continue the quality of terrifying tales presented while also giving us a better look at the world of horror in Asia, Africa, and eastern Europe. Sean Guynes Michigan State University Daniel Mendelsohn Three Rings: A Tale of Exile, Narrative, and Fate Charlottesville. University of Virginia Press. 2020. 128 pages. THIS UNIQUE BOOK by memoirist and classicist Daniel Mendelsohn traces with deep learning and imagination the relation between stories and the world. It revolves, on first glance, around groups of threes. Its three chapters consider the works of three unlikely literary companions: Erich Auerbach , François Fénelon, and W. G. Sebald. All three were exiles, and all three considered or reflected in their greatly varying works questions about narrative, fiction, and reality—and the relation of all three to one another. As the reader discovers, though, other authors and books also play profound roles in Mendelsohn’s meditations: his own widely admired memoirs, The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million and An Odyssey: A Father, a Son, and an Epic; Homer’s Odyssey; Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time; and the Turkish translation of Fénelon’s Télémaque, by Kamil Pasha, to mention just a few. All are carefully examined, thoroughly or briefly , in Mendelsohn’s subtle consideration of how narrative works and how it is related to reality. Mendelsohn is especially interested in how his three main authors deploy or discuss a number of challenging narrative strategies—elaborate digressions and attention to peripheral matters crucially among them—and how those strategies both serve and challenge their representations of the world. Mendelsohn is intensely aware, though, of how differently these sundry authors regard these narrative strategies. What the reader senses early on, and what gradually becomes an explicit theme of Mendelsohn’s book, is the divide between the “optimists,” for whom narrative strategies—no matter how digressive and seemingly aimless— lead to coherence and unity, and the “pessimists ,” for whom those same strategies lead to disorientation and dead ends. Sebald exemplifies this pessimistic strain most thoroughly, as opposed to the optimist Homer. “Like Homer,” Mendelsohn concludes , ”Sebald uses ring composition to great effect. But unlike the narrative rings, circles, digressions, and wandering that we What rights and responsibilities does “being from” a place saddle a person with? Ali, who has called many places home, asks: What does it mean to have a point of origin, a community to belong to, or several? With richly layered questions about place, home, colonialism, complicity, indigenous sovereignty, and his own activism and childhood memories in mind, Ali emailed Chief Cathy Merrick. He wanted to learn more about the daily social and environmental issues facing Cross Lake and told Merrick he’d grown up in Jenpeg. Her email back was brief but generous: “It is wonderful that you would reflect on your childhood. You are more than welcome to visit our Nation.” Shortly thereafter, he boarded a plane and flew north. Northern Light is a journey story that troubles the maxim “You can never go home again.” Ali does go home, but that home, the town of Jenpeg, is gone to boreal forests growing back in the glow of Manitoba Hydro. He goes home to humble himself before the Pimicikamak community on whose ancestral lands he’d lived, unbeknownst to him, as a child. Ali returns to listen and be in dialogue with a community that has long called the waterways of the Nelson River their home. He returns to look closer and more tenderly at a place that is and is not familiar, that does and does not belong to him. His journey to Cross Lake is full of connections, burgeoning friendships, late-night hockey games, brunches honoring mothers, and school visits. Ali is a kind and attentive listener, curious , always a warm presence on the page. Always eager for more. What do we each owe to the places we call home, and what can we give back to them, and to each other? Ali’s ethical imaginary is as finely honed and illuminating as his prose. “We belong to the places of our earliest griefs, belong to where we left our dead, and belong to places where...
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