Teenage ramblings: an ode to the power of the word5 min read
Juja (originally published in 2010) fell into my hands as the second of Nino Haratischvili’s books that I have read, following My Soul Twin (originally published in 2011). On the hunt for Georgian literature translated into English, I did not much look into the origins of either novel, or of Haratischvili herself, before opening her works to my prying eyes. Born into late Soviet Georgia and raised between Germany and Tbilisi, Haratischvili eventually settled in Germany and began writing in German, initially on topics unrelated to Georgia. She has reached particular fame with her novel The Eighth Life (originally published in 2014), which I am yet to read, since the first two books were purchased on a whim.
Although My Soul Twin was based partially in Georgia, following the intimate ties of complex family secrets, Juja takes place entirely outside of the South Caucasus country. It remains an international novel, bringing together women across centuries and continents, a huge scope that leaves the fairly short novel gasping for breath at times. The fast pace also leaves little time to dive into the necessary character development for a truly robust plot, but the little we do learn about each character brings us closer to each one.
The novel resonated well with me as a female reader, and its structural flaws were not enough to put me off its core concept. Juja has, at its heart, a tragic story set in 1953 that follows the plight of Jeane Saré, a young girl who muses on the meaning of life. Interspersed within pages of modern narrative are extracts from Saré’s writings, titled Ice Age. As the name may suggest, the story is one of negative emotion – of a bird thrashing within a cage, bashing limbs into submission and injury.
Having run away from boarding school and experienced a myriad of abuse from society and figures around her, the aggregate desperation of her situation wears her down. Saré ends up jumping in front of a train at the Gare du Nord station, and her story forms the backbone of Juja. The contemporary context of the novel brings together characters from different countries – France, the Netherlands and Australia – in search of the truth. Saré’s writings, when reportedly published in the 1970s, triggered a series of copycat suicides, with her words said not to communicate anything themselves but to reflect back to the reader what they need to see or hear. For many, this has devastating consequences.
A novel on loss, tragedy and misfortune, it may seem that all is dire. That is not the case, as the plot follows the attempts of two 21st century women to find out the truth. They each encounter their own trials and tribulations, thrusting the meaning of life into the spotlight in this dark book that follows a web of chaos spreading out from the tragic impacts of one young Parisian girl’s narrative. Saré’s writings follow the unspoken truths of womanhood, the highs, lows and everything in between – with a pessimistic undertone. Incorporated into the modern narrative, Saré’s words tell the tale of an unstable, emotional teenage girl – perhaps not a surprising state of being.
The novel follows the attempts of the protagonists to discover whether Saré existed and why so many women were driven to take their own lives upon reading her novel. Rifling through official documents to unpick events and probabilities sees a story unravel and the corners begin to lift on the shroud covering Saré’s mysterious existence. What comes to the fore in Juja is the way that readers attach their personal stories to that of Saré, their lives becoming embroiled in twists and turns of their own.
Juja is a novel about the power of novels themselves, exemplifying the early writings of Haratischvili – who would go on to become a powerhouse of an author. Whether Saré’s tale is compelling enough to drive readers to their demise is up to the audience to decide. To me, it seems more the ramblings of an unkempt young girl, not something to change my destiny. However, the book’s protagonists are gripped enough to embark upon journeys of their own as their individual dramas unfold. Perhaps it is our natural instinct to see ourselves in the lines laid out on a page, but Juja did not compel me to do so.
Reviews have described Saré’s book as a “vessel able to accommodate the beliefs, the emotions, the desires of the readers,” comparable to religious and political writings and art pieces. The story allows you to find yourself in it, rather than telling you something in particular, exploring the intensity with which humanity can interact with art – and the reasons why we might seek solace in the fictional lives of others. A note on individual and collective suffering, Juja results in the idea that you cannot shed your woes by embedding yourself in the stories of others. Finding your own story is key.
Told from multiple perspectives, the book has a somewhat confusing narrative arc that leaves the reader flummoxed as the pages start to run out. It seems that there is little conclusion reached by the end of the book, but the characters’ navigation of grief, breakups, disillusionment, anger and mental health struggles is interesting. Allowing the protagonists to be unhappy enables each story to be perhaps more relatable than other high-flying literary endeavours, but the span of the book across decades and continents can, at times, be difficult to follow.
A book about unhappiness might seem dour, but the inner turmoils of each character are intriguing. It leaves a certain sense of mystery, as the reader doesn’t spend enough time with the characters to get to know any of them well enough. The choppy pace of the book, delivered by short chapters, lets the reader trot along, but ultimately leaves them with more questions than answers, being more an ode to books and stories and their power to change lives. It also offers a warning – that nobody should take fiction too seriously.
