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When Amos Tutuola's first novel, The Palm-Wine Drinkard, appeared in 1952, it aroused exceptional worldwide interest. Drawing on the West African (Nigeria) Yoruba oral folktale tradition, Tutuola described the odyssey of a devoted palm-wine drinker through a nightmare of fantastic adventure.
Since then, The Palm-Wine Drinkard has been translated into more than 15 languages When Amos Tutuola's first novel, The Palm-Wine Drinkard, appeared in 1952, it aroused exceptional worldwide interest. Drawing on the West African (Nigeria) Yoruba oral folktale tradition, Tutuola described the odyssey of a devoted palm-wine drinker through a nightmare of fantastic adventure. Since then, The Palm-Wine Drinkard has been translated into more than 15 languages and has come to be regarded as a masterwork of one of Africa's most influential writers. The tallest tall tale ever of what one champion boozer did to get a decent drink. A psychedelic quest as mindbending as Yellow Submarine the film, but written fifteen years earlier and thousands of miles away. A myth told (unusually) in the first-person by a trickster-god-slash-Herculean-hero, with a Taoist-fresh voice like a tarot Fool. Whilst, thanks to one or two other people on Goodreads, I'd already figured that The Palm Wine Drinkard was a book to read because it's fun and interesting and str The tallest tall tale ever of what one champion boozer did to get a decent drink.
A psychedelic quest as mindbending as Yellow Submarine the film, but written fifteen years earlier and thousands of miles away. A myth told (unusually) in the first-person by a trickster-god-slash-Herculean-hero, with a Taoist-fresh voice like a tarot Fool. Whilst, thanks to one or two other people on Goodreads, I'd already figured that The Palm Wine Drinkard was a book to read because it's fun and interesting and strange - and not just in aid of wholemeal-sackcloth reasons like diversity quotas, with which much of the internet pushes/afflicts fiction from African countries - I didn't expect it to like it quite this much, or that I'd find it so funny. Sense of humour is personal, yes, and no-one else has tagged this book as humour - but here it was one of those works during which one feel laughter bubbling under the surface most of the time except during two or three brutal scenes, then every now and again an audible fit of the giggles erupts. Out of context, without the tone and build-up, it's probably not clear why that particular phrase did it. Some of the humour might run on the contradictions of conjunctions and other small words - like a child might write (many bizarre sequences of 'what happened' and less of how people thought and felt), or, yes, like a drunk person might say, or a transcript of conversation, where sense chenges slightly as you go along.
Because he was very clever and smart as he was only a Skull and he could jump a mile to the second - Scenes that can be read as if they're satirising folktales because of the ridiculously convenient timing: for example someone changes into an animal and overhears a conversation at exactly the right point to hear what they needed. Not like they just missed it, or had to hang around for nine hours waiting. Dunno what the intention was, but it worked to read them as knowing: the naivety of the voice is perfect, yet it's all so well constructed. There is a lot of absurdity, but perhaps you have to be there, reading the whole book, to really laugh: These unknown creatures were doing everything incorrectly, because there we saw that if one of them wanted to climb a tree, he would climb the ladder first before leaning it against the tree. Or, a man asks to borrow some money: after that I asked him where he was living, and he replied that he was inside a bush which nobody could trace. MJ's review lists some of the other great bizarre chapter titles, but my favourite was this (aided and abetted across decades by echoing Bridget Jones' famous pronoun-elisions): AFRAID OF TOUCHING TERRIBLE CREATURES IN BAG This new edition has an excellent introduction by Wole Soykina that, to my mind, clears up points some earlier GR reviewers seem to have been scratching around for.
Discussing the initial negative reception of the book, Soyinka mentions 'dismissal and condescension' in Britain, and Nigerian concerns that it pandered to ideas of 'uneducated colonials' - but in many ways, Dylan Thomas' enthusiasm for the book made other critics and writers take a second look (he considers it needed to be a Celt, not an Englishman, who'd get it, being more anti-establishment and with a closer connection to fantasy and myth). What an imaginative rupture of spelling, to have turned a negative association into a thing of acceptance, if not exactly approval. Not ‘drunkard’ but – ‘drinkard’. Difficult to damn ‘drinkinness’ with the same moralistic fervour as drunkenness. The social opprobrium attached to the grammar-strict word is dissipated and the anti-hero is accepted as a first-rate raconteur.
