The Test of Rereading: Kafka on the Shore

     Going into my third reading of Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore (2005), translated by Philip Gabriel, it sits on the second tier, alongside one other novel, Hardboiled Wonderland and the End of the World. The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle stands alone on the first tier as his greatest achievement (a book that survives, for English readers, getting cut down from the original). Three books, all novels, what he does best. On the third tier is his short fiction and some good but lesser novels, in the same vein and not. My doubts began after 1Q84, a novel superficially of a piece with his earlier works but without their vim or vigor or quotidian pleasures. An effective combination for smothering enthusiasm: long and mediocre. Then I read Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and his Years of Pilgrimage and decided he'd blown out all four tires at once. The only thing to be said in its favor is Chip Kidd's nifty cover art. A new writer trying to publish a book of that quality would get nowhere. At which point the brand has taken over. So I'm reluctant to read anything he's come out with since, instead testing the earlier books (and my earlier judgments) with rereads, hoping the magic will still be there. 

One thing that continues to distinguish Murakami from most every other fiction writer I've encountered, even now, is how weird and disorienting he is. Few attempt it and those who do wink at the reader, aren't quite as committed, or simply aren't as good. Something about realism is that, though not realistic, the material for it is readily accessed and the basic reality of the work is unlikely to be questioned. Cormac McCarthy's criticism of magical realism: It's already hard enough to get the reader to believe the fiction without making it impossible. This is one aspect of Murakami's work his early critics scoffed at. In Kafka on the Shore, a kid converses with an imaginary companion, Crow. Another voice, an omen, interjects in bold type. An introduction that leads to the first chapter: A break from the usual pattern of a life to go on a mysterious (planned, fateful) journey. As the air of fantasy thickens, the kid, Kafka Tamura, tells us that it all sounds like a fairytale but it isn't. What is it, then? Murakami is a fan of Catcher in the Rye and one may also anticipate a take on the bildungsroman. Then the novel jumps way back, to post-WWII Japan, a government document seemingly having nothing to do with Tamura's journey.

I may have unconsciously reached for Murakami's work as I found myself thinking about the subject of contrivance again. A shibboleth of fiction is that it's like a sort of waking dream. And yet rarely is fiction truly weird like a dream. Last night I dreamed Michael Douglas had gelled his hair into spikes. Awaking drenched in sweat, I asked: Why? Why? Fiction tends to be too neat and logical to resemble Michael Douglas's cool new haircut, precisely. These qualities become defects in contrived fiction, turning it into something more like the opposite of a dream. Instead of the scary, unfamiliar, alluring feeling of surrending control to the mystery of the mind and whatever springs from it, the writer of contrived fiction exercises overt control through readymade scenes, obvious lines, predictable directions, a scarcely concealed agenda, the futile pursuit of perfect symmetry. To a certain reader, that's reassuring, like waking up safe in bed. To be perceived as weird is shameful, so the crude life lesson goes, a mark of social deviance. That was Murakami's position in the literary world for years and that is Murakami at his very best: a sui generis writer of truly dreamlike fiction, weird and unpredictable (and warm and playful and down-to-earth all at the same time). He lends attractive form to what's repressed, sometimes so thoroughly that it's forgotten, giving the reader the okay to loosen up and tap into a hidden freaky side. And it's not either/or but both: student and translator of Raymond Carver, he's celebrated for his appreciation of the mundane too. More than that, he widely inspires fascination and love. 

The reader can't guess where Kafka on the Shore is going, can't venture a list of possible directions with any certainty. At best: Two characters will meet. Somehow. In this sense, the "Kafka" in the title is earned. But there are drawbacks of truly dreamlike fiction that more controlled fiction aims to avoid or soften. Rough edges, loose ends, drift. While traveling to his next destination, Kafka meets and accompanies a woman, Sakura. Later, he needs to lie low and stays the night at her apartment. Thus far they've been friendly. Then, noticing he's tense, she casually offers him a hand job and obliges. Afterward they have the following exchange:

She thinks for a while, then says, "I was thinking how nice it'd be if I was your real sister."

"Me too," I say. 

Not only does the...strangeness of that go unexamined and unremarked, it turns out to have no bearing on the novel. It's just there. 

