Eastbound

Hello Gentle Reader,

Traveling by train occupies a visage of the old-world travel, one of privilege and genteel inclination. Conjuring images of first-class cars and dining cars, full-service amenities, providing the transitory composition of the comforts of home in the compact, perfect for the individual whose life can be encapsulated in carry on, a requirement for the lifestyle of transit, continually in motion propelling ever further into the distance. Before the expansion and commercialization of air travel, trains were the only way to efficiently and effectively mauver through landscapes. They were the logistic marvels, carrying cargo and passenger alike, on predestined serpentine tracks, they zipped and zagged along, whizzing by onto new horizons. Passenger car rail travel still operates and exists, but remains a European reality, an otherwise densely populated and developed luxury, benefiting a smaller surface area with a denser population. In the case of Canada, commuter rail and passenger rail have all but fallen out of fashion. A few still exist, but are exuberant and luxuriously priced journeys for the locomotive aficionado; while daily commuter trains have come under considerable criticism and scrutiny as passengers of the service have criticized the services habitual tardiness and consistent deliverance of inconveniences, further compounded by a lack of infrastructure investment and upkeep, in addition to preventive maintenance, which only exasperates delays and cancellations. The national railways of Canada, long since privatized, hold only profit in their eyes with shareholders in their ears, exist only to ship freight from one end to the other; moving people is no longer in their portfolio. No, the Canadian mode of cross-country travel is one of independence, the demand for control of one’s asphalt destiny, the long-haul road trip, the dreaded endless car ride. Piled into the backseat with siblings or the overflow of luggage, most Canadian children would be familiar to the term ‘close quarters,’ as they endured and rode onto the expanse of the frontier, passing through villages, cities, and the sense of endless driving into a yawning landscape of boundless space, punctuated with pits stops where one relieves themselves and stretches their legs, before resuming their motorized voyage once more, where bon voyage is aptly replaced with: on the road again. Of course, road trips became a symbol of freedom and wanderlust, popularized by the Beatniks and Jack Kerouac’s celebratory novel of the open road, “On the Road,” which traced the cartography of youthful hedonism as it embraced the discombobulation and disorientation of perpetual transience and movement as a state of being in the pursuit of adventure and meaning in a postwar world. The indefinite sense of dislocation of space in motion, and the claustrophobia of shared travel within the liminal space between departure and destination, are beautifully captured by Maylis de Kerangal’s novel “Eastbound,” which recounts the happenstance chance encounter between two individuals, who in sharing a train ride, find their journeys intertwined within one another, and become comrades and accomplices in a shared escape; at first by a sense of intrigue and interest, fueled by sympathy, later soured into disgruntled entanglement, fortified by the aggressive desperation and plea, until finally resolved  with an understanding that the moment turn off and turn back had long since past. 

Maylis de Kerangal is a French writer whose novels trace and recount with intensity the proclivities of the human condition, ordained towards ingenuity, innovation, and creativity, which inevitably entangles itself within the catchall term of occupation. Through topics which range from cooking, to painting, to engineering, to surgery and organ transplants, de Kerangal places each subject beneath the microscope and drills into the essence of each preoccupation, revealing and unfurling the subjects beyond their immediate and palpable realities, whereby Maylis de Kerangal traces their incognito and ethereal connections to the human condition and the indominable spirit of human achievement and the capacity for creation. Through a literary style that maneuvers effortlessly between breathless breakneck sentences, which skip like stones across the surface, never sinking into the mire of superfluous detail, while sketching and describing the facts and figures of the matter with cinematic grace. Inevitably this means de Kerangal is compared to a documentary filmmaker in a literary sense, whose voluptuous literary language encapsulates and celebrates the achievement of craftsmanship, while exploring through broad brushstrokes the interior of the characters. The exploration of the private interior is the hallmark of “Eastbound,” as it traces the mismatched duet of two unlikely travelers who find themselves aligned and then bound together on the Trans-Siberian Railway, cutting through almost a quarter of the Earth’s circumference.

Aliocha is the first. A conscripted solider who is described as but a boy who has still to fill out the uncertain adult man’s body that he has developed into. Aliocha finds himself amongst the other conscripts, crowded and cramped together, their rowdiness disguising their own anxiety of their impending service as they zip along the far eastern reaches of Russia into the unknown. None of them know where their end destination is, while each of them plots and discusses the way they escape, when they unload at stations they crowd and herd together smoking in close knit groups, never straying far from the shadow of the train and their nearing, albeit unknown, destination, before returning to their compartment:

“He’s posted at the far end of the train, at the back of the last wagon in a compartment slathered in thick paint, a cell, pierced by three openings, that the smokers have seized immediately. This is where he’s found himself a spot, a volume of space still unoccupied, notched between other bodies. He has pressed his forehead to the back window of the train, the one that looks out over the tracks, and stays there watching the land speed by at 60km/h—in this moment it’s a wooly mauve wilderness, his shitty country.”