The title then sets the pattern for a narrative of weird encounters. Tutuola was not shut off from the ‘correct’ usage of the English language; he simply chose to invent his own tongue, festooned with uproarious images, turning it into a logical vehicle of the colonial neither-nor (or all-comer) environment. This was a polyglot proletariat. Tutuola intuitively realised that the more common ‘broken English’, or patois, would not suffice to capture the sounds of such a community – a world that was too realistic to be liminal, too paranormal to be realistic, each segment intersecting with others according to its own laws. There are inevitably various bits and pieces in reviews characterising the book as quintessentially African, or primitivist or something. But whilst knowing not much at all about Yoruba, or African cultures in general, and also seeing a universality in its folktaleness, reminiscent of myth-based stories from and about elsewhere I'd say this is quintessentially African like Mark E.
Smith's songs are quintessentially Northern English. That's definitely there, part of the spirit of the exercise, but the main thing is actually this surreal genius doing strange things with language and images and ideas, things that could look simple and crazy but are actually very clever indeed. Amos Tutuola, When I was a small boy I was told the story of a perfect gentleman who went to a market and returned from it with a girl that followed him. As he went back home, he kept giving back the pieces of him that were borrowed, so that by the time he got to his home, he was only a skull.
And the girl deceived by his beauty now only a slave. Tatuola, thank you very much for taking me through many indescribable adventures and many incomprehensible mysteries. I enjoyed them w Dear Mr. Amos Tutuola, When I was a small boy I was told the story of a perfect gentleman who went to a market and returned from it with a girl that followed him.
As he went back home, he kept giving back the pieces of him that were borrowed, so that by the time he got to his home, he was only a skull. And the girl deceived by his beauty now only a slave. Tatuola, thank you very much for taking me through many indescribable adventures and many incomprehensible mysteries.
I enjoyed them well, as a child should. But they reminded me of those days, when I was a small boy. Of the time I got scared when the lamp was taken away, and my fear disappeared when the light was restored. Of when I did not know how to be afraid when there was light, and when there were people around me. Now, I remember those days and I wonder why fear will be here beside me even when the sun shines, and people around me smile.
Those days I was only worried about tomorrow if I hadn't talked my homework, because mother would scold me and my teacher would cane me. Mother won't ask me now whether I have done what I have to do, she'll ask me where is the result of what I have done.
If I meet her by the road, - my childhood teacher, she'll be looking to see whether I have a suit and a tie, whether my smile says that I have seen and conquered. And my fear may be that she will only wave, and ask what art has done to me. Not what I have done to art. I want to go back to one of those days, when laughter was laughter and not the superfluous hiding of what lies beneath.
When stories genuinely scared or made me genuinely happy, whether the next day I had forgotten them or not. When I knew that tomorrow will come, and apart from its simple fears, it will come and go. When I knew there was a man up there, beyond the infinite skies, that said son, I hold the universe together, in perfection, and if you only believe this, everything will unfold as it should. I want a tiny bit of those days.
And to meet men like you -in person or in the pages of a book, -who will leave a legacy, who craft stories that will once in a while, remind us of what it was to be a child. For looking beyond your limited self and leaving us this enduring story, may immortality always be your share. Faithfully, Reader in crisis, etc. Read this book on the basis that it is impossible to resist chapter titles such as ‘AN EGG FED THE WHOLE WORLD’ and ‘PAY WHAT YOU OWE ME AND VOMIT WHAT YOU ATE’, and for passages of tortured syntax such as: Then my wife asked him how could a man buy a pig in a bag? But the man replied that there was no need of testing the load, he said that once we put it on our head either it was heavier than what we could carry or not, anyhow we should carry it to the town. So we stood before that man and his Read this book on the basis that it is impossible to resist chapter titles such as ‘AN EGG FED THE WHOLE WORLD’ and ‘PAY WHAT YOU OWE ME AND VOMIT WHAT YOU ATE’, and for passages of tortured syntax such as: Then my wife asked him how could a man buy a pig in a bag? But the man replied that there was no need of testing the load, he said that once we put it on our head either it was heavier than what we could carry or not, anyhow we should carry it to the town.
So we stood before that man and his load. But when I thought it over that if I put it on my head and could not carry it, then I should put it down at once, and if that man would force me not to put it down, I had a gun and cutlass here, I should shoot him immediately. Amos Tutuola wrote this novel aged 26 in his “primitive” English manner (a style that Dylan Thomas, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Raymond Queneau found remarkable), taking his content from Yoruba folk tales, which to modern readers might fall under the heading surrealism or magical realism or some such unhelpful label. This novella is a bewitching and torturous read (the style, if close-read, might drive one to madness) for fans of red-people, invisible-pawns, bush-ghosts, and elusive palm-wine tapsters. Published in 1952, Amos Tutuola's The Palm-Wine Drinkard is the first African novel to be published in English outside of Africa.