And I'd forgotten or hadn't noticed in prior readings Murakami's attempt at satirizing feminists, notable because he rarely goes in for satire and because of the criticism of his female characters generally, how they often aren't full characters in their own right, are little seen, or are felt merely when missing. The feminists who show up at the library are a type recognizable among any group of people who consider themselves politically engaged warriors fighting the good fight: petty, dogmatic, rancorous. Preaching to (or performing for) the converted while alienating anyone who would otherwise be open to what they have to say. A senseless, self-defeating strategy for catalyzing actual positive change that can be met with ridicule but also with patience. However some people choose to communicate, their grievances may be legitimate and their beliefs sincere. In certain situations, it's better to keep a cool head, listen, and work through the problem carefully. The other party, seeing someone cares, may respond by adopting the same attitude. What starts as a seemingly hopeless conflict turns into the ideal exchange. Oshima, the librarian, could have done just that. The feminists are part of the community and patrons of the library. Why don't they get a say? Instead, Oshima treats them like fools with absolutely nothing worthwhile to complain about, cowing them with weak humor and pedantry. He can't stand their intolerance. 

(For Murakami's part, he once responded to a complaint, a silly complaint concerning a miniscule detail in his work most writers would have ignored or joked about, by rewriting the offending passage, in a diplomatic spirit, and moving on.)

I could list more, all natural and acceptable byproducts of Murakami's approach, hardly worth mentioning. One major flaw that can't be overlooked, however, is that Kafka Tamura is a bit of a shade, defined not by his personality or voice but by his journey. And it's a journey that, for much of the book, loses rather than gains clarity of intent the more he talks about it, piling on reasons. He's obeying fate, which explains, somewhat, his most discernible characteristics, timidity and guilt (one can argue that he's as much antagonist as protagonist). He's also: searching for mother and sister, escaping home and the potential damage it might cause, accelerating into adulthood, trying to disappear, living freely if clumsily. Finally he says he's "lost." One picks up on the theme of self-discovery, tentatively, in between discussions of literature, music, and history, dim shadows, other halves, spirit projections, murdered cats, cameos by Johnnie Walker and Colonel Sanders. Hundreds of pages in, the book's dreamlike quality intensifies. It's absorbing, rather bewildering, and close to inscrutable. 

Though ultimately I'm confident in the meaning I derived from the novel as well as why I don't think it withstands a third read. One can say, like John Updike, that it's simply about Kafka Tamura growing up. But that's insufficient. Other characters, adults, go through their own journies on the margins of the book and arrive at the same sort of course-shifting insight into the self. Deeper, deeper, no matter what age, into the darkness within to confront, for Kafka, the source of his pain. Murakami's challenge, then, is to make the reader feel it, so that it matters when Kafka is released from it, so that the reader shares his experience of a brand new world. An unintended irony of the book is that, though it's about delving deeper, that's exactly what Murakami fails to do for his characters, despite the book's length. During a climactic scene, Kafka proclaims what's haunted him through his life. In a better novel, he wouldn't have to.

A couple of images from his best novel are frequently and fondly invoked by Murakami's readers: Toru and his afternoon spaghetti (and, for me, defending his lunch choice to a stranger). Toru sitting at the bottom of a well. To these vivid, humanizing details I would add his reaction to his wife's suggestion to make a living by writing poetry professionally (Poetry!?). One indication that Kafka on the Shore is a lesser work is that nothing comparable sticks in memory. I am intrigued by a couple of ideas. One is that a person can follow a path in life created by art. After watching Francois Truffaut's The 400 Blows, Kafka Tamura, emulating the troubled main character, drinks a bottle of milk in one gulp. (A note from DA of the past jotted beside the passage reminds me that the movie ends on the shore.) The other is Oshima's opinion of Schubert's piano sonatas and the value of boring art: "People soon get tired of things that aren't boring, but not of what is boring. Go figure." Still, it's the effect of Kafka on the Shore that lingers more than anything else, making it the sort of dream that startles but dissolves.

Democracy, 3

     One of the minor tyrannies of employment is the music, of course. Terrible - the same terrible mix of music day after day, hour after interminable hour. Bad songs, bland, empty, irredeemably square. Bad songs in the taunting "Don't Worry, Be Happy" mold. Good songs that never need to be heard again. The rare classic killed by mindless repetition (another taunt). To customers passing through once a week, it's grease that moves them along, promoting a frictionless consumer environment. To the clerks and cashiers and waitresses and hostesses working full-time, getting underpaid to ensure stores and restaurants run smoothly, it's one of the hazards.