Then of course amidst the crowded chaos, Aliocha is casually assaulted, a premotion of what brutalisation awaits of wherever he is going, as the train maneuvers through the endlessness of the Russian far east, described as a “enclave bordered by the immensity,”:

“at the end of the rails, there will be the barracks and the diedovchina, the hazing, and once he’s there, if the second-year conscripts burn his dick with cigarettes, if they make him lick the toilets, deprive him of sleep or fuck him up the ass, no one will be able to do anything to help [. . .],”

Enter Hélène the French expat who finds herself on the same train as Aliocha. Rather than feeling conscription, however, Hélène is abandoning her Russian boyfriend, Anton, who in turn has returned to Russia to accept a position at a hydroelectric dam. For Anton this is a homecoming, but for Hélène, who is alluded to being more oriented to the metropolitan, finds herself alienated and isolated within the aforementioned immensity of Siberia, its rugged rustic terrain and provincial qualities, which inevitably have her pinned as a foreigner, which forces her to board the first train out, which happens to be train barreling eastbound to Vladivostok, a roundabout return to France. The encounter between Aliocha and Hélène is a chance once, shared by observing the emptiness of Siberia as it statically flies by the moving train:

“But they don’t move, standing before the pane of glass which is like a movie screen for them, where everything stirs gently, molecular as terror and desire, and then suddenly the night tears open and the landscape hardens outside, clean, geometrical, pure lines and new perspectives, the end of the organic night, the forest rises up in the razing light of dawn, and it’s still the same forest, the same slender trees, the same orangey trunks, a forest identical to itself to this extent is insane [. . .],”

Aliocha’s desperation for desertion, to be spared his conscripted fate, is what compels him to reach out to Hélène, who doesn’t see a beggar or victim of circumstance, but merely an individual in transit, a fellow runaway. Be it pity or sympathy, Hélène is complicit and extends a generous hand to the young conscript. What follows is a brisk and tense narrative. Neither Aliocha or Hélène can communicate wholeheartedly with either one and bumble enough understanding through a smatter of Russian and pantomime. Maylis de Kerangal doesn’t bother detailing the breakdown in language or failure of communication, instead de Kerangal captures their understanding through furtive effervescence and the context of experience. Via narrative, de Kerangal moves between intimate fixation on both Aliocha and Hélène, engaging in detours into their past and psychology, providing enough insight to understand their motivations and their present predicaments, to broad brushstrokes of cinematic detail describing the landscape in transit, or a roiling boil of images capturing the essence of the situation. One beautiful cascading passage, reveals all the Russian images and stock characteristics Hélène had collected and collated when she had envisioned Russia; while the imagined planetary woman of Aliocha, showcases just how out of place the conscript is within the grit reality of military service. Maylis de Kerangal prose is the true gem of the novel, however, which is pitch perfectly translated by Jessica Moore. The sentences skip with breathtaking speed, a parade of images which remain airy and ethereal, never becoming excessive or voluble, teetering on the void of superfluous loquacious meaninglessness, and are stitched together with seamless perfection. “Eastbound,” is a gem of human drama. A mastery of narrative which strikes a balance of beautiful prose with compelling narrative, an absolute pleasure to read.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

– XXXVIII –

Small rebellions, slight transgressions, insignificant indiscretions, everyday trespasses. This is what you live for.

The Great Concert of the Night

Hello Gentle Reader,

In a recent interview discussing the enduring legacy of his monumental novel, “Never Let Me Go,” within the twenty years retrospect, in addition to the threat posed by artificial intelligence, Kazuo Ishiguro casually and self-effacingly dismissed the notion that he is a great writer of prose. Despite heralding from a generation of writers, who were considered by some to be the literary equivalent of the Brat Pack: Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Julian Barnes and Salman Rushdie; Ishiguro insists he is not a master craftsman of prose. While it can be considered a modest and humble remark, there is truth in Ishiguro’s confession. Despite not being a great stylist, Ishiguro shaped his literary acumen for perspective to his advantage, and has distilled the same eternal subjects through distinct and powerful narrative voices. The stoic and emotionally stunted English butler Stevens of “The Remains of the Day,”; the observant and resigned Kathy H. of “Never Let Me Go,”; the manufactured but curiously driven and attentive Klara of “Klara and the Sun.” Each narrator infuses the book with their own perceptions and observations, recounting the events with a slant and a decent dosage of irony and unreliability. Ishiguro’s novels, rely on the particulars of a singular narrative voice to shoulder the weight of the work and provide readers with an intimate tour guide narrative to reveal and unfold the event. Kathy H.’s memories from her time at Hailsham to her complicated relationships with her friends Ruth and Tommy, shadowed by their pre-destined fabricated existence whereby they will inevitably donate and then be completed. Kind words for what is organ harvesting and death. Yet its Kathy’s impermanence and her memories which explore the complex ethical dilemmas and dimensions posed by cloning, and further questions regarding the nature of what it means to be human and the nature of the soul. Klara from “Klara and the Sun,” is the singular reason the novel is successful. Klara is generous and gregarious company for readers. A mass-produced android referred to as an Artificial Friend or (AF), Klara colours the narrative with a fresh perspective, one of sustained curiosity and distant curiosity of human nature, all while being sophisticated enough to avoid naivety, while companionable enough to be dismissed as overtly mechanical and unengaging. Kazuo Ishiguro’s narrators are what enliven his novels, providing them the necessary colour and depth to explore the inherent absurdities of the human condition. As for prose, Ishiguro’s novels are noted for their crystalline and agreeable quality, which are woven through the distinct character and narratives of each novel. Readers would be hard-pressed to find Kazuo Ishiguro exploring the limitations of literary forms. Kazuo Ishiguro remains by far one of the more successful introspective writers of his generation; and while Ishiguro may incorporate pastiches from other genres, be it science fiction, fantasy, or detective tropes; the literary preoccupations remain conventional in approach and execution. In contrast, Jonathan Buckley, is a writer who writes with a distinct character voice, but also explores new and unusual ways in which to explore the nature of narrative, and the pliable ways in which it can be deconstructed and reconstructed; while also exploring the very artifice of narrative as a byproduct of language, one which remains uniquely human in function in the attempt to instill order on events, in addition to attributing meaning to them.