It is subtitled 'and His Dead Palm-Wine Tapster in the Dead's Town'. Told from the perspective of the 'Father of gods who could do anything in this world', it describes his journey for the quest of his dead tapster. For me, this is the kind of work that would have impressed Coleridge (in terms of my reading experience). He said, ' The reader should be carried forward, Published in 1952, Amos Tutuola's The Palm-Wine Drinkard is the first African novel to be published in English outside of Africa. It is subtitled 'and His Dead Palm-Wine Tapster in the Dead's Town'.
Told from the perspective of the 'Father of gods who could do anything in this world', it describes his journey for the quest of his dead tapster. For me, this is the kind of work that would have impressed Coleridge (in terms of my reading experience). He said, ' The reader should be carried forward, not merely or chiefly by the mechanical impulse of curiosity, or by a restless desire to arrive at the final solution; but by the pleasurable activity of mind excited by the attractions of the journey itself.'
And the reader was surely carried forward and slithered her way through. Hence, the novel felt like a series of sudden touchdowns and disappearances of parables. Anything can happen here, be it encountering some weird chapter titles like 'Return the parts of body to the owners; or hired parts of the complete gentleman's body to be returned', 'An egg fed the whole world', 'Pay what you owe me and vomit what you ate', etc. Or the incidents like leaving 'death' for the buyer. Some background research broadened my thoughts. The novel is based on Yoruba folktales.
I wish I was competent enough to take in more from this work. The shortcomings of a reader are myriad. A Nigerian folktale of Tutuola’s own invention, written in Pidgin English. Like any good folktale, it has the sense that anything can happen; but it improves on the usual model with its particularly easy air of being completely out of control.
It’s been criticized for showing Nigerians as amoral drunkards and witlessly superstitious. But never mind that, because it’s awesome craziness. For example: We could not travel on the Deads’ road because of fearful dead babies, etc. We had sold our death to A Nigerian folktale of Tutuola’s own invention, written in Pidgin English.
Like any good folktale, it has the sense that anything can happen; but it improves on the usual model with its particularly easy air of being completely out of control. It’s been criticized for showing Nigerians as amoral drunkards and witlessly superstitious. But never mind that, because it’s awesome craziness. For example: We could not travel on the Deads’ road because of fearful dead babies, etc.
We had sold our death to somebody at the door for the sum of £70:18:6d and lent our fear to somebody at the door as well on interest of £3:10:0d per month, so we did not care about death and we did not fear again. I read this book many years ago.
Today, I picked the book off my shelves and re-read the first lines. It still makes the hair rise on the back of my neck. I was a palm-wine drinkard since I was a boy of ten years of age. I had no other work more than to drink palm-wine in my life.But when my father noticed that I could not do any work more than to drink, he engaged an expert palm-wine-tapster for me; he had no other work more than to tap palm-wine every day. So my father gave me a palm-tr I read this book many years ago.
Today, I picked the book off my shelves and re-read the first lines. It still makes the hair rise on the back of my neck. I was a palm-wine drinkard since I was a boy of ten years of age. I had no other work more than to drink palm-wine in my life.But when my father noticed that I could not do any work more than to drink, he engaged an expert palm-wine-tapster for me; he had no other work more than to tap palm-wine every day. So my father gave me a palm-tree farm which was nine miles square and it contained 560,000 palm-trees, and this palm-wine tapster was tapping one hundred and fifty kegs of palm-wine every morning, but before 2 o’clock p.m., I would have drunk it all; after that he would go and tap another 75 kegs.
The book tells of the sad demise of our hero’s palm-wine tapster and of the search to find him. In effect, this single narrative holds together a sequence of quite separate folk-stories. For several pages, one feels one is entering a rather genial world, full of the folksy stories of the kind one might read to children. But then one finds that these are not children’s stories at all. Much more than those of the Brothers Grimm or of Hans-Christian Anderson, these stories are harsh and blood-curdling, almost too painful to read. Their major themes are dismemberment, abduction and death.
We meet Death himself, whose household furniture and firewood is made from human remains. We meet a “gentleman” of great beauty who has abducted a young woman. This man has hired his body-parts from traders, and when he returns these to their owners, he is reduced merely to being a skull who lives in a hole in the ground. It is not, however, the single horrific images or single stories that are difficult to cope with, but rather the accumulation of these images, one piled upon another. Later in life, Tutuola gained some small acceptance in the Nigerian literary establishment. However, for many years, he was disparaged by his fellow-writers who disliked his portrayal of Yoruba culture and his fluid, un-literary style.
