jailbait variety) and her villainous father who hates all intruders into what he considers the old and traditional life Jura holds (tourists be damned). Change is feared by all on the island, but Welter comes with the mindset of an advertiser, where change is encouraged and necessary to remain profitable, and thus to exist. Strange neighbors, endless sheep, torture by bagpipe, and the arduous terrain keeps him from ever finding a comfort zone, and this is probably the point that Ervin is directing us towards.
This is most telling in a particularly revelatory tour of the Jura distillery, where Welter learns that the process of aging whiskey to perfection has a distinct subtext of living life to the full, in the present:
“The size of the cask and the location, that’s how every malt gets its distinct flavors. And from the geographical location of the distillery and the tiniest variations of coastline and altitude too.”
Whiskey as metaphor. Of course. The collision between stasis and change form a battle that goes beyond the novel. It reels in Welter’s reflections from his time on Jura to his pre-Jura meltdown, even to the times of his childhood where Ervin sneaks in some tiny details that are revealing later. It extends across economic, geographic, and family connections and surprises with an unexpected lightness rather than despondence.

Releases today, May 5, 2015.
Special thanks to Soho Books for the Review Copy.

An unusual setting for a set of linked stories, which are more or less successful if somewhat too carefully worked out and worked over. It's by a Gaddis fan and scholar whom I've met on the web, so I was inclined to like it, which I did.

The Holocaust remains one of the harshest examples of human brutality in history, and yet its history is still only partly known. Because the regions and peoples of Eastern Europe were all involved in different degrees, the experience is not simply defined. For example, a Jew in Russia may have had a completely different experience during this time period than a Jew in Warsaw or one in Hungary. Because of these differences, it's possible to read new accounts and catch new details that may be missed in another publication. All of them horrific, as the end usually remained the same no matter where they were from.

That's what made this novel especially unique: it's the first time I had ever heard of Terezin, in Czechoslovakia. It was a camp that served as a stop on the journey to the more deadly concentration camps. In all, more than two hundred thousand Jews are estimated to have been through Terezin and who eventually died*. However, this camp was unique in that it was designed to propogate the idea that Hitler was simply moving Jews to a nice location to wait out the storms of war. Films were made to show the happy Jews enjoying the orchestra and the fine foods and beautiful resort-like buildings. However, like a movie set, this was all a facade. Before filming, prisoners painted and revamped the buildings, potted flowers were brought in to add color, and inmates had to rehearse their smiles.

"For days, the filmmakers shot images of children playing soccer, of families sitting around large, food-laden tables, of citizens in line to deposit fake money at the town's newly built bank. The world would see the glorious gift the kaiser had given to the Jews-their own Edenic village, far from the devastation of the war."

Prior to filming, a symphony was prepared and practiced. Since many musicians were sent to Terezin especially because of their talent, the symphony appeared to be a chance for them to demonstrate their skills. The musicians were given new and stylish clothes to wear before they performed, while the potted plants in front of their chairs concealed their actual disintegrating shoes. It was a triumphant performance, and horrific in that as soon as the filming ended, the musicians were led off the stage into waiting traincars heading to Auschwitz, and their likely death. Adding to the poignancy was the conductor, a Jew himself, who had to choose which musicians were selected for this 'special' performance.

Sadly, for a long period of time the true horror of Terezin was hidden. Even Red Cross investigators inspected the camp and approved of the facility.

Andrew Ervin has used this factual history to compose his own triptych-like storypiece, one that reveals true historical details from Budapest, the military (both then and now), and the structure of orchestras and music. He begins with the fictional composer and violinist Harkalyi, one of the few children who had survived Terezin, now back in Budapest for a special celebration of his new composition. This new symphony is to him the final evolvement of his personal life, from Terezin to a spectacular career as a renowned musician. He's returned to Budapest to see his only living family member, his niece Magda.

In an intersecting story, Magda's boyfriend, a US soldier, is residing at the army base in Taszar, Hungary where she works on top-secret interrogations. His own experience in Budapest is another one of survival from oppressive injustice, and one that forces him to make a choice regarding his future. Finally, the last of the three stories is of Melanie, a musician set to play in the orchestra of the first performance of Harkalyi's new symphony. She's a violinist conflicted about her future and discovering how oppressive dissolution and indecision can be. She, too, finds transformation in Budapest.

The stories have a synchronicity to them because of their themes, and while the characters seek resolution, their path is never clear cut. Despite Harkalyi's tremendous suffering, he finds that his own niece is involved in the same sort of interrogation techniques of political prisoners at the base that he himself had suffered. He gives her a smooth stone, one given to him by his mother right before he was transported, and the last time he ever saw her. He's carried it his entire life as a symbol of his history, and as he passes it on to Magda, it's clear she doesn't grasp the significance of the token.

I really enjoyed the historical details of this novel. By far, the most fascinating part was about Harkalyi's life, and details of the fraud at Terezin, as well as his wish for his niece to understand her past. The middle story about Brutus, the soldier, lost me in the details of base life and seemed to be more of an indictment on military policy today rather a character portrayal, and I didn't see exactly how it fit the book as well as the other two stories around it. There seemed no purpose to his inclusion other than to set off on another story of human rights issues. The final story of Melanie, in the orchestra, is stronger and threads back to Harkalyi's own life. Additionally, the book served well as a jumping-off point for further research.

*http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Holocaust/terezin.html