“The Great Concert of the Night,” takes the form of a journal composed over a year by David, a curator of the fictional small independent museum, the Sanderson-Perceval Museum, located in the South of England, whose collection specialises in historical oddities and scientific and medical curiosities. Despite its eclectic collection complete with macabre backstories, the Sanderson-Perceval Museum suffers from a lack of attendance and steady patronage. It is not uncommon for David to note the number of visitors, including if there are none at all. In turn, David’s journal operates in the same temporal manner as a museum. Fragments and episodes are frequently filled with reflection, distraction, speculation, and a casual observation complete with disjointed and sporadic remembrance, which are recalled without the context of time, but braided throughout the narrative. In turn, the fictional Sanderson-Perceval Museum comes to represent both a defined temporal landscape and a character within the novel. It is one of the places David provides any real concrete detail over. It is also at the Sanderson-Perceval Museum that David first encounters the ever-intriguing and charming Imogen, whose presence occupies and haunts David. Imogen remains an eternal subject who David routinely reflects and reminisces over throughout “The Great Concert of the Night.” The title is an English translation from one of the fictional films Imogen appears in: Le Grand Concert de la Nui, and remains a personal favourite of Davids; who first introduces Le Grand Concert de la Nui to readers as he watches it on New Years alone by himself, the film projects an ethereal image of Imogen, one encapsulated within the artifice of film which both comforts and torments David.

As a narrator David is formal and fussy; his digressions are erudite and distant. While journal is curated and crafted to provide commentary on Davids own tastes and curiosities, they reveal little about David’s own biography. Throughout “The Great Concert of the Night,” David remains a passive figure. Resigned and reclusive, he occupies the space of spectator, keen to observe, collect, and if at all possible, preserve events and people outside of the perishable realities of time. Throughout the novel reflections are woven with historical detail, anecdote, inconsequential personal memories and inventory of the Sanderson-Perceval Museum. Memories of Imogen retain a particular fondness and melancholy, where gradually readers are slowly introduced to the various versions of Imogen, as produced by both family members, friends and colleagues, to her own admissions, and the different characters she played as an actress. A former lover describes Imogen’s ability to “disassemble,” as uncanny, whereby she has ultimately “mortgaged herself.”  In some fragments David recounts watching a commentary and interview by a director who worked with Imogen. David as a character is at his finest when his stage-managed museum curator visage loosens revealing the contempt he has towards the bloated egotism and sense of self-importance of one director of Imogen’s films, Antoine Vermeiren, whose unironic self-congratulatory praise is sardonically captured by David and not only disseminated to the reader but shared in turn. This same cynicism is directed towards Val, the new partner of David’s ex-wife Samantha, a life coach whose counsel and advice can barely be called cheapened sage wisdom or rehashed half-baked psychoanalytical insight. Instead, its discounted wholesale wellness practices, complete with all the social media buzz words repackaged in the farce of charlatan self-help rhetoric parading itself as professional service. Then there is William who zigs and zags through David’s notebook like a reoccurring asteroid, but he provides further depth and insight into Imogen, her ability to graceful empathise, it not at the very least, charmingly approach all individuals. Williams theories and metaphysical ponderings maybe far fetched, but he works at getting David outside of himself.

Imogen remains the focal point of David’s journal. There can be no denying David’s infatuation and enduring love and admiration for Imogen; but despite it, Imogen remains elusive, shifting and mercurial. Perhaps its due to Imogen’s profession as an actress and her inherent talent to disassemble herself which continually ensures she remains undefined. Imogen would later affirm that she viewed even her own sense of self as merely an alias, an artificial construct or persona embodied and never quite her own. Life unto itself appears to be a series of scenes or stage plays for the versions of Imogen to come into being. Even when dying of cancer, requires Imogen to assume a role, the stoic and strong woman languishing on her deathbed, in order to make her mother proud. “The Great Concert of the Night,” is a novel which pieces together inconsequential details gradually to reveal a larger picture, in a manner similar to that of a constellation. David’s journal imprecisely recounts and remembers events as they happen, and not necessarily in chronological order. They are laced with excursions and citations from Marcus Aurelius, Blaise Pascal, and Hildegard von Bingen, as well as the fictional films, and proprietor of the Sanderson-Perceval Museum. David’s journal captures the granules of details, curating in the dust an exquisite portrait of miniature that is equally eclectic as the Sanderson-Perceval Museums exhibits. However, there remains no defining portrait of Imogen within the recollections. Fragments and remnants only providing insinuation of character. Imogen remains elusive and ethereal, refusing to be entirely defined and transfixed. Then there is the question of what David’s relationship with Imogen really entailed. Was it one of lovers or perhaps more platonic? Often it appears David is the worshiper, and who can blame him. What is revealed showcases Imogen as never lacking in charm, charisma, or approachability. She comes from the finer stock of pedigree and was educated perfectly and oriented to slip and maneuver through social settings with the fluidity of a brainless jellyfish. Yet, Imogen is one of contradictions. An actress who has no interest in entertainment; who dismisses the contrived nature of theatre and despised the reward of applause, yet in turn held no qualm with nudity or engaging in scenes which were explicitly pornographic in everyway but name, or participated in an orgy, while David resigned himself to the comforts and confines of observation. Acting for Imogen was the ability to shapeshift, and much like a cephalopod, Imogen changes colour and texture throughout the text, which makes her an enduring point of fascination, not only for David but for readers who delight in her quick wit and mordant honesty, which is juxtaposed against others, be it the pompous pretense of Vermeiren or the superficial commerce orientation of Val’s guided self-help practices.