They perhaps too felt that, as the comedy of the first pages dissipates into horror, that this is a very strange book indeed. In some times and places, madmen were viewed with a sort of wary deference. Were they simply insane, or touched by the hand of God? You couldn't be sure. That same sort of holy madness - chilling and funny by turns - infuses every page of this story.
What part is myth and what part is novel? You can't really tell where one ends and the other begins. To pick up this book is to find yourself unexpectedly wrenched from the world and deposited into a dangerous wonderland that almost, but not quite, In some times and places, madmen were viewed with a sort of wary deference. Were they simply insane, or touched by the hand of God? You couldn't be sure. That same sort of holy madness - chilling and funny by turns - infuses every page of this story. What part is myth and what part is novel?
You can't really tell where one ends and the other begins. To pick up this book is to find yourself unexpectedly wrenched from the world and deposited into a dangerous wonderland that almost, but not quite, makes sense. I wish I'd known years ago how strange and great this book is. I already look forward to many re-readings. I don't know of another writer like Tutuola.
The creatures jump out of the woodwork like the good boogers they are: you know they took time to develop, but you weren't conscious of that and now it's as if grandma just fell in your lap, chewing on kibbles 'n' bits between watermelon seeds and strumming a cold pumpkin like a guitar-impressive. There is a logic if you care to think about it, but it's one from eons past.
And the great thing is that the guy has nothing to prove, nothing to contriv I don't know of another writer like Tutuola. The creatures jump out of the woodwork like the good boogers they are: you know they took time to develop, but you weren't conscious of that and now it's as if grandma just fell in your lap, chewing on kibbles 'n' bits between watermelon seeds and strumming a cold pumpkin like a guitar-impressive. There is a logic if you care to think about it, but it's one from eons past.
And the great thing is that the guy has nothing to prove, nothing to contrive, and no one to impress. There are no computers, no keys, no Western angst, nor Victorian falsities.what relationships? Just an eight-legged, fat, hairy, onion that draws in the dust, or somethin'.
Take it or leave it, the quest continues; it's the primordial soup. This is the book that made his name. It has been translated but i do not know how: a lot of the pleasure is in the voice, the unique version of Nigerian english used, perhaps proving that you cannot fail to make poetry when you use english. I had read some Tutuola before this, i was not surprised, but all the invented and fantastic adventures are what could be translations of typical oral tales he had learned from his grandmother and others then written down.
I have now read more litcrit on Tut this is the book that made his name. It has been translated but i do not know how: a lot of the pleasure is in the voice, the unique version of Nigerian english used, perhaps proving that you cannot fail to make poetry when you use english.
I had read some Tutuola before this, i was not surprised, but all the invented and fantastic adventures are what could be translations of typical oral tales he had learned from his grandmother and others then written down. I have now read more litcrit on Tutuola, and this deepens my fascination, if only in aspects that might just entertain the reader, that give further sense of the 'bad grammar' contention (as it notes t is free of language and common english ‘poetics’ but not so extreme as joyce) and examines his work, his use of common yoruba tales is not 'copying’ but how spoken english is rendered more in yoruba grammar, and this book can be seen as no less original than say western riffs on hellenic myths and later maybe modern insistence on using the 'oedipus complex'.
The Palm Wine Drinkard is a brilliant, absurd piece of literature. I had never heard of Amos Tutuola (to my friend’s surprise) and had no real expectations and was subsequently terribly delighted! All the Nigerian authors I have read thus far, Achebe, Adichie, Abani and Soyinka have all been wonderful. I have a great affinity for African literature and the Nigerians like their film making have found a unique way to capture their storytelling.
This is exactly what Tutuola is about. His The Palm Wine Drinkard is a brilliant, absurd piece of literature. I had never heard of Amos Tutuola (to my friend’s surprise) and had no real expectations and was subsequently terribly delighted! All the Nigerian authors I have read thus far, Achebe, Adichie, Abani and Soyinka have all been wonderful. I have a great affinity for African literature and the Nigerians like their film making have found a unique way to capture their storytelling. This is exactly what Tutuola is about. His style is one of a kind, his book reads like the narrator is sitting under a tree retelling a story that happened.
Had he been one of my kinsman it would filled with “and then, and then, and then,” interspersed throughout the rather ridiculous tales. The Palm Wine Drinkard (not drunkard) is about a man who just loves his palm wine and goes on a rather long journey in search of his former palm wine tapster. The plot is quite ridiculous.
