The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

High Intensity Motherhood

Am I alone in thinking that Helen DeWitt writes like the Alabama 3 play their music - a sort of Country/Acid House fusion with a surprising British flavor? She drives through her fictional life with a relentlessly hard beat of ‘this is it/me; deal with it/me’ with riffs and shouts from whatever’s around - bits of ancient language, unsuspecting academics, cultural connections no one else has ever clocked. She tolerates anything but boredom and whatever might get in between her and her son. She’s the perfect polymath mother for her genius offspring. Mama Don’t Dans 2 Tekno no mo’. She’s too busy feeding the little tyro his daily doses of number theory and archaic Hebrew tense forms. It’s he not she who sets the pace. She’s no intellectual slouch but he breaks the rate. Impossible to slow down much less get to rest. Her wit fits nicely into Bourgeoisie Blues lyrics: “his unswerving fidelity to the precept that ought implies cant and I just couldn’t.” The duet mind-melds like Spock: “An idea has only to be something you have not thought of before to take over the mind.” And ideas sure do, lots of ‘em: ‘How do proteins work? What do I look like, a Citizens Advice Bureau? Oh yeah, I meant to ask about what the Greeks thought about citizenship.’ They spark off each other on whatever the Adrenaline-equivalent of brain stimulant is. Can’t stop. No Peace in the Valley for sure. The world is deteriorating, but because of a sort of linguistic entropy not global warming: “it was depressing in a literature to see all the languages fading into English which in America was the language of forgetfulness.” Maternal love is a kick. Ain’t no man needed in that dynamic duo. No time anyhow. What a ride. What a pair. Sibylla and Ludo.

View all my reviews