the blue notebook

Recently, I read a new novel by James Levine called The Blue Notebook. The story is told from the perspective of Batuk, a fifteen year old child prostitute living in Bombay. Specifically, the novel is comprised of her notebooks. The narrative technique is very powerful, as it affords the author the opportunity to push traditional topical limits. In the novel, Levine goes further in description and exploration than most would, and creates scenes that he certainly could not through other (particularly visual) media.

Thematically, the novel exposes an important social issue. Child prostitution is a massive problem globally, is rampant, and is one of the more vile activities of the human race. Given the general lack of awareness and attention to the issue, it is admirable for Levine to bring it so much to the fore. Incidentally, all US proceeds from the novel are being donated to the International and National Centers for Missing and Exploited Children (http://www.icmec.org/). Further, since Levine has interacted with child prostitutes as a doctor and researcher, he can more credibly take on the narrative perspective of Batuk. In short, the book is socially important, and comes from a good place.

Nevertheless, reading the novel was a viscerally difficult experience. Levine's writing is believable, at times beautiful and touching in simple ways. What I found difficult were the frequent and graphic descriptions of violence, and in particular, of sexual violence against children. I found myself, variously, cringing, gasping, shuddering, and nearly became physically ill during in a particularly difficult passage. Reflecting on the novel, I have been questioning whether the graphic violence is necessary. As evidenced by my continued thought, and by this post, I was affected by my reading. At times I felt uncomfortable, as though I were reading Lolita without Nabokov's lyricality (and without the implicit social approval that one is given to read Lolita). It obviously moved me in some way, it challenged me, and it encroached upon my own personal boundaries. This is no small part of what good literature should do.

On the other hand, authors bear a greater responsibility than to merely push our boundaries. While important literature should do this, it is hardly a sufficient condition for success. Ultimately, challenges to our boundaries should come from meaning. In this case, I wonder: was the graphic depiction necessary? How did it enhance the work? One answer is that by making the situation real, via description, the author forces the reader to confront a truly despicable (and widespread) practice. While I acknowledge this, isn't the notion of child prostitution repellent enough in and of itself? In other words, wasn't I already there as a reader, given plot descriptions alone?

I probably wouldn't be writing this blog post, though.

Further, who among us has really done anything to educate themselves about child prostitution. Who among us has been moved to take action to help end it? Intellectual awareness of the problem, and a detached recognition of its gravity may not be enough. In this light, I'm left thinking Levine did the right thing in writing a compelling, moving, painful and realistic novel about this unfortunate world.