It reminds me of an uncle of mine whose imagination knows no bounds. There is an element of truth in some of the personal stories he has told us over the years but just that, an element. The rest is pure fabrication and although you know it is far fetched you remain engrossed because it is highly entertaining. Tutuola does not polish his language but writes in a style that is exceptionally unique and individual.
Wikipedia says this was the first African book translated into English in 1951 and it reads like something that was directly translated. Done deliberately by the author, the language adds to the absurdity of the text but also the wonderful nature of African storytelling. It is a delightfully short book that can be completed within a day.
I’d say it would make a fun read for anyone keen on African stotytelling and folktales. I'm puzzled by the popularity of this novel. I own a small new and used book store and I cannot keep this book stocked. It simply won't linger on the shelf.
I have people asking for it all the time. After reading it, I can't for the life of me figure out why. For the first fifteen pages, I was agog at the odd use of language. I thought I had found an early predecessor to Gordon Lish and Gary Lutz.
Not a father or grandfather. Maybe a queer uncle or family friend. But soon, I found myself frowning I'm puzzled by the popularity of this novel. I own a small new and used book store and I cannot keep this book stocked. It simply won't linger on the shelf. I have people asking for it all the time.
After reading it, I can't for the life of me figure out why. For the first fifteen pages, I was agog at the odd use of language. I thought I had found an early predecessor to Gordon Lish and Gary Lutz. Not a father or grandfather. Maybe a queer uncle or family friend. But soon, I found myself frowning and sighing and 'Oh, godding!' Not because of the strange English (in fact, that was the one saving grace of the novel) but because what I realized I was reading was a kind of a fable or folk tale that lacked, completely, any hint of subtext.
I realized I was reading someone's dreams. Have you ever had to sit through the telling of a dream? Dreams are not 'adventures' and there is nothing 'incredible' about them because you can do anything you want in a dream so nothing means anything. It's funny, maybe, for the first few seconds or half-minute. But then it's just deadening. Because dreams aren't stories. And the story of a dream, told in a Kerouac rat-at-tat-tat, without craft or craftiness, is just not worth listening to.
And when I think of it, if this book had been read to me, in short bursts, I might have appreciated it. Probably not. I don't know. Marvelous story of unconventional, non-linear, Nigerian cosmological structure. Quite an adventure in language and atmosphere, and almost certainly unlike anything else you'll have read. Just a note derived from my comment on 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts.'
If you want to start with Tutuola, start with 'The Palm-Wine Drinkard.' You can go on to MLitBoG (4/5 stars from me) if you dig it and want more. Both are darkly imaginative and funny sagas set in the West African idea of a chthonic 'bush' wh Marvelous story of unconventional, non-linear, Nigerian cosmological structure. Quite an adventure in language and atmosphere, and almost certainly unlike anything else you'll have read. Just a note derived from my comment on 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts.' If you want to start with Tutuola, start with 'The Palm-Wine Drinkard.' You can go on to MLitBoG (4/5 stars from me) if you dig it and want more.
Both are darkly imaginative and funny sagas set in the West African idea of a chthonic 'bush' where the real and spirit worlds intermingle, written in a broken English with elements of Nigerian Pidgin, but largely Tutuola's fantastic, poetical idiolect. For other books that might better suit the unadventurous Western lib arts educated dabbler and that work with the cosmological idea of a 'bush of ghosts,' read Helen Oyeyemi or Nnedi Okoroafor. You might 'get' Tutuola and enjoy his writing, or you might hate it, just as with any unusual author. But I do want to address the egotistical numpties who say stupid things such as 'people who like this book are only working out their colonialist guilt.' Tutuola books are unique, iconic and magical, and no more primitive than, say, Ulysses.
It's just prose, people. And it has the great advantage that you will discover very quickly whether or not you like it, and you can always put the book down and leave it for others to enjoy. Here are some words that are capitalized in the book COWRIES BOTH WIFE AND HUSBAND IN THE HUNGRY-CREATURE'S STOMACH 'RETURN THE PARTS OF THE BODY TO THE OWNERS; OR HIRED PARTS OF THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN'S BODY TO THE RETURNED' AFRAID OF TOUCHING TERRIBLE CREATURES IN BAG 'THE LADY WAS NOT TO BE BLAMED FOR FOLLOWING THE SKULL AS A COMPLETE GENTLEMAN' 'THE INVESTIGATOR'S WONDERFUL WORK IN THE SKULL FAMILY'S HOUSE' THE DESCRIPTION OF THE CURIOUS CREATURE:- NONE OF THE DEADS TOO YOUNG TO ASSAULT. DEAD-BABIE here are some words that are capitalized in the book COWRIES BOTH WIFE AND HUSBAND IN THE HUNGRY-CREATURE'S STOMACH 'RETURN THE PARTS OF THE BODY TO THE OWNERS; OR HIRED PARTS OF THE COMPLETE GENTLEMAN'S BODY TO THE RETURNED' AFRAID OF TOUCHING TERRIBLE CREATURES IN BAG 'THE LADY WAS NOT TO BE BLAMED FOR FOLLOWING THE SKULL AS A COMPLETE GENTLEMAN' 'THE INVESTIGATOR'S WONDERFUL WORK IN THE SKULL FAMILY'S HOUSE' THE DESCRIPTION OF THE CURIOUS CREATURE:- NONE OF THE DEADS TOO YOUNG TO ASSAULT. DEAD-BABIES ON THE ROAD-MARCH TO THE DEADS' TOWN THREE GOOD CREATURES TOOK OVER OUR TROUBLE - THEY WERE:- DRUM, SONG, AND DANCE WHO WILL TAKE THE MOUSE?
