Gail Jones’s “A Guide to Berlin” positions Berlin as a 21st-century hub for artists, writers, and musicians, mirroring Paris between the wars and mid-20th-century New York. These cities offer inspiration, affordable rents, and vibrant creative networks, attracting global talents who, in turn, enrich the city with their art. While Berlin has significantly impacted visual art and music, its influence on literature is less pronounced, despite hosting renowned writers.
Cass, the Australian protagonist in Jones’s novel, embodies this expatriate writer persona. As a Nabokov enthusiast, she visits his former Berlin home, encountering Marco, an Italian academic and real estate broker leading a Nabokov discussion group. However, the group’s focus deviates from literary analysis to personal narratives, termed “speak-memories.”
Cass anticipates engaging with Berlin’s “new internationalism,” yet the novel falters by relying on national stereotypes. The group, comprising Italians, Japanese, and an American, presents predictable narratives of victimhood linked to their respective national tragedies. This includes a Jewish American whose parents survived Auschwitz and a Japanese hikikomori traumatized by the Tokyo subway sarin gas attack.
“A Guide to Berlin” initially appears sophisticated but reveals a superficiality akin to a school play’s cardboard set. Jones seemingly exploits the tragedies of others to embellish her novel and add depth to the protagonist. Cass’s personal story pales in comparison to the magnitude of the Holocaust, raising questions about the novel’s thematic priorities. Instead of demonstrating Cass’s writing process or intellectual engagement, the novel relies on external sources of misery to inspire her work.
Berlin’s complex history becomes another element for exploitation. Cass briefly acknowledges the sidewalk plaques commemorating Jewish families evicted by the Nazis and visits a refugee camp. However, she avoids grappling with the historical or contemporary implications of these encounters. Jones appropriates Nabokov’s stylistic flair but omits his psychological depth and historical awareness. The novel’s prose, intended to impress, feels hollow and contrived, exemplified by Cass’s observation about a winter storm: “Snowing again, yes? All those hexagons.”
The novel flirts with the possibility of critiquing cultural appropriation, reminiscent of controversies like Gwen Stefani’s Harajuku Girls or Christina Fallin’s Native American headdress incident. However, “A Guide to Berlin” lacks self-awareness, ultimately descending into a far-fetched murder plot.
Berlin, a challenging muse due to its history of suffering, prompts some to superficially engage with its surface. The title, “A Guide to Berlin,” evokes a tourist pamphlet, suggesting a superficial engagement with the city’s allure rather than a profound exploration of its depths, unlike Nabokov’s short story.
