The thousand autumns of Jacob de Zoet

When The thousand autumns of Jacob de Zoet by David Mitchell was proposed in my book club, I was excited. I had first heard about it during another writer's visit and presentation here in Brussels, A.S. Byatt. She spoke so highly of this book, that I knew I would love it too (since I love her books, it follows that I'll love the books she loves too...).  Added to this that the book is about the Orient at the time of the Dutch sea trade, and I was already imagining epic movies of the golden-era...

The size of the book did not hinder me from starting with gusto! This novel starts off so beautifully and before long, pages started flying away, chapters went by ... and I was left perplexed. Did I like the book or not? I just couldn't tell. This is the first time something like that has ever happened to me, so I was quite at a loss. In discussing this with other people, I soon discovered that I was not the only one. But why? Something as simple as liking a book (or not) surely should be evident. It was only when I started reading another book in parallel (that was the exact opposite of this one) that I discovered what the matter was.

The book has excellent content and the research carried out is extensive - and this alone makes me love it.  The information on the Japanese Empire of 1799,  the lives and mischiefs of merchants, courtesans and interpreters, the corruption among the Dutch East Indies officials were all there to ignite my imagination.

What is lacking however, at least for me, is the eloquence. So much is lost in the transcription of all the stories happening to de Zoet during his stay in the Orient. I cannot feel the passion, the tension that I would imagine was happening to someone "invading" a culture so foreign, so closed to outsiders. The writing style and tone is constant throughout the book and this makes the characters in the book colourless, odourless, tasteless. (The most colourful characters are the minor ones...). As I was reading of the adventures, I was constantly surprised that they were described as a "matter of fact". I wanted the highs and lows, the vibrant colours, the excitement, the lure of anything oriental... Alas, it was not meant to be. It seems like several (perhaps too many?) stories start throughout the book, but are never finished. Characters or relationships are not developed enough so that I could make almost no sense of the actions.

Was I wrong in expecting more emotion? Was the purpose of the book perhaps the unveiling of this truth  - that whatever we Westerners believe happened in those days in the Far Orient is just a figment of our imagination? Who knows...