THE 'WRAITH ISLAND' PAY WHAT YOU OWE ME AND VOMIT WHAT YOU ATE 'THE WORK OF THE FAITHFUL-MOTHER IN THE WHITE TREE' WE AND THE WISE KING IN THE WRONG TOWN WITH THE PRINCE KILLER TO SEE THE MOUNTAIN-CREATURES WAS NOT DANGEROUS BUT TO DANCE WITH THEM WAS THE MOST DANGEROUS I AND MY PALM-WINE TAPSTER IN THE DEAD'S TOWN AN EGG FED THE WHOLE WORLD. REVIEW on the blog: Soooo, initially, I hated this book hahaa.
The gory descriptions had me cringing and I found some stuff quite demonic (I couldn't read it at night before bed because I was afraid I'd dream of some of the weird ass creatures from the book). This book is just an extreme version of the Ananse The Spider stories lol. It got better after I gave this book a second try. Amos Tutuola is a great, great writer with a freaky imagination. I loved t REVIEW on the blog: Soooo, initially, I hated this book hahaa. The gory descriptions had me cringing and I found some stuff quite demonic (I couldn't read it at night before bed because I was afraid I'd dream of some of the weird ass creatures from the book).
This book is just an extreme version of the Ananse The Spider stories lol. It got better after I gave this book a second try. Amos Tutuola is a great, great writer with a freaky imagination.
I loved the writing style, just not the gory descriptions - those were gross to me. Give the book a try if you like out-of-this-world, weird stuff. African literature enthusiasts swear by this book, and I understand why- Amos Tutuola is an amazing storyteller. I'm glad I went on a read binge today to finish the book- FINALLLY (I've been trying to finish this book since October 2014. Yes y'all, its been a struggle!
'I cut a tree and carved it into a paddle, then I gave it to my wife and I told her to enter the river with me; when we entered the river, I commanded one juju which was given me by a kind spirit who was a friend of mine and at once the juju changed me to a big canoe. Then my wife went inside the canoe with the paddle and paddling it, she used the canoe as 'ferry' to carry passengers across the river, the fare for adults was 3d (three pence) and half fare for children.' 'When we traveled for two 'I cut a tree and carved it into a paddle, then I gave it to my wife and I told her to enter the river with me; when we entered the river, I commanded one juju which was given me by a kind spirit who was a friend of mine and at once the juju changed me to a big canoe. Then my wife went inside the canoe with the paddle and paddling it, she used the canoe as 'ferry' to carry passengers across the river, the fare for adults was 3d (three pence) and half fare for children.' 'When we traveled for two and half days, we reached the Deads' road from which dead babies drove us, and when we reached there, we could not travel on it because of fearful dead babies, etc.
Which were still on it.' Amos Tutuola begins the transcription of African oral literature with a sprawling and entirely unpredictable account of the Father of All Gods traveling for more than a decade-mostly in the company of a wife that he picks up along the way-in search of his prodigiously skillful (and lamentably deceased) palm-wine tapster. The passages above should give some idea of the strange, confident and somehow abridged use of grammar, along with the narrator's focused refusal to provide ancillary details or supporting facts while describing outlandish events that seem to beg for more attention. How do you devote just three sentences out of 130 pages to the time that you transformed yourself into a canoe in order for your wife to make lunch money by using you as a passenger vehicle? 'The Palm-Wine Drinkard' reads like a compendium of folklore.
It is unified by the mission of the protagonist; but many of the episodes are so symbolically and moralistically complete that they seem borrowed from oral traditions where they might normally stand alone. Unless you regularly consume fairy tales or ancient folklore, Tutuola's effort should prove a refreshing and memorable experience.