Befitting a novel written as a personal journal, “The Great Concert of the Night,” emulates the capriciousness of memory, often without the context of time. Individuals and characters are introduced without orientation or exposition, and effervescently return throughout the novel, as if upwelled from the sedimentary of personal memory. Jonathan Buckley has been quoted to having said that plot is not a defining feature of his writing and he’s correct. “The Great Concert of the Night,” abandons the conventions of narrative and its editorial fashioning’s and cuttings to create a linear narrative. In turn Jonathan Buckley delights in deconstructing the architecture of plot and narrative and revels in the ruin and details left behind. “The Great Concert of the Night,” is both collage and constellation like novel, plot is abandoned and instead the shape of a narrative and story of an uncertain love affair form from the perspective of David and what he choses to codify within his journal, which may attempt to encapsulate or at the very least capture the essence of Imogen. Yet just as Imogen had operated by designed throughout her life, her essence or at the very least the components of her character were beyond collating, and her life became increasingly elaborate and performative based, existing in the transience of impermanence. “The Great Concert of the Night,” showcases Jonathan Buckley as a writer’s writer, a writer who enjoys playing with literary forms; the limitations and conventions of narrative; all the while putting plot and story on the back burner. For Jonathan Buckley how the events are told or described or perceived is far more interesting than what happened. Furthermore, the multitudes of perspectives continually proves that what happened, remains ultimately undefined. I certainly agree with John Banville and Ian Sansom, wondering why Jonathan Buckley isn’t more widely known and appreciated for his innovative work. As for the faults and frustrations with “The Great Concert of the Night,” come at my own expense, having not sufficient amount of time to devote to the work consistently to appreciate and maintain an adequate understanding of whose who within David’s world. Here is to hoping Jonathan Buckley is will start to gain more appreciation as a writer, having won the Novel Prize in 2022 for his novel “Tell,” maybe he’ll finally secure a place on this years Booker Prize with his newest novel “One Boat.”

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

Dag Solstad Dies Aged 83

Hello Gentle Reader,

While Jon Fosse and Karl Ove Knausgård occupy the public imagination as the best Norwegian writers, Dag Solstad predates them, and it can propose and litigated, it is from Solstad’s own literary shadow, these two writers found their own foothold abroad. Dag Solstad was the quintessential mid-century modern Norwegian writer. As was common of the generation, Solstad’s politics were unapologetically in their far-left orientation, the intellectually fashionably vogue Marxist thought, and during the 1970’s was a member of the Maoist Workers’ Communist Party. Dag Solstad’s literary contributions continued to evolve throughout his career, but first gained recognition for exploring existential themes within his work, with his signature droll sense of humour.  Solstad’s early work captures the bewildering and encompassing despair of the human condition, when it is faced with the complexities of a world deprived of the theological ordinances of God or church, and thereby mortals are left to their own devices to shape and fashion a sense of fate or purpose to their own life. Such is the vacuous void Nietzsche left behind when he declared “God is dead,” and nouveau and chic French writers and philosophers—be it existentialist or absurdist—sought to take the edge off the biting bitterness of nihilism. Dag Solstad is also a great writer of prose. Admired by both Peter Handke and Per Petterson, Solstad has always been the gold standard of prose in Norway. Karl Ove Knausgård is no exception, having gushed about Dag Solstad’s writing. Writers are always quick to praise Solstad’s intelligence coupled with his elegant prose. In the English language, Dag Solstad has always been revered and reviewed as that staunchly late modernist, which is further supported by the few novels of Solstad which have been translated into English. “Shyness and Dignity,” is one such existential novel, whereby another usual and ordinary day for Elias Rukla, an Ibsen scholar, becomes a catalyst and revelation to his awakening of a world which no longer recognizes his life’s work or its merits have all but fallen out of favour and fashion with the world, and in turn he's sleepwalking through life. After an uncharacteristic fit of rage, Dag Solstad autopsies the complications of a man who has become alienated not only from culture, politics, and society, but also humanity unto itself. Whereas the novel “Professor Andersen’s Night,” is the quintessential existential murder novel, exploring the realms of a man frozen in indecision, when he's confronted with an abhorrent crime. “Armand V,” showcases Solstad’s ability to shift gears towards engaging with political in his signature style, the novel prompted the then Foreign Affairs Minister to even pen a review of the novel in response to Norway’s support in the United States war in Afghanistan. throughout his writing career, Dag Solstad remained one of the great writers of his generation, a writer of ideas and philosophical thought, one of the last great experimentalists.

