I Never Dared Hope for You

Hello Gentle Reader,

It’s the small ceremonies – the little rituals – they’ve all been abandoned. True change is inevitable, but that doesn’t mean its always warranted. Some virtues needed to hit the rubbish pile. They were cruel. Generosity and kindness never need to be concealed in barbwire. The old excuse, the firmly held belief: ‘cruel to be kind,’ overpromised the benefits, if there were any. Still, it was routinely prescribed and administered without protest. There are others, however, cast out all the same. For no apparent reason. Out of fashion they say. Out of step with the times. What are the times though now? Now days everyone zips along. They zig and zag without fail, stop, or break. Hurried whirlwinds they rush through. It’s difficult to imagine if the day passes them by or if they overtake the day. Time is finite, true, but still their itineraries never cease. Today everyone seems to live and work towards a series of metrics which measures and track the trajectory of their life. Can’t imagine what for. Life inevitably ends at one destination. How you get there and what kind of life you lead before hand, now there’s the testament to a life lived and time spent. Though, there is merit in the perspective, if you have no idea where you’re going or no destination in mind, you’ll never get there; however, it’s difficult to cede that packing one’s day with activities, errands, meetings, and events is any more productive. Time not wasted, does not constitute time well spent. Then there is summer. A youthful season. Tax free is how Carol Shields once described the season of sun. This summer was on course to be another punisher. A drought inducer. May didn’t bloom or blossom gradually. It ignited. Spring was immolated on the pyre, the ashes swept away. Though June and July changed their tunes. Meteorologists – who only prior cautioned that it would be another punishing scorcher – lamented, how the recent bout of wet weather had made it a ‘bummer summer.’ On such a evening, a few days ago, a thunderstorm pushed through. The wind wet with the downpour lashed at the siding. Rain washed down the windows. The marvelous tip tap of water pelting on the roof, flinging itself against the windowpane. Thunder bellowed, while lighting strobed above and through the clouds, and bolts of lightning feathered undertow. The day itself was soaked grey with on and off again showers. An evening storm capped the day off with unexpected, though brilliant force. Tea is rarely served during the summer. Who wants to bother with a warm drink when it’s a scorcher outside? But as the rain bared down and the thunder continued its arguments, a cup of tea became an apt accompaniment with an evening closed up indoors. At which point I began to wonder: whatever happened to these small ceremonies; those little rituals of no importance? When as a society did, we begin to stop eating a proper meal at a table? Enjoying a cup of coffee or tea? Not on the go or in transit, but just together in each others company, be it at home or in a café. The joys of life; the beauty of the world; come not from the continued unrelenting forced march forward, but when one excuses themselves to an otherwise nondescript corner and retires, whereby they can take in the scenery. One such writer who presents himself as being routinely unconcerned with the aggressive upwelling rush and push, is the late French writer, Christian Bobin.