Do not expect great attention to structure or particularly satisfying resolution; come along for the ride. Interesting book with a fabulous, unique style that melds Yoruban folktales with contemporary life in a classic 'there and back again plot structure' that revolves around drinking wine. The short tales themselves are hit-or-miss; Tutuola's protagonist suffers, as does Superman and the RAMAYANA's Rama, from a sort of plot immortality that means we read almost exclusively for descriptions. When they are good, as in the story of the Skull disguised as the complete gentleman (a skull borrows body pa Interesting book with a fabulous, unique style that melds Yoruban folktales with contemporary life in a classic 'there and back again plot structure' that revolves around drinking wine.
The short tales themselves are hit-or-miss; Tutuola's protagonist suffers, as does Superman and the RAMAYANA's Rama, from a sort of plot immortality that means we read almost exclusively for descriptions. When they are good, as in the story of the Skull disguised as the complete gentleman (a skull borrows body parts from many others and becomes so attractive that the narrator cries in jealousy), I read happily; other times, when the situation revolved around some sort of sizable monster and the outcome wasn't in doubt, it was a bit of a drag. Tutuola is remarkable with a parenthetical - 'I stopped and dug a pit of his (Death's) size on the centre of that road, after that I spread the net which the old man gave me to bring him (Death) with on that pit.'
- and seems to figure out some of his narrative problems as he goes along - the lead loses his magical abilities and becomes mortal toward the end, after which he is repeatedly tortured and shaved bald. His arrival in Dead Man's town toward the end of book is particularly wonderful. DRINKARD has some of the joy of GULLIVER'S TRAVELS or PHANTOM TOLLBOOTH, with the ambition, though not the structure, of ARABIAN NIGHTS. Oddly enough, the best thing of all is the 3 page long postscript where the author lays out the details of his own life. It retains his wonderful use of English and mingles in a bitterness about his lot that is a strong contrast to his immortal lead - though we know while reading it that Tutuola had his own improbable, happy ending ahead. This is sort of like what the Odyssey might have been like had Homer been going through delerium tremens. The main character likes to do nothing more than sit around and drink copious amounts of palm-wine.
When his palm-tapper dies, he goes on an epic quest to retrieve him from the land of the deads. I don't know which parts of the story are Tutuola's and which are standard folk tales, but in any case what follows is a strange and twisting story following the hero through a series of encounters This is sort of like what the Odyssey might have been like had Homer been going through delerium tremens. The main character likes to do nothing more than sit around and drink copious amounts of palm-wine. When his palm-tapper dies, he goes on an epic quest to retrieve him from the land of the deads. I don't know which parts of the story are Tutuola's and which are standard folk tales, but in any case what follows is a strange and twisting story following the hero through a series of encounters with vicious beasts and supernatural beings. Imaginative and grim. This might be the freshest thing I've read in years.
Bizarrely, it's also exactly what I've wanted out of fiction for a while now: brain-mincing syntax, absolute rejection of any sort of convention, complete honesty to vision. Tutola's matter-of-fact phrasing, coupled with his impossible to anticipate narrative coalesce into an experience not unlike a lucid dream: you're aware that you're beyond the looking glass, you can pull back at any time you want, and yet you don't, you press further. Beyon This might be the freshest thing I've read in years.
Bizarrely, it's also exactly what I've wanted out of fiction for a while now: brain-mincing syntax, absolute rejection of any sort of convention, complete honesty to vision. Tutola's matter-of-fact phrasing, coupled with his impossible to anticipate narrative coalesce into an experience not unlike a lucid dream: you're aware that you're beyond the looking glass, you can pull back at any time you want, and yet you don't, you press further. Beyond incredible. I probably should have taken into account my reaction to Laye's before reading this, but that's the power of a Goodreads' reputation for you. It's the reason why I snapped this up along with 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts' after stumbling upon them both in an obscenely cheap form, as why I read this sooner rather than later.