Or so I once thought. And it has to be true for many. But at the business where I'm currently working, the employees actually get to choose and now I'm forced to modify my longheld stance. What's the sound of democracy? Sometimes it's terrible music - the same terrible music that is evidently the inescapable soundtrack to commerce. Usually putting in my hours with mouth sealed shut, I suddenly find myself pinching the flesh at the bridge of my nose and saying aloud: "Someone is listening to this voluntarily. You have the choice to listen to anything, within reasonable limits, and this is what you choose." Deep breath, gigantic sigh, back to the task at hand. A customer standing nearby coughs.

But how can it be any other way? My internal music library is filled with hot tracks because your ears are wasted listening to tracks that are not hot. A lack of taste and discernment, imagination and openmindedness is one of the leading causes of cancer, in my opinion. And yet the wise person realizes that one's hot tracks are not necessarily others's hot tracks. Some but not all. Age has taught me that it's a big world and there are those who looove their wack tracks. The rules for a democratic playlist in this context, devised by me alone:

(1) It must be open to all. I suffer for hours so, if my music plays and you don't like it, it's only fair that you suffer for at least 30 minutes or so.

(2) The majority wins. If everyone truly finds the music objectionable, it immediately changes. No hard feelings.

(3) To minimize the pain, change it up! Thus far I've played nothing twice - Todd Terje, Dusty Springfield, Augustus Pablo, Vivaldi, Depeche Mode....

Every one of these rules no one has agreed to because no one knows about them but me has been broken. Someone shuts off my experimental electronic music after one song. Okay, perhaps an overreach. Then someone shuts off what I always believed was universally accepted, if not beloved, Motown, Diana Ross and the Supremes - before the first song finishes! My jaw drops. "Ugh! Blasphemy!" Back to another hour of musical abuse, verging on tyranny: soporific acoustic country pop. Purely out of spite, as I leave for the day I interrupt whatever is playing and put on the extended version of Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good," a refined jazz pop gouda from the 70s. And, under the baleful glare of my coworkers, I strut out the door. That was for democracy.

The next day I refuse to pick anything. Listen to garbage, see if I care. Then: "Love in an Elevator," "Sharp Dressed Man," "Bad to the Bone," "Cum on Feel the Noize," that last one spelled correctly, unfortunately. I care, all right? In another act of musical protest, I run upstairs and change it to Beethoven. After 30 minutes: "Every Rose Has Its Thorn." 

Sometimes the sound of democracy causes whiplash. And sometimes there's no agreement and the sound of democracy is silence. I suffer but, as a champion of democracy, I ask: "Do you have anything you want to listen to?" 

The number one response: Whatever. 

"Your Body is a Wonderland": Whatever. 

"Gangster's Paradise": Whatever.

I'm 34 years old. I'd estimate that I've spent three of those years listening to Bob Marley. Another day, another spin of that obscure outtake, "Jammin." It's a radical, life-affirming anthem from a musical icon, cheapened by oversaturation and commercialization into a punishment groove.  I think about hearing this song for the rest of my life and - I start laughing. Whatever? Is this not madness? I can't stop. 

Once more, we're jammin. 

And we're jammin by the cleaning supplies.

Possibly a coworker, along with the whole store, overhears because the playlist abruptly changes. Some sort of balearic porno music. I'll take it. Yay democracy.

The Nickel Boys

     The novelist Colson Whitehead is in that category of modern writers that I read or plan on reading to figure out why I hear about them so much. I've been aware of him at least since an interview in which he discusses his then-latest novel, Sag Harbor (2009). His popularity has increased slightly in the interim. And yet, year after year, I've put it off. He once wrote an essay in which he listed all the possible novels to write next and I formed a suspicion: Maybe he's merely a skilled imitator of other styles, not an originator of a style, or at least a writer who makes a valiant effort to become one. When I finally did order a book of his last year, nothing special had swayed me, it was simply time. Though he's written a number of acclaimed books, I started where I'd always intended to start, Sag Harbor, an autobiographical novel about the days of his youth spent vacationing with his family. Seeing as that I have my notes handy, I'll copy-and-paste a couple:

The first chapter is over fifty pages (in my large print edition). It's more personal history and local history and anthropological study and travelogue in freewheeling essay form than novel. There are few scenes. Only one is extended. 

