"It's insane, the number of people who hate America. Including Americans. And yet I don't hate the rest of the world." (pg. 111)

Windows on the World is French author Frédéric Beigbeder's game attempt to wrestle with the unfathomability of the 9/11 attacks. It follows a fictional father who finds himself stranded, with his two young sons, at the Windows on the World restaurant at the top of the North Tower of the World Trade Center, the first hit but the second to fall. As no one survived (or could survive) above the impact zone in that first tower (whereas in the South Tower, one staircase remained intact), Beigbeder's account must necessarily be a speculative one, and for the most part he addresses it with the gravitas it deserves.

The book, despite being a novel, did not feel too different from any of the other books on 9/11 that I've read. This tragedy both fascinates and repels in equal measure, and of all the incomprehensible horrors of that day, it is the fate of those on the top floors of the North Tower which is perhaps the most hellish. "There is considerable evidence," Beigbeder writes, "to suggest that most of them were still alive until the building collapsed at 10:28 a.m. They suffered for 102 minutes, the average running time of a Hollywood film" (pg. 63). Through his narrative, Beigbeder portrays convincingly – and heartbreakingly – the thought process that must have gone through their minds over the course of those 102 minutes: the initial incomprehension and surrealness, the thought of loved ones and the false hope of evacuation via the roof, the slow burning and suffocation from the jet-fuelled violence below, and the ultimate – and still taboo – decision on whether to jump or not. This is, as you can imagine, all heavy stuff, though if you're considering whether to read a book on 9/11, you likely already know you'll have to leave all thoughts of happiness at the door, at least for the duration.

Beigbeder intersperses his narrative with another, more postmodern one, in which the author himself writes about his process of writing and conceptualising the novel. This approach will be familiar to anyone who's read contemporary French fiction, and, to be sure, it is an acquired taste. It threatens to overwhelm the more important aspects of the novel (I used the word 'intersperses' above, but in many parts one could almost substitute 'swallows'), and the approach is made more tawdry by sketchy references to sex and some pretentious, off-the-cuff musings about the author's own life.

In truth, I did not mind this, having been inoculated against this way of writing by reading other French authors like Michel Houellebecq and Laurent Binet, but it's fair to say it doesn't fit neatly alongside the more horrifying story from the top of the North Tower. Sometimes, the material of this meta-narrative seems superficial and even disrespectful (towards the end, two minor characters near death in the North Tower decide to go out having sex on a table), but the narcissistic indulgences, moments of pop-culture juvenilia, and the pitch-black humour (the restaurant is designated a 'non-smoking' area (pg. 25)) are not meant in poor taste; rather, on the balance of averages, they help convey the sheer, absurd unfathomability of the events.

It also allows Beigbeder to address directly the task he has taken on in writing fiction about 9/11, particularly so soon after the attacks (the book was first published in 2003) and without any personal connection (he acknowledges that, "coming from a Frenchman", the questions seem "obscene, voyeuristic" (pg. 198)). In taking the reader away from his characters on occasion, Beigbeder can directly address the problems we have in comprehending this new, post-9/11 reality; the subject that it is "impossible to write about" and yet "impossible to write about anything else" (pg. 8). As unappealing as this loose, essayistic cultural commentary may initially sound, Beigbeder makes the most of it. There are some fine passages (including one on the initial settlement of Manhattan island that ends with: "Once, long, long ago, Indians planted rye here where the World Trade Center once stood" (pg. 264)) that, while not connected to the central narrative of our main characters being slowly removed from this world at the top of the North Tower, are intended, if only obliquely, to help comprehend that trauma. The license Beigbeder grants himself also allows for interesting, original ponderings, like this eerie, metaphysical passage:

"I go back to join the boys to get a breath of air from outside. Perched on Lourdes' shoulders, they repeat the prayers she's saying aloud. In the past, they used to put gargoyles at the top of buildings to protect them, like on the Chrysler Building. Sculptures made to look like dragons, monsters, demons like the ones at the top of the towers of Notre-Dame de Paris, intended to drive away devils and ward off invaders. Will my children, these little blond gargoyles, leaning into the void, be enough to ward off evil spirits? Why did architects stop treating skyscrapers as cathedrals? If they put gargoyles at the top of towers there must have been a reason. Why would they do so, if not… in anticipation of what has just happened to us? They knew that one day danger would come from the air. In those moments of terror, prayer comes to us unbidden. Religion is reborn in us. In the minutes ahead, the World Trade Center, a temple to atheism and to international lucre, will gradually become a makeshift church." (pg. 127)

Though Beigbeder's book can, as he admits on page 301, take on a "power which it would not otherwise have" by "leaning on" the events of 9/11, the shabby moments are far outweighed by the sincere, intuitive and respectful ones the novel generates. "Terrorism does not destroy symbols," Beigbeder writes on page 172, "it hacks people of flesh and blood to pieces", and for all of his cultural commentary, the author with his stranded characters does not lose sight of this.

Ultimately, despite the book's occasional oddness and some understandable, though prejudicial, misgivings I had about the purpose and makeup of the piece, Frédéric Beigbeder's Windows on the World proves itself a worthy contribution to the (surprisingly slim) response of Western culture to the 9/11 attacks. Perhaps the reason that collective response has been slim is summed up in one line in Beigbeder's book. Immersed in the impossible violence, his stranded, doomed protagonist asks: "Fuck, how can people do this kind of thing to other people?" (pg. 113). The more you learn about 9/11, the little stories on that day, the more unsettling it becomes. Perhaps this crude, blunt statement can never be satisfactorily answered. ( )

Insignificant, if not indeed vapid. The scheme and content of the novel are described in other reviews, but none of those seems to express the exasperation it made me feel.

Both Beigbeder's alter ego--his 'cousin', as he once calls him--facing death in the south tower and the narrator who seems to be the real Beigbeder are bores. No problem with that in itself: it's never been important to me that a character, or an author, seem likeable or sympathetic. What is a problem is that they're not interesting characters to read about, though I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that Beigbeder thought readers would find them as fascinating as Beigbeder finds himself to be.. And, except for the setting, there's nothing out of the very ordinary here. Middle-aged men attracting hot young babes? Houellebecq does it better. Author intrudes upon his own fiction? Michon does it better. Musings on life, death and, above all, oneself? A clever 18-year-old could do it better. Beigbeder makes some good points but none that wouldn't occur to that teen-ager, who probably would disdain using as Begbeder does references to pop culture as a cheap replacement for insight.

I've not yet got rid of the book because the reactions of people in that tower are interesting and often convincing (though their actions aren't always credible) and because Beigbeder does manage to give a strong sense of their gradual realisation that they are irrevocably trapped in a place that is with torturous slowness being filled with fumes, debris, smoke, and the promise of death.

I unexpectedly thought this was a great book. I was prepared to hate it. ( )

I unexpectedly thought this was a great book. I was prepared to hate it. ( )

especialment bo pel tractament minut a minut de la victima i en paral.lel la visió del escriptor deu anys més tard.
massa impactant per acabar de llegir.lo, potser més endavant ( )