Chryseis Minami, The Name in the Book. Appalachian House, 2003. Pp. 291. ISBN 7-8268-3143-0. $12.50.

Reviewed by Flora Fabiana

Set in a distant future, The Name in the Book, the third novel by the US-based Indian author Minami, is about the life of an archaeological academic community re-discovering the relics of a past that might just include vestiges of our present. As with Minami’s previous work, the trappings of genre (in this case, science fiction; in her previous Architect’s Cry and Stomach Moss, horror) are a cover for the thinly-veiled postmodern/existential exploration of humanity, intellect, and emotional investment. The longest and most successful of her works so far, The Name in the Book warrants the attention both of fans of science fiction, who will not be disappointed by its inventiveness and rigour, and of readers who like intellectually challenging fiction, in whatever genre. It rewards multiple readings.

The premise of the story, revealed in a wickedly humorous “before-word,” is that while the interpretative processes of the academics in the novel are reasonable, and logically correct, and display a sound knowledge of archaeological and historical academia, the conclusions they draw are rather likely to be incorrect. We only sense this because what they posit about the “past” does not mirror at all what we (readers) know about ourselves, our world, our own history and time. The image of us the future archaeologists build is coherent but, we suspect, not true.

The novel therefore is about the sense of the past, in a Jamesian regard (as in The Last of the Valerii), and the use of it as a means to escape reality. It is about the power of objects, in their material qualities versus the power of human imagination; and both at once in the form of the ideas we project on those objects. At least one of the objects that triggers such a deep and hypnotic fascination in the characters, which I shall not spoil here for it is one of the most satisfying scenes in the novel, is an object that, if our suspicions are correct, would be absolutely mundane.

The protagonist is a female archaeologist, Hagiara, a rising light in her field, recently promoted to a position with annual research leave after a spell as head of department, throwing herself into her work with enthusiasm, personality, and talent. She is characterized by generosity toward her students, warm confidence, and a complete lack of condescension toward her colleagues, on top of a driving ambition that is something more love of learning than it is ego. Hagiara believes she has made a revolutionary and controversial breakthrough. The title of the novel refers to her impactful discovery in a document (reconstructed traces of an “ancient” book), but also about her desire to be remembered, to do something so relevant as to be mentioned in turn in the history books of her academy.

The reader increasingly realizes that her intuition, for which she makes many sacrifices and is ultimately validated, is utterly mistaken. To this extent, the novel seems to be offering a sad reflection on the futility of academia. But Hagiara’s intellectual adventure is, at the same time, something that, although untrue, fulfills her life (and the lives of her colleagues), brings research and stimulation to her department, and makes her happy, so in the end, perhaps it matters not a whit? The novel does not end on a tragic or pathetic note, and the existential panic felt by the reader at the rewriting of history is not shared by any of the characters (even the opponents who, ultimately unsuccessfully, try to derail Hagiara’s theories).

The Name in the Book is not a satire of any of our present societies and Minami does not aim to be the new Jonathan Swift (and we are indeed grateful for that). The author’s prose, simple and precise, makes this story easy to read and (perhaps too) easy to love. Although slightly below the initial expectations, at least mine, it is certainly not a book you will regret buying, and it deserves the growing success it is finding. Uplifting in a peculiar way, this novel leaves a lingering sense of queer tenderness after the last page. And it will probably make you smile, and perhaps hesitate, the next time you are about to bin one of your worthless artefacts.