Alarm: He packs in so much material - a loosely connected digression about movie theaters, a paragraph-length run on shoelaces, a multipage description of frozen foods - that it drifts. Close to formless.

I remember thinking he was overeager to please, wearing the reader down with how clever he is. At about 100 pages, I was out. That's too long to wait for a vivid character to emerge. I recited a Lichtenberg aphorism: "The lines of urbanity and humanity rarely coincide." Even so I wasn't done with Whitehead. The thing about a writer who writes so many different kinds of books is that I can't feel satisfied that I learned about what he or she does by reading just one. Sneaky. 

The Underground Railroad was checked out so I chose another book of his that got my attention, the novel that came after, The Nickel Boys (2019). It's about Elwood Curtis, a black kid growing up in Florida during Jim Crow. Raised by his grandmother after his parents abandon him, he eventually develops into a fine student with dreams of answering Martin Luther King's call to action and joining the civil rights struggle. But one day he's found guilty of a crime he didn't commit and thrown in a juvenile reformatory school, the Nickel Academy. There, he befriends a fellow student, the more streetwise and cynical Jack Turner, who, out of necessity, has spent his life living by his wits. The novel tells the story of their two fates. 

The Nickel Academy is based on the notorious Arthur G. Dozier School, which operated for about 100 years before closing down amidst controversy. Here's a way to tell that the book is based on research. One stretch involves a boxing match between a black kid and a white kid. It's not badly written, just lacking. Whitehead doesn't display a grasp of the action and atmosphere of the sport, leading me to conclude that he isn't even a casual boxing fan. FX Toole seems to set the standard for boxing fiction with his only completed book, Rope Burns. He knew everything there is to know about the sport. He may have turned that fight into a story or novel. Compare the two: One is the outsider who applies a general approach to the material, the other is the insider who brings the reader into the fight. Or compare Whitehead with Whitehead, the boxing match with a later scene, at the NYC Marathon. He glides over the events of the ring but he's clearly seen his fair share of marathons, knowing precisely how the action plays out and who attends and what it means to a character philosophically. I flipped to the back to confirm: Whitehead lives in New York City. The same demarcation can be found between his NYC and Florida. One is an imagined place, filled in as necessary with details that can be picked up by doing homework. The other is the real deal. It makes for a spotty read, back and forth between varying degrees of connection and magnification.

Whitehead also shares a quality with a couple of other writers who were once and perhaps still are on the same list, George Saunders and Jonathan Franzen: Contrivance. Fiction one cannot get lost in, as Harold Bloom observed, is that in which everything is known. It's the acid feeling of being unsurprised by what happens because the writer is unsurprised. I won't say any more than I already have about the plot of The Nickel Boys because I guarantee that most any reader (or anyone who watches movies or shows) could correctly guess the book's every last twist and turn. His characterizations are frequently formulaic too. Introduce a character with a name plus a quirk: A with the smelly hair. B with the bass voice. The - back to my notes - "fat kid who burped up breakfast in powerful gusts."

Yet, as with Nicholas Nickleby, I finished this novel and without dragging myself to the final page. There's something I like about it: the book's spirit, the writer's palpable anger and disgust and defiance and fragile hope. In his examination of the past, Whitehead shows how racism infests every aspect of his characters's lives. It can be as petty as holding a door for someone that doesn't make eye contact, doesn't say thank you. It can mean having castoff textbooks from the white school filled with racial slurs. And, most crucial of all, it means your life is cheap. The law assumes your guilt. Can't contest if you can't afford a lawyer. And if you can somehow afford a lawyer, despite meager pay and limited opportunities, and one is willing to represent you, there is no authority to file a complaint with if he absconds with your money. This is what happens to Elwood, who winds up stuck at the Nickel Academy, the respectable name of a state-sanctioned facility that exists to profit off children when they aren't being sexually abused, tortured, and murdered.

If I read Saunders and Franzen again, it'll be with resignation. And I doubt their books are the sort to be banned. But if anyone disturbed and threatened by all this talk of "racism" and "historical injustices and depravities" bothers to learn about The Nickel Boys, it will have the honor of being at or near the top of any such list across the country. Whitehead is older and not so eager to please (he refers to it as one of his "serious" books). He can write a well-structured, polished, readable novel. I'll be looking to see if he's capable of more.