The problem with my reading is that, while I can do sensational monstrosities (if unrooted in bigotry), such material goes better in a visual form, I probably should have taken into account my reaction to Laye's before reading this, but that's the power of a Goodreads' reputation for you. It's the reason why I snapped this up along with 'My Life in the Bush of Ghosts' after stumbling upon them both in an obscenely cheap form, as why I read this sooner rather than later. The problem with my reading is that, while I can do sensational monstrosities (if unrooted in bigotry), such material goes better in a visual form, especially when accompanied by music and animation and the like. Someone's already made the Miyazaki comment in the reviews below, and I'd have to agree, but while an excess of pathos always sweeps me away in that particular world of films, I don't have such smokescreens in 'TPWD and his dead Palm-Wine Tapster in the Deads' Town. I don't regret reading this, but I only wish I could have engaged with it on a deeper level than academic fascination in more than the few places I managed to do so. As this is folklore and I don't have any paradigmatic contextualizations to make (I could talk about what i know of Yoruba and Ghana and Nigeria, but other than the short-lived Biafra (which was after this work's time) I know embarrassingly little), I will simply recount what aspects made the strongest impression. A novel of breathtaking originality and scope that, despite the fact that it is only 120 pages (and therefore is really a novella) can be usefully compared to the tone, atmosphere, and thematics of Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel.
The language, a kind of Nigerian-Yoruban-English patois, is amazingly inventive and delicious, and it is unfortunate that Tutuolo's brilliance landed him in trouble for his presumed 'primitiveness,' although what seems really at stake is his unsparing exposure of Y A novel of breathtaking originality and scope that, despite the fact that it is only 120 pages (and therefore is really a novella) can be usefully compared to the tone, atmosphere, and thematics of Rabelais' Gargantua and Pantagruel. The language, a kind of Nigerian-Yoruban-English patois, is amazingly inventive and delicious, and it is unfortunate that Tutuolo's brilliance landed him in trouble for his presumed 'primitiveness,' although what seems really at stake is his unsparing exposure of Yoruban culture.
The novel begins by telling us of the prodigious appetite for palm wine of the main protagonist, and the decision of his father to give him land replete with palm trees (and therefore palm wine). The narrative then tells the tale of the tragic demise of the palm wine tapster of the hero, and the search to find him, which acquires the atmosphere of a Yoruban Odyssey. This single narrative of a search for the tapster holds together a sequence of folk tales that have diverse trajectories, like the episodes in the Odyssey. In the beginning, one has the sense of having entered a kindly fairytale world, filled with the kind of folklore one might read out loud to children, but this impression proves deceptive.
The book tells of the sad demise of our hero’s palm-wine tapster and of the search to find him. In effect, this single narrative holds together a sequence of quite separate folk-stories. For several pages, one feels one is entering a rather genial world, full of the folksy stories of the kind one might read to children, but this impression soon vanishes. These stories are harsh, blood-thirsty, remorseless, and unforgiving, and they are almost, almost too gruesome and terrible to read. The major thematics of death, kidnap, and dismemberment. We meet the figure of Death, whose household furniture and firewood are composed of human remains.
We meet an extremely beautiful gentleman who has kidnapped a young woman. This man has 'hired' his body-parts from merchants to trade in human bodies. When he returns his body parts to their owners, he becomes reduced to a skull that lives in a hole in the ground. The single horrific images or episodes are not difficult to endure but, rather, their accumulation becomes oppressive; the more so as one suspects Tutuola of writing an exaggerated but recognizable cultural allegory. No wonder this book has aroused so much controversy! Tutuolo's depiction of horror is, in my estimate, unparalleled, and I am glad he has found an appreciative audience worldwide. Thank you for shipping my personal lungs to me i love them so much they are so shiny and i'm going to hang up just over the heartland and there will be one million mountain creatures inside them and for once i'm so glad there are titles to these sections.
I wish my body parts had titles like that. There a man in here who hires other people's body parts to be his for a while. There are a million skulls that run after a woman and it sounds like petrol drums crushing. This is not about magic this i thank you for shipping my personal lungs to me i love them so much they are so shiny and i'm going to hang up just over the heartland and there will be one million mountain creatures inside them and for once i'm so glad there are titles to these sections.
I wish my body parts had titles like that. There a man in here who hires other people's body parts to be his for a while. There are a million skulls that run after a woman and it sounds like petrol drums crushing. This is not about magic this is about blood. This is about the worlds. I can see how many there are now). This is about drinking to see the dead floating around.
This is the all white town and the all red town and i guess i am the pinkskims cutting my eyes open for wider-ness. You don't have to listen you hear it already growing around you and pushing you nothing but some more love crackle.
“I was a palm-wine drinkard since I was a boy of ten years of age. I had no other work more than to drink palm-wine in my life.But when my father noticed that I could not do any work more than to drink, he engaged an expert palm-wine-tapster for me; he had no other work more than to tap palm-wine every day. So my father gave me a palm-tree farm which was nine miles square and it contained 560,000 palm-trees, and this palm-wine tapster was tapping one hundred and fifty kegs of palm-wine every morning, but before 2 o’clock p.m., I would have drunk it all; after that he would go and tap another 75 kegs.” —.