Rest in Peace Dag Solstad.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 

M. Mary

Athol Fugard Dies Aged 92

Hello Gentle Reader,

Athol Fugard was a giant of South African literature, in the company of equally important and politically conscious and engaged writers such as, Nobel Laureates Nadine Gordimer and J.M. Coetzee, Breyten Breytenbach, Andre Brink, and Antjie Krog. Where the others were respected and critically acclaimed novelists, poets, journalists, and essayists, Athol Fugard was a prominently remembered and renowned as a dramatist, whose plays were legendary for their unapologetic political dimensions and critiques of apartheid South Africa. Fugard’s dramatic texts portrayed the oppressive realities of the segregation policies of South Africa’s apartheid system, and their cruel psychological damage the system brought on not only individuals but in intimate relationships. The political cruelty and injustice were a palpable and yet ephemeral source of torment for all citizens of the state, but was designed to exactingly torturous to the black populace. Working as a court clerk in the 1950’s, Athol Fugard witnessed daily, the discriminatory viscousness of the apartheid system, which was facilitated and administered by a venomous and faceless bureaucratic system that was instrumental in not only maintaining apartheid as a system but its continued application. Athol Fugard is often compared to the late Czech playwright turned politician, Václav Havel for his searing portrayal of bureaucratic sponsored authoritarianism under the Soviet Union. Unlike Havel though, Fugard escaped imprisonment due to this own ethnicity and a sociopolitical hierarchy that elevated his stock beyond the majority of the populace; of course, Fugard’s passport was confiscated and his works were subject to book burnings and barred productions of his plays. Further complications of course came from the fact that Athol Fugard incorporated black actors within his work and refused to allow his plays to be staged for segregated audiences. Rehearsals were raided by the police; actors’ names were taken down in writing and many-faced persecution. Posters often listed the players by previous characters they played in attempt to hide their identities. After apartheid ended, as Nadine Gordimer put it, the only subject for “white liberal,” writers had run its course, but Athol Fugard continued to write about the country’s attempt at restorative justice and truth and reconciliation, and later plays were regarded for their philosophical and contemplative approaches. While regarded as a political and agitative writer, the real success of Athol Fugard success came from incorporating political dimensions into otherwise human and ordinary realities. Apartheid may not be named, but its presence oozes through the play, stifling the atmosphere, closing in the walls, to the point its an invisible and asphyxiating presence with an iron chokehold on the characters, depriving them of decency, courtesy, and justice. This is what makes Athol Fugard not just another run of the mill “white liberal,” writing about apartheid in South Africa, but a dramatist who captured the complexities of political oppression in the daily lives of those weighed down by its constant looming presence. Athol Fugard will be remembered as a dramatist who captured horrors of racial segregation in South Africa’s apartheid system and how it infected everyday relationships, homes, and interactions.

Rest in Peace, Athol Fugard.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary

The International Booker Prize Longlist, 2025

Hello Gentle Reader,

The International Booker Prize Shortlist for 2025 has released this year’s longlist of thirteen titles each competing for a coveted spot on the shortlist, which will be announced in early April. This year’s longlist shows a penchant for concision and precision in length of the novels listed, with only one novel being described as a doorstop. The longlist also showcases the judges intentional or otherwise obvious curative decisions in crafting it, by specifically bypassing and omitting previous winners and now Nobel Laureates Nobel Laureates Olga Tokarczuk and Hang Kang, with their recently translated novels: “The Empusium: A Health Resort Horror Story,” and “We Do Not Part.” 

This years International Booker Prize Longlist is as follows in no particular order:

            Mircea Cărtărescu – Romania – “Solenoid,”
            Solvej Balle – Denmark – “On the Calculation of Volume 1,”
            Vincenzo Latronico – Italy – “Perfection,”
            Anne Serre – France – “A Leopard-Skin Hat,”
            Christian Kracht – Switzerland – “Eurotrash,”
            Astrid Roemer - the Netherlands, “On a Woman's Madness,”
            Vincent Delacroix – France – “Small Boat,”
            Hiromi Kawakami – Japan – “Under the Eye of the Big Bird,”
            Dahlia de la Cerda – Mexico – “Reservoir Bitches,”
            Banu Mushtaq – India – “Heart Lamp,”
            Saou Ichikawa – Japan – “Hunchback,”
            Gaëlle Bélem – France, department Réunion – “There’s a Monster Behind the Door
            Ibtisam Azem – Palestine – “The Book of Disappearance,”

The longlist is certainly an interesting take, with an emphasis on the pithy. There is no surprise to see Mircea Cărtărescu on the longlist with his novel “Solenoid,” which won last years International Dublin Literary Award. It is also the longest novel on this year’s longlist. “Solenoid,” is a dense, complex, imagistic novel by Mircea Cărtărescu, maximalist and expansive, the novel delights in sinking into the depths of the subconscious and surreal. “Solenoid,” showcases Mircea Cărtărescu as a true marvel and master of international literature, and no lightweight when credited as a potential contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature. It is delightful to see Solvej Balle included on the longlist as well with her novel “On the Calculation of Volume 1.” The premise is eccentric, with an antiquarian bookseller reliving the same day on loop, but it is a triumphant and stellar return of Solvej Balle to the literary scene, after her explosive and acclaimed debut: “According To The law: Four Accounts of Mankind,” which autopsied the world through a slanted perspective. “On the Calculation of Volume 1,” only confirms, Solvej Balle, is one of the most original writers of her generation, an absolute singular talent.

This isn’t the first time Anne Serre has been included on a translated book award list. In the now unfortunately absent Best Translated Book Award, Anne Serre was nominated back in 2019, Anne Serre was shortlisted with her novel “The Governesses.” Now Anne Serre is longlisted with her more emotionally intimate and psychologically probing novel “A Leopard-Skin Hat,” which sketches the doomed relationship between an unnamed narrator and his childhood friend Fanny, who suffers from an array of psychological problems and conditions. The novel is a tango moving between the maniacal highs and joys of their friendships to the plunging polar points of despair. The novel celebrates these competing extremes, while with literary fashion critiquing the novels forms. “A Leopard-Skin Hat,” is described as personal in context, but masterfully executed, it’s a celebration of an intense and shortened life, sustained by a brilliant friendship. Saou Ichikawa’s novel “Hunchback,” in comparison to Mircea Cărtărescu’s novel “Solenoid,” is the shortest novel on this year’s longlist. “Hunchback,” aims towards the unconventionality praised by this year’s judges, as the novel humorously and unapologetically recounts the world of Shaka a woman born with a congenital muscle disorder, who lives in a care home and relies on an electric wheelchair for mobility and ventilator to breathe. What sounds like a recipe for a narrative of resilience and the unfair lottery of life, is instead contorted into a narrative that is daringly unconventional, unexpected, and twistedly funny, which includes the Shaka writing explicit fantasies on websites and disseminating outlandish (for lack of better term ‘tweets,’) online, including one in which she offers an enormous sum of money for a sperm donor. Facetiousness is tossed aside when her nurse accepts the dare, which opens up a new world for Shaka. “Hunchback,” won the Akutagawa prize in Japan, and its reception in translation has been equally warm. It is by far one of the more interesting titles on this year’s longlist.

