Out Of My Head: A Novel

Rating:
Summary: why god. why.
Review: Didier Van Cauwelaert's Out of My Head, translated by Mark Polizzotti from the French, (Other Press, 2004) could easily be judged by the fact that the work is not intact in its original state. As in the case of a book of ancient Hindi poetry I read not too long ago that had only recently been translated from abysmal readings of the early 20th century (Songs of the Sons and Daughters of Buddha, trans. Anne Waldman, Andrew Schelling), the magnitude to which a bad translation can change the flow and meaning of even very good prose and poetry is a significant issue when examining the text of a translated work. However, most of the problems I found in reading Van Cauwelaert's second novel had nothing to do with a quirkily placed word, or perhaps a dull passage that might have been exciting in its original Romance tongue. What I read was probably one of the most confusing, and least entertaining texts I've ever run across in my life, and if structure's the problem, we have no one. If to be understood as a bid at existentialism, Out of My Head fails parlously to reach the mark of anything more than a jumble of abstract ideas mixed with the basest form of "mystery thriller", in the school of any number of back-of-the-issue newsprint editions. I was thoroughly disappointed anyone with an IQ higher than that of a cabbage would assign any cohesive and general merit whatsoever to this work.
The story is ostensibly a tale of mistaken identity- but whose? Protagonist Martin Harris (hence called "Martin Harris One") shows up to his flat in Paris after a car accident and a short coma to have the door opened by not his wife, but a stranger- a stranger who his wife calls "Martin Harris" (hence called "Martin Harris Two"). And who everyone else in the BUILDING calls Martin Harris. A man who, as Martin Harris One has no identification on him following the accident, is, for all intents and purposes, the one true Martin Harris. An interesting twist initially on the urban legend of a daughter coming back to the hotel after fetching her mother's prescription to find her mother gone, the hotel room repainted, and any recollection of either she or her mother erased. The explanation in that story was simply that the mother had yellow fever, or a similar disease, and to prevent panic over an epidemic, the woman was simply "erased" by the government. However, Martin Harris One has not been erased- he's been, by appearances, duplicated and stamped obsolete in face of Martin Harris Two. The chase that ensues weaves in and out of Martin's attempt to prove the authenticity of what he considers to be his identity.
The idea that should be important in this book is Martin Harris One's reaction, and the projection of the reader in their imagination into a similar predicament, to having to question the property of one's own memories and identity as specifically one's own. The prevailing idea is, you can lose your own identity, through brain alteration, coma-induced memory loss, etc...but how would it be if someone could take it from you? No one recognizes Martin Harris One as the real Martin Harris but himself. And thus, do his own memories alone make him who he is, or not? In one particularly mind boggling confrontation, both Martin Harrises are gathered to go through a strange drilling of questions from one of Martin Harris's colleagues in his research in the field of botany. Questions are asked that only the real Martin Harris should know about his own research, and Martin Harris One realizes for the first time that this man is no simple imposter, but a man with his very same memories. When the path of questioning veers to the personal, questions about his childhood, his father, his first job- Martin Harris Two answers letter perfectly, in exactly the words Martin Harris One would have used. What does this mean? Without his own, distinct memories, is Martin Harris One any more legitimate than Martin Harris Two?
The philosophical arguments that tentatively raise their multi-faceted heads are interesting, but the actual footwork of writing the novel seems like loosely drawn pencils connections scrawled shorthand on a legal pad. Less than an afterthought, and more of a complete hodge podge of "And then the character went here! No, wait, then the character met this person! Oh, wait, and there was a sensual encounter! Mm, that'll do it!" The strain of the plot called for a Beckett-esque writer who could abstractly look at the points presented and stitch them into some, though abstract, cohesive narrative instead of what we get, which is an odd combination of Remington Steele and Sartre. Two things, right up there with battery acid and orange juice, which should never mix. The offhand additions of the occasional bra-less salesclerk oggling, a brief encounter with quasi-main character /confidante/taxi driver Muriel, and the EVER SO CONSTANT plot switcheroos left me at the last page going "Oh please God don't tell me this is how he's going to end it. Oh God. This IS how he's going to end it." Initially intrigued by the "is he or ISN'T he who he says he is" dilemma, I was completely uninterested by the end of the book, turned off by the main character's unlikeability, and the heavy-handedness of the author's treatment of what could have been a fascinating subject matter I closed the book without my usual desire, post-reading anything, to go "google" the author and figure out, good or bad, if the book I'd just read was a fluke. Because at the end of this book, I didn't care if it was a fluke. I knew it was a badly written book, and I knew while maybe I hadn't wasted three straight hours of my life in reading it, I could have at least put them to better use. As in maybe, washing my hair. Or reading the nutrition facts on a cannister of salt. Lots of things, really.
Thanks, Didier Van Cauwelaeart.

Rating:
Summary: Fun, Gripping Psychological Thriller
Review: Out of My Head is an entertaining and gripping psychological thriller. The premise is simple: Martin Harris, an American man who has just moved to Paris wakes up from a coma and heads towards the new apartment he shares with his wife. He gets there to find another man living there, claiming to be him. Harris then embarks on a Kafkaesque quest to regain his identity, where he ponders the nature of identity itself, with the help of a lonely neurologist and an enthusiastic cab driver. This is a slim, clever novel; Van Cauwelaert will have you fooled. Enjoy this engrossing novel.

Rating:
Summary: Great premise, interesting presentation
Review: While a weak ending hurts somewhat the overall impression one might get from this book, it's still a thought-provoking (and brief!) read.

After awakening from a coma, Martin Harris discovers that he has been "replaced" by someone else with his name, and that nobody from his former life recognizes or acknowledges him. Martin spends the novel doing 2 things - trying to prove to others who he really is, and questioning his own existence.

While he may not be breaking any new ground, Van Cauweleart definitely makes the reader think about the value and meaning of memories and self-awareness. A great book, one that would likely be worthy of 5 stars if not for the poor finish.