Alamut

I have recently finished reading, and have thoroughly enjoyed, a book called Alamut by Vladimir Bartol. Because it is a translated work, I cannot praise the diction or even the flow of the writing, which most likely have been altered significantly. Instead, what strikes me as the most commendable aspect of this novel is the amount of intimate detail given to things such as the political and individual actions in respect to the description of the characters' thoughts and feelings. Usually, such a manner of presentation would quickly bore most readers, yet Bartol manages to do something unique and extremely rare; he skillfully exposes emotion and a character's inner conflicts without relying on loquacious detail. Although the overall portrayal of the story is told in a tone that can only be described as one of reason, Bartol offers his readers glimpses of the emotional aspects in subtle actions: a misspoken word, an involuntary body movement, always something small and, on the character's part, left incomplete. Yet, these subtleties manage to be the most poignant and revealing parts of the plot. Because Bartol tends to avoid the excessively detailed prose known of most first time novelists, the reader is given what can be seen as a bird's eye view of Alamut's world: although three main characters are named and followed, there is no narrative presence playing verdict, no defending or attacking of any character's actions or lifestyle. The reader will likely find his sympathies shifting, finding flaws in the “heroes” and the noble in the “villians”. It is a tumultuous, hazy, endearingly realistic read. What I find to my liking is that this is an author who is not in love with his own voice; he never strews about excessive paragraphs filled with similes and imagery, does not rely on them or their like to tell the story for him, does not interject within the narrative to guide the reader's understanding. He also avoids the other extreme, that being blandness, by always revealing just enough, giving the reader exactly what they need to piece together the puzzle of their own making.

"Listen to me, boy. The supreme principle of the Ismailis is this: Nothing is true, everything is permitted.” - By revealing the supreme Ismaili motto, it is as though Bathol is inconspicuously handing his readers the key to understanding his work. To find the central meaning of the novel, the reader must see through the “delusion” of ordinary actions and dialogue, and see what he or she might not have thought possible before.

"Ibn Tahir fell back onto the floor. His heart ached bitterly. Yes, he was still in love with her.” - Barthol demonstrates here the poignancy of reductionism. Here the reader is suddenly and unceremoniously jolted with the reality that Avani ibn Tahir still loves the woman he had been hating and cursing for the past several chapters. The sentences are short, to the point, and lack any flowery words or adornments. Yet in relation to the preceding text, this quote provides all the emotion needed. In fact, it almost does seem as if the clipped tone and the blatancy are what make the quote so profound.

"It would be good to die now, he thought. Just one firm decision to throw himself over the battlements, and everything would be over. But God knows where he would awaken after that.” - The grand “mastermind” Hasan ibn Sabbah, the one who seemed omnipotent and remorseless in his plans, is suddenly exposed to be internally agonised and self-loathing. Barthol does not execute this revelation of his character's emotions through a drawn out description of feelings, a beautifully formulated history of ibn Sabbah's life story, nor anything of the like. The reader is given three sentences, a short glimpse into ibn Sabbah's secret musings. The moment is short and relatively plain. Yet everything that needs to be known is there for the reaping.