Described as a promising talent, Vincenzo Latronico’s debut in English with his fourth novel, “Perfection,” models and reimagines the French experimental writer, Georges Perec’s novel “Things: A Story of the Sixties.” Where Perec’s novel detailed the material inventory of a mid-century couple’s apartment as a critique of consumerist culture, Vincenzo Latronico’s novel “Perfection,” is a deeply pessimistic account of the continuation of consumerism which has since evolved, now hollowing out existence, whereby material reality is no longer necessary, rather it is the curation of images and Instagram posts, complete with likes, comments, and hashtags. Rather than fortifying ones with objects and possessions, its now about designing and upholding the quixotic illusion of perfection. In “Perfection,” the objects and things detailed in Perec’s novel have all been uploaded and become apparitions, haunting ghosts of our increasingly technologically infused nihilistic existences.  

Other novels on the longlist veer towards an attempt at polemics with their narratives highlighting social and political issues, but lacking the required engagement and depth, resulting in nothing more then a high polished glaze of topical news heading discussion without any substantial thought. The writers attempt to explore concepts of privilege, guilt and atonement, migration, postcolonialism and other buzz words of an increasing demand for superficial discourse. Reviewing the longlist and some of the titles included does leave one wondering who was omitted? I had thought personally Ogawa Yōko would have made an appearance on the longlist with her recently published novel “Mina’s March,” after she was considered the favourite to win in 2020 with her dystopian parable, “The Memory Police,”; but it seems the judges this year would not be wooed over with a slice of life narrative of a Japanese girl living with her eccentric relatives in the 1970’s. While the longlist may leave plenty to desire in some respects, where the judges did hit their marks, they hit it well, with a handful of novels worthy of being included. In addition to this, I was a bit surprised to see a short story collection longlisted for the award. Perhaps I was or am mistaken in the past, but I was under the impression that the International Booker Prize required the product to be a novel, just as in the case of the Booker Prize, which means its interesting to see the inclusion of "Heart Lamp," by Banu Mushtaq included on this years longlist, but not necessarily unwelcome. 

While the longlist would not be considered dazzling overall, it’s an honest list, put together with noticeable fissures revealing what I hope to be compromise choices. It’ll be interesting to see how those choices are evaluated and assessed in making the shortlist. Here’s hoping those true diamonds are indeed shine through to the shortlist.  

Thank-you for Reading Gentle Reader 
Take Care 
And As Always 
Stay Well Read 
  
M. Mary 

– XXXVII –

The art of eating is ritual infused with sustenance, accompanied by dear friends and spiced with riveting conversation.  

Frankétienne Dies Aged 88

Hello Gentle Reader,

Haiti is a Caribbean country that summons notions of chaos, violence, voodoo, and a history of slavery and revolution. This complexity of history, African diasporic perspective, and contemporary chaos were refracted continuously through artistic, literary and dramatic expression by the nations foremost master of letters, Frankétienn, whose debut novel (“Dézafi,”) was written exclusively in Haitian Creole, and has since died at 88 years old at his home in Port-au-Prince. Frankétienne was a prolific writer, poet, and painter, and three often intertwined themselves within a single work, which often embraced and made shape to the chaos of the small tumultuous Caribbean nation, whose defining atmosphere is often described as violence, disorder, and anarchy. Yet, when discussing the notion of chaos, Frankétienne took a poet turned philosopher perspective, waxing on chaos being the progenitor of light, but aired caution to the Haitian problem, whereby the chaos reported by the world, was not necessarily chaos in its primordial form, but a lack of management which was ultimately the problem. While not well known within the English language, Frankétienne was a renowned figure in French and Creole readers. Frankétienne’s debut novel “Dézafi,” which is translated as “Cockfight,” proved to be monumental in capsulating Haitian Creole as a codified literary language. The novel is experimental, spiraling, and looping in form, taking inspiration and practice from the 1960’s Haitian literary movement, Spiralism, which was founded and promoted by fellow Haitian writers René Philoctète and Jean-Claude Fignolé. The goal of Spiralism was to orchestrate and self-perpetuate a sense of personal chaos to ignite and reignite a sense of creativity. Additionally, the novel incorporated elements of magical realism and oral storytelling. “Dézafi,” remains a milestone for Haitian literature for capturing Haitian Creole, but also for its political and allegorical dimensions, and practice of Spiralism, which informs the culture and political attitudes of Haiti. The play “Pelin Tet,” was a biting critique of Haitian dictator Baby Doc. Despite political authoritarianism and natural disasters which pommeled the nation, Frankétienne remained as Haiti was both muse and home, and in a self-prophesying manner, Frankétienne understood his work were to complex and Baroque to both or get the attention of the autocratic government. Readings, interviews, and events involving Frankétienne were equally regarded for their sporadic and performative nature, which further expanded and exemplified the writer’s interest in channeling personal chaos and redirecting it to a new creative expression. Frankétienne was also viewed as a dark horse candidate for the Nobel Prize in Literature, often whispered about as an obscure writer which the Swedish Academy had a certain proclivity to award and recognize, much to the chagrin of others. Frankétienn’s death will inevitably leave a large gap within the Haitian literary community, but the writers work—both in literary and artistic mediums—will continue to inspire a new generation.

Rest in Peace Frankétienne. 