The Photo Album Novel

     Until last year I'd heard nothing, at least that I can remember, about Evan S. Connell's Mrs. Bridge (1959). It was his first novel and a bestseller. But, in a writing life that generated 18 books, he didn't build on his early success. A New York Times obituary (he died in 2013) suggests it was because he worked in various genres, whatever piqued his interest, without perfecting any one thing. His first book was a short story collection. He waited perhaps too long to write a sequel to his breakthrough, Mr. Bridge, that could fully capitalize on it. Another bestseller came decades later. It was a history book, Custer's Last Stand. He'd had trouble finding a publisher and its popularity caught everyone by surprise. He wrote a biography of the painter Francisco Goya. And, through it all, he didn't seek the spotlight or positions of authority. He took odd jobs to pay the rent while he wrote and researched.

The novel, his most celebrated work, doesn't have any sort of hook to grab the reader. There's no plot. The language is unadorned. It's average in length. The title is forgettable. (I mistakenly wrote "Bridges" throughout my notes, like the last name of the Charlotte Hornets basketball player.) His main character is a sheltered, privileged housewife who makes a virtue of normality, doesn't do anything in particular that'd stand out, and doesn't once manage to examine herself very closely. It can almost seem designed to get lost among other books. All it needs is a beige dust jacket. As I read I thought of Richard Linklater's film Boyhood. The director once explained that, in depicting his subject, he chose unexceptional micromoments over big dramatic moments. The hook is that he filmed little by little over a period of years to correspond with the story's passage of time, enabling viewers to see the actors age naturally, along with their characters. It's about three hours long. I stopped watching after about two. Stitching together those unexceptional micromoments across an entire work is hard to pull off. Real can mean true but insipid, forgotten or abstracted for good reason.

What did I do today? There's an accurate, socially acceptable answer to the question that can persuade someone to never ask again.

The difference between the novel and the movie is that Connell chooses his micromoments better. Initially I wasn't sure he had. In over a hundred brief, titled chapters, it ranges from the start of Mrs. Bridge's marriage to after the death of her husband. Though it's not stated outright, it's her most baffling kid, the youngest, her son Douglas, that narrates in third-person. And the first third or so of the book is noticeably heavy on chapters that amount to a series of complaints. Mrs. Bridge, you see, is a nag. Take your elbow off the table. Don't put too much gravy on your mashed potatoes. You sit in your seat weird. You used the guest towels in the bathroom (towels that no one uses, not even her, because they're too nice). She sincerely can't understand why a kid would be messy, silly, unruly. Eventually, as one skirmish followed another and another, I paused and wondered if this would be the whole book, if Connell had written prosecutorial or revenge fiction, keenly observed from within, no shortcoming or mistake left unrevealed. And, given the trivial nature of the complaints, I hesitated to continue.

But I'm glad I did. Right where my doubts arose, the book begins to exhibit a more mature outlook, shifts in tone and emphasis gracefully, then does so again and again: sympathy for Mrs. Bridge's loneliness, gentle amusement tinged with sadness about her struggles to find something to do, loving frustration with her inability to probe the mysteries of her family. As I kept reading, I came to admire what Connell does in that first third, acknowledging - at the risk of overdoing it, to achieve the proper aggravating effect - a common aspect of having parents. One might be reluctant to say it out loud except behind closed doors to siblings and maybe close friends for fear of seeming unappreciative and disloyal: that daily dose of annoyance. Sometimes, as the adult making rules and enforcing them, annoying the children (and being annoyed by them, for that matter) is unavoidable. Same goes for sharing a space with other people. However, there's also annoying behavior that they can avoid and never will, no matter how many times you sigh or go dead-eyed or let your soul take a seat somewhere while your body does whatever it's going to do, I'll catch you later. That's what you get for allowing yourself to be born. This is a truth Connell bravely and eloquently portrays. Can I eat in peace for once? Can I dry my hands on a towel that was made for that purpose? To escape mom's relentless nitpicking, Douglas wisely chooses the safest option, climbing higher up a tree. 

