In which I read two books with #NovNov in mind, hosted by Rebecca and Cathy: one novella that feels like an expanded short story, and the other that swells with links of main character and themes across three segments.

First published in Rio de Janeiro’s newspaper from 1881-1882 and soon after included in a collection of short fiction, The Alienist by Machado de Assis is a novella about a doctor in the town of Itaguaí, on the southeast shore of Brazil.

It landed on my TBR because of Emma’s enthusiasm, when I asked for Spanish-language recommendations; my copy did not even have a description on the cover, however, so I knew only what Carlos Fuentes wrote about its author in The Great Latin American Novel.* (The link is to Emma’s original review, not her recommendation.)

Fuentes explains that Brazilian literature—with Machado de Assis the prominent early figure—is distinct in Latin American literature because of the Portuguese colonial connection. And de Assis is distinct even in that sphere, taking as his inspiration not only Cervantes but also Sterne. De Assis “rediscovers and reanimates the tradition of La Mancha” and he mixes “laughter and melancholy which resolves itself, on more than one occasion, in irony”.

If that sounds fancy, don’t worry: it reads simply. The doctor immerses himself in study and practice, and he comes to see that the “psychic corner”, that of “cerebral pathology”, has been underexplored. There’s “not a single authority in such a matter, poorly explored or almost unexplored”: he undertakes the task.

The town council is chastised for its neglect, and the alienist assumes a position of influence. “Thus, every furious madman” who had been “locked in a chamber, in his own house”, will heretofore be housed in an asylum: The Green House. There, the alienist will perform a “good service”. He will “study madness deeply, its various degrees, classify its cases, ultimately discover the cause of the phenomenon, and the universal remedy.”

A vacuum of authority invites opportunity, and the doctor is soon pressed to build an annex to the asylum, pressed to add an administrative staff, pressed to pursue his goals. And, in short order, circumstances change: opportunities for profit emerge and ideals are compromised, individuals previously committed to one intention reverse course, and definitions and expectations morph.

Apparently Moacyr Scliar published a book for young readers in 2000, O mistério da casa verde about some children who investigate the remains of the Casa Verde.  But the book of his, that’s been on my TBR since I read Yann Martel’s Life of Pi about twenty years ago, is Max and the Cats (1981).

FWIW, I didn’t like Life of Pi the first time. I reread it for a bookclub, took notes, determined to make my case. Instead… I changed my own opinion. So Martel’s thanks to Scliar story for inspiration struck home. (But Scliar felt that both his work specifically and Brazilian lit generally were slighted; Martel probably should have reached out sooner to acknowledge the impact of Max and the Cats.)

Scliar is a prolific author and, if this triptych of tales is representative, I’m in. The story opens with Max as a child and growing up, in the shadow of his father and the family fur business generally, and in the shadow of a stuffed tiger on top of a wardrobe specifically. It’s the first of many cats in the story, mostly wild, and Max is considerably aged by the end of the story.

It’s also a story about fear and survival, about how we perceive threats and stay in motion despite their enduring presence. When he is a very young man, Max discounts the power that the Nazis have gathered in Germany; he mistakenly believes that he is not vulnerable to their persecution. (And that is how the story moves to Brazil, which is a much lighter spoiler than the dust jacket spills.)

He doesn’t perceive the Nazis as either physiological or ideological threats to him. He just does not see it. But he does see, at one point, a man whom he did not recognise as a Nazi outside in the streets, inside his own home in a Nazi uniform. Max sees him through a window and in a mirror: so many ways of seeing! And this man’s shape and essence come to play an unexpected role in Max’s psyche (and, in a roundabout way—in the story). Once he has surprised himself, with what he’s seen with his own eyes (which was always there), nothing is the same.

These are both very short narratives stuffed with very big ideas. I would happily read another book by either author right this minute, were one to fall into my hands.

Gratitude for Translations: My copy of The Alienist was translated by Rodolfo Medeiros (2024), Carlos Fuentes’ The Great Latin American Novel by Brendan Riley (2011), and Max and the Cats by Eloah F. Giocomelli (2003).

Thanks to Rebecca and Cathy for hosting: I’ll post later this month about the other two books pictured alongside.