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood

Hello Gentle Reader,

Pan is the rustic Greek god of wild woods, pastures, shepherds and their flocks, and is often associated with the season of spring. In addition to his role as patron and deity, Pan is associated with vitality, fertility, and of course virility; in addition to being a philanderer and chaser of the Nymphs, who in turn delighted in running away from the unencumbered lustful advances. In the pantheon and hierarchy of Greek mythology, Pan is a lesser god. The twelve Olympians rule supreme. Furthermore, the patron of wild woods, pastures, shepherds and their flocks, in addition to the persona of virile and hedonistic spring, is not depicted as a chiseled specimen of the human figure, in all its perfection, free of blemish or bruise. Instead, Pan is described as satyr or faun in appearance. A chimeric creature. The bottom half composed of hairy goat or Cervidae legs ending in cloven hooves, then topped with a human torso, and a face which flickers between caprine and human, which is crowned with a set of goat or ram horns. This wild god of lust, the untamed wilderness of the natural world, and the shepherds of lambs and goats, never truly fell into relative obscurity. Despite being a minor god, the character of Pan persevered as a character and symbol. Rather in fashion similar to Zeus, the mighty King of the Olympians, God of the heavens and thunder who has since become the stock image of the Christian depiction of God, wizened and bearded sitting on a cloud looking down at the earth below with judgement, ready to smite with a bolt from the blue. Pan regained prominence during the 18^th and 19^th centuries, becoming a characteristic figure of the Romantic movement with its pastoral allures and rising neopagan movements and other spiritualistic concepts. Consequently, the image of Pan was also appropriated and reconfigured to be the popular and recognizable image of Satan as a goat headed being. Regardless, there is a pastoral and bucolic element to Pan, which inevitably sees his image endure. For the Romantics, Pan represented the Arcadian ideal. The utopian vision of pastoralism and harmony with nature. For those of a more Judaeo-Christian inclination, it’s a return to the garden of Eden. Inevitably those of a romantic sensibility rebelled against the prevailing attitudes caused by the Industrial Revolution, with its coal powered factories and an increased urbanization, which saw the countryside all but abandoned for the promise of the spoils of industry and the gamble of a better future. Oh, how the romantics lamented the abandonment of the pasture, the purity of the air, the simplicity of a good day’s toil in the fields. Of course, they elevated the rural harshness to more romantic and softer image then it was in reality, glossing over the cruelty and harshness of such a life. Still, Pan with pipes in hand frolicked forward and became ingrained into the public consciousness, a symbol of the uncontrolled wilds of the world; harkening back to the over romanticized values of an agrarian society, burrowing and reconnecting with one’s roots.

This is becoming a more entrenched perspective. The idea of simple living is but a new lifestyle fad. During the pandemic, it seems people began to occupy themselves with daydreams and curations of country living. Charming old cottages, wildflower meadow like yards, baking sourdough bread, and participating in needlework and embroidery. There’s nothing wrong with these pursuits. Though there is concern with the heightened idealization of them. While it is pleasant to envision wholesome notions of country living, its not all pies cooling on the windowsill, or effortless beautiful gardens blooming throughout the spring and into the summer, the envy of all one’s neighbours. There’s drudgery and hard work. There is suffering and financial costs and expenses. It is, however, understandable how people begin to idealise this notion of living. Its back to basics with home made, home raised, homespun, home backed, home grown, home canned, the acceptance and endorsement of self-sufficiency. With the threat of economic dispersity and uncertainty, a continual contentious and unstable political environment. Then of course the rising existential threat of Artificial Intelligence. This inevitably does drive the notion and dream for people to tunnel in and hunker down in order to pursue an unencumbered self-sufficient sustainable life. It doesn’t hurt, however, with the likes of Beatrix Potter and the “Tales of Peter Rabbit & Co,” with their beautiful watercolour drawings of anthropomorphic characters does ignite one’s imagination. The same can be said of, “The Wind in the Willows,” another nostalgic read from one’s childhood; where incidentally, a certain god of the wilds, woods, and pastures makes an appearance, and was featured on the original cover of the publication. While country living is harsh and hardscrabble, it is perhaps not without reward; but those flights of fantasy are best conjured to occupy and fill the vacuous moments and times of the day. They are perfect if only because the exist in the ethereal realm of dreaming, devoid of the contusions and bruises and all the other inconveniences of reality. They are beautiful if only because they are a dream.

The cottier lifestyle is synonymously applied and attributed to the English countryside, which as a broad term, employed as a catchall to ensnare the geographical characteristics of not only the United Kingdom but also Ireland. This is a landscape which has been cultured and cultivated by human activity and society for centuries, to the point it is primed and pruned, whereby its wild elements have all been eradicated to distant memories, leaving behind a pedestrian park. In all, nothing more then an insinuation of the wild. While Pan is the deity and guardian of the untamed wilds, his attribution as the frolicsome spirit of the English countryside is not unsurprising. This landscape with its cotter charm, carved out with the serpentine stonewalls, spiced with ancient trees, and enduring cottages, castles, and towns; in addition to lacking formidable predators be it wolves, lions, or bears. The rolling hills of the Yorkshire dales, for example, bring to mind the pastoral utopia of Arcadia in which Pan heralds from. Inevitably this is what is so appealing about the English countryside, whose green shadow has been a wellspring of inspiration and contributing influence on countless writers through the ages, who have celebrated and venerated this special landscape in turn, turning it into legend and character. The English countryside has occupied the imagination of children across the world, with it being the backdrop of a variety of arts, culture, and literary products. In the case of Jamaica Kincaid, daffodils from Wordsworth’s poem “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” represent an oppressive colonial visage and education. While Penelope Lively described, how Beatrix Potter’s books were verdant and exotic when compared to her childhood growing up outside of Cairo.