(Oh, yours was a blissful family? Congratulations. Tell me: Where was your hiding spot? You fucking liar. I sort of understand, though. It's also worth acknowledging, for the sake of making an important distinction, those who'll read that previous paragraph and think: annoyance if you're lucky.)

One of the benefits of creating a book out of micromoments is that they're manifold, in two senses of the word, many and diverse. So Connell has the freedom to choose all kinds and, combined with his structure, goes further in fewer pages. There are chapters about how Mrs. Bridge parks a car and chapters about her polite racism, chapters about the state of her marriage and chapters about the dullards in her social circle, chapters that are like those immortal in-joke stories repeated through the years and chapters with revelations handled delicately by a son who cares deeply for the woman who raised him. (And Connell makes use of what he doesn't write about too. Silence, absence.) Right now I'm reading a book written, to some extent, from a distance. Certain passages are dutifully supported by broad details that can be gathered by doing homework but, on the everyday and human levels, they turn vague, all-purpose. Connell's book contains strangeness, the kind of strangeness that's lived, not invented. And it takes place in Kansas City and is clearly written from Kansas City, which brings the reader closer to it. For instance: Douglas discovers abandoned building materials in a vacant lot. He decides what he must do is spend a significant chunk of time and energy painstakingly turning it into an immoveable tower of garbage. It eventually gets taller than the surrounding fencing. Neighbors whisper. It's not hurting anyone and yet his mother finds it unseemly and feels the need to step in. Then, from the mind of a fixture: "The next morning as soon as Douglas left for school she telephoned the fire department. Everyone called the fire department when there was a problem that defied classification."

The word I scribbled between chapters, the first word I thought of upon finishing was completion. The reader gets a complete portrait of an individual and a family. Or maybe living, breathing photo album in prose would be more apt. Connell's feat is the best hook I can come up with: Mrs. Bridge is a novel about the unexamined, unspectacular life that works - and works beautifully.

Lists

     Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuściński's The Soccer War (1986), translated by William Brand, inspires me to start a few lists. One is of the best lines from author bios. Kapuściński's entry: "He witnessed twenty-seven coups and revolutions and was sentenced to death four times." 

I've heard almost exclusively good things about his work through the years. Not long ago I read the first book of his I bought, a choice based on title, since every selection from his oeuvre seems as acclaimed as the others. His approach is tough to describe. It isn't quite formal reportage. But "informal reportage" isn't right because he is technically a paid professional. It isn't quite memoir. Sometimes it's diary. Several chapters are "notes" on a book he intends to write. Others are fragments from the frontlines: Algeria, Ghana, Cyprus, Honduras....

In Nigeria he's beaten. A lot. So much that he comes up with advice for how to take a beating: Don't fight back. Your assailant is never alone and fighting back will only get you beaten worse or murdered. But don't turn into a blubbering, craven mess, as showing weakness will also get you beaten severely or murdered. The book is filled with stories such as this: Kapuściński drives up to a checkpoint. The men who control the area pull him from his car and slap him around, demanding money. He gives them a little and someone hits him hard. He gives them more and is allowed to drive on. At the next checkpoint, he's pulled from his car and sprayed down with a flammable chemical. (They've been burning people, including women and children, alive.) He pays them and he's allowed to drive on. Now he's out of money. Coming up to the next checkpoint emptyhanded means death. So he floors it and breaks through the checkpoint, making it to the next village. But how is he going to return? He speaks to the police. Officers pile into his car to escort him.

Kapuściński doesn't swagger into danger. He's a modest man who happens to have an irrepressible urge to be at the center of great upheavals and experience danger for himself. Besides, he can't stand being at home, working in a safe, quiet environment, participating in mundane activities and conversations. Another list I'll start is of my favorite tirades. Kapuściński's entry: A multipage paragraph about his grudging tolerance of all furniture except desks. His hatred of desks.

Power struggles, mismanagement, corruption, food insecurity, bloodshed. Societies trying to stabilize, societies falling apart. The term "civil war" is currently being thrown around in the US and Kapuściński's book provides an insight into what that actually means. It's hell and yet, without softening his account, he preserves his lightness of touch, his humanity, his sense of humor. Every book on war I've read reveals its absurd side and he may take it furthest. As one breaks out, Kapuściński stumbles in the dark and wrestles a trash can.

The final list is entitled "Ryszard Kapuściński." It starts with The Soccer War and will continue through the rest of his work.