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3.0étoiles sur 5
Lost in the jungle, Jui 23 2009
To sum up an extremely complex plot very briefly: A teenage pulp-fiction writer in 1914 London stumbles on a real-life pulp story: a gypsy named Marcus Garvey (who has nothing to do with the Pan-Africanist historical figure) claims to have discovered a Lost World in the Congo, and needs to have the news made into a book that will capture the public's imagination. This, his lawyer believes, might just help him escape the scaffold for murdering his two bullet-headed English masters in the jungle.
What follows is a stirring and vivid tale of underground cities, a tribe or race of people perhaps not of this planet, battles and narrow escapes, and an inter-racial or possibly even inter-species love affair. Eventually, in a genre switch, there are courtroom dramatics, plus an appearance by Roger Casement (this time it actually is the historical figure, more or less). And we get to follow the pulp-fiction writer's own adventures, so there's also some WWI drama.
Albert Piñol doesn't so much recreate as channel H Rider Haggard's She and Arthur Conan Doyle's Professor Challenger, with a dash of The Mole People. The result is utterly strange, especially for being told without a trace of irony: or almost.
Piñol, who writes in Catalan and is trained as an anthropologist, seems never to have been to London or to have bothered with more than the most superficial historical research; which just adds to the fantastic atmosphere, of an early twentieth-century England as bizarre and fecund as his Central African jungle.
As does the workmanlike translation. If it makes Piñol's prose sound less 'literary' than the original may have been, it certainly has that Boys' Own Adventure feel (although I don't think Conan Doyle would have confused 'that' and 'who').
The same can also be said, with obvious allowances, for the love affair, consummated with a day of (discreetly limned) sex - and the author is at pains to point out that the time span is to be taken literally. Marathon Latin lovemaking sessions (so that's why they need a siesta!) seem to be a hallmark of modern Spanish literature. But here, once you've accepted that the object of desire has ears like a bat and the ability to climb through holes no larger than her head, even the fact that the tryst takes place in a treetop doesn't entirely strain credulity; though you do begin to wonder when the story is going to get moving again.
The post-modern meta-novel part, though - in which the Professor-Challenger part is relativized - is a problem. Piñol is fundamentally suited to writing Professor Challenger stories, down to the weakness for broad humour and broader stereotypes. His attempts at post-colonial lesson-drawing, however, are banal. In any case, a story like Pandora in the Congo only works through suspension of belief; when you try to make a fantastic story fit into a realistic, not to mention 'meaningful', explanation, the fun tends to drain out of it.
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