The literary form of nature writing suits the continued propagation and celebration of the English countryside and landscape. A mercurial genre which celebrates the bounty of nature and examines it. The form exists on the spectrum of scientific study, zoological narrative, ecological exploration, to personal memoir and reflection on the natural world. Nature and environment are subject, but also provide the staging ground for more philosophical and personal oriented digressions. This is perhaps what makes nature writing as a genre a pleasurable read. Its akin to watching a nature documentary, whereby one can admire and appreciate a distant landscape via more economic means. The English countryside in turn, has no shortage of legend or folklore or history for writers to unearth or wander down in some tangent; while providing some thoughtful glance or acknowledgement at the natural fauna or flora in bloom. In contrast, the Canadian backwoods remain the polar opposite of the English countryside with its pastoral idyll and parkland elements. Perhaps due to the scale of the geography, the diversity in topography and terrain, and extreme unforgiving climate, Canada remains in many ways an unspoilt, unexplored, final frontier. It’s the untamed wilds in all their primeval glory and danger. If a Canadian were to take up the mantal of nature writing, it is less about cultivation and natural stewardship and instead is a survival guide with wilderness tips. It’s a practical guide to homesteading. A celebration of the indominable spirit of the Canadian character. The tenacity to persevere in the face of impossible odds. An appreciation for a landscape which remains unchanging and stalwart, while giving the impression of being impossible to conquer. An exploration of the wild nature of man, which remains dormant, hibernating within the pits of the human soul, sated to sleep by societal niceties and conveniences. Pan may be the god of untamed wilderness and unspoilt meadows, he is inevitably absent within the harshness of the Canadian landscape, which eschews the harmony of Arcadian values and endorsed the Darwinian natural laws and principles.

John Lewis-Stempel does not endorse the term ‘nature writer,’ as its far to imprecise as a term. Instead, Lewis-Stempel appreciates the term working countryside writer, which carries more qualification, then a misery memoirist enthusing the benefits of nature therapy. Throughout the book “The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood,” John Lewis-Stempel chronicles the handful of years in which he was charged with the stewardship of the three and a half acres of woodland in the south-west of Herefordshire. John Lewis-Stempel is a pragmatic woodman as he curates and tends to the woods needs, which in turn provides for the wildlife and livestock which call the few acres home. Composed in a diary format of the final year under Lewis-Stempel’s care, “The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood,” recounts the various forms the titular wood takes through the seasons. Additionally, John Lewis-Stempel seasons the narrative with history, folklore, literary allusions, poetry, self-reflection, recipes, scientific and encyclopedic facts and narrative. This outpost of woodland becomes a sanctuary unto itself as John Lewis-Stempel confirms:

“Cockshutt was a sanctuary for me too; a place of ceaseless seasonal wonder where I withdrew into tranquility. No one comes looking for you in a wood.”

As a practising steward and landman, John Lewis-Stempel is not some elusive green man haunting the woods, Lewis-Stempel takes an active role in feeding the livestock and managing the woodland; what is known as agroforestry. In the summer Lewis-Stempel harvests ‘tree hay,’ a accumulation of leaf fodder which is later mixed in with the livestock feed, providing added vitamins for the livestock. The wood in turns provides a few meals of its own for the writer, and logs for the fireplace in winter. This custodianship also entails being the swift executioner of invading Canadian Geese and providing a mercy killing for a sheep which has fallen and broken its legs in a gorge. These details are never lingered on, but presented with the swiftness of fact. This, however, is part and parcel with life in the country. In other moments, John Lewis-Stempel rejoices at the subtle and sure signs and changing nature the season which characterizes the wood, such as the arrival of snowdrops in January:

“If snowdrops are appearing, then the earth must be wakening. Of all our wild flowers the white bells are the purest, the most ethereal, the most chaste… Whatever; the snowdrop says that winter is not forever.”

In due time the snowdrops messages, gives way to carpets of bluebells and a chorus of birdsong rings out in May. The bluebell in particular, maintains a point of pride for John Lewis-Stempel who informs readers that the United Kingdom hosts more then half the worlds population of them. Lewis-Stempel’s description of a blue forested carpet reflecting the sky is particularly lyrical and beautiful; while also envious for those of us who have never witnessed it. The same can be said with snowdrops, beautiful delicate little white blossoms, which signal the end of winter. I have yet to see such delicate flowers in the brisk and bracing winters of a Canadian winter.

“The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood,” is a marvelous seasonal journal and daybook of a working countryside writer. John Lewis-Stempel provides a palpable anatomy of a rarity: a natural wood, which is now a bastion against encroaching development and the facelessness of industrial farming, which has all but bulldozed the good old family farm, reducing it to marketing campaigns and packaging. “The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood,” evades slipping into the didactic and dry academic essay, by combining both narrative and overview of what agroforestry is, its importance not only in maintaining tradition and heritage, but also its ecological benefits, all the while providing personal and lyrical touches throughout, in addition to indulging in literary allusion and reflection, surveying history, and sharing recipes and facts in equal turn. “The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood,” becomes its own literary woodland ecosystem, which is only vaguely described as nature writing. Of course, the entire book thrives on John Lewis-Stempel’s prose which maneuvers between sure footed earthen diction and softened impressionism flights of flourish; though I would not go so far as to describe John Lewis-Stempel as a writer who follows in the tracks of the Romantics. The English countryside remains subject, muse, and piece of fascination, and this in turn is shared by readers, who are looking for a book which can be mediative and casual in reading. “The Wood: The Life & Times of Cockshutt Wood,” is a true pleasure to read, further affirming the enduring appeal and legacy of the English countryside as the pastoral ideal.

 

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

– XXXVI –

Only the young are assured they know everything.