Christian Bobin is that otherwise uniquely French writer. Where English language publishers are concerned with the taxonomy of what a book is. There are the top-level concerns from which everything can be atomized and specified further down. Everything is rendered and distilled to its most essential components, whereby it can be lumped together with like minded books of form or genre or preoccupation. There’s no room for back-and-forth indecisiveness. No time for this or that. Everything needs to be defined. It must have a concrete certainty of what it is. There is no room for ambiguity. Yet, a writer like Christian Bobin defies this logic. Described as a poet one moment and then essayist the next. Logically then they conclude, he is a prose poet. And yet, no. Bobin’s writing is too palpable, lacking the prose poems untethered concerns with reality, willingly detaching itself to drift away chasing a vacant thought, running its course to a vapid end, and getting lost in some fantasy. While in turn, Bobin has no concern for narrative or character. If these are essays, they certainly don’t read as such. They’re too elusive, and they do not behave or appear to operate in the way readers have inevitably introduced and oriented to the form. Bobin’s supposed essays pay no mind to the rules; the very scripture readers have been instructed to abide by. As readers first encounter the essay as students in academic or educational environments. Ah yes, academia, the lamprey. Oh, how it enjoys to suck the life and blood out of an interest. From the cabinet and the tireless arsenal of academic tools, the essay is the tried and true. Even the word itself: essay, elicits responses of annoyance, exhaustion, and exasperation. It is a medium of tedium. Rather than a vibrant literary form of its own merit. Unsurprising though. The essay, in all its forms – be it report or review or article – is thrust upon students, and like all education is followed up with red ink, criticisms, and a subpar evaluation. Despite being the least defined in form, pedagogy appropriated its malleable structure to educate and inform students of the mechanics of academic writing requirements; be it positional papers, argumentative or persuasive proofs, exercises in polemics or rhetorics. It is the form required for them to stake out their position, define their thesis, argue and defend their propositions, and conclude concisely. The essay is never introduced to students as a form of endearment; it’s a vehicle to drill, prescribe and administer. The essay is the wet stone in which students sharpen their pens. Crueller educators and teachers serve it up with a gravy of punitive inclination. Unfortunately for the essay, the form of Montaigne and many great writers – Ronald Blythe, Thomas de Quincy, George Orwell, Virgina Woolf – are left to be neglected, as the term, essay, induces an unpleasant cold sweat Pavlovian response. Thankfully, Christian Bobin’s meditative lyrical essays are not cut and dry pieces of observational and evidential text. They’re too impressionistic. In a manner similar to watercolour paintings with their mercurial appeal, they flirt with the ephemeral, the play between light and shadow, and the cross-pollination between the two. This explains why many then define Bobin as a poet, as his writings often present themselves having been transcribed by a writer who enjoys the quiet luxuries of being lost with the fairies, or just day dreaming in contemplation by some window or in a quiet corner. Perhaps this is why, the English publisher was quick to add to his titles “I Never Dared Hope for You,” and “A Little Party Dress,” the subtitle: lyric essays. This way, potential readers won’t be turned off by the thought of having to decipher and decrypt poetry, while also being spared the punishing reminder and rod of the essay of their primary and secondary education.

“I Never Dared Hope for You,” is composed of eleven lyrical essays. They wax and wane, but patient readers will be whisked away in the generous ever flowing prose of Christian Bobin’s work, which refuses to commit either poetry or essay; which is why Bobin’s writing is best captured by the French’s simple shrug as they call it le fragment, whereby it can exist on its own conditions unconcerned and unbothered with the fussiness of definition. The first piece, “A letter to the light that lingered in streets of Le Creusot, in France, on Wednesday, December 16, 1992, at around two o’clock in the afternoon,” frames itself as a letter, capturing as best as it can, the delicate fleeting light of a December afternoon. As in the case of all winter light, this one also occupies a fragile state, on the precipice of being extinguished, lost to the onslaught of an early night and darkness that only winter harbours. Bobin’s attempt to capture the afternoon light of a December day, is the genesis for a meditation on the nature of hope and the entrapment and consequence of melancholy. In another piece, “Passing Through Images,” Christian Bobin turns towards the subject of nothing. Not in some philosophical nihilistic lecture. No, its a meditation on the aimlessness, the emptiness of the day, the “vanishing presence,” of a life ensnared by its allure:

“It’s stronger than you: you have to turn down a considerable number of invitations just to preserve a thing that is best described by the word “nothing,”: doing nothing, saying nothing, almost being nothing. it’s where you discover the subtle heart of time, pumped by nothing of blood in your veins. It’s a border state that is vital to you, a thin line of nothing, by glance at the day’s sky, for example, from the bed where you lie, an active invalid doing nothing in your far niente of writing: a transparent light. A blue without density.” 

In the same meditation, Bobin reflects loosely on Peter Handke’s novel, “The Afternoon of a Writer,” which aptly describes the premise of the book, being about: the afternoon of a writer; but also, how the writer is a creature anxious and concerned that he is losing his literary abilities and his relationship with the world, as the relationship is framed within a literary context. Christian Bobin praises the novels’ contemplation; the disregard and demand for narrative, plot, story, character driven exercises, and just marvel at the exceptional nothingness of an afternoon; the minutia of everyday life, its sights, sounds, the lighting; all the backdrop of life that is disregarded as background noise, ambience, or inconsequential texture. It is there in the periphery where Christian Bobin thrives, his essays or fragments sail through, delighting in the profundity of the everyday, celebrating the pleasures of solitude, reflecting on the glorious nature of love, railing against the ubiquitousness of evil, propagated further by television and news reports.  

“I Never Dared Hope for You,” in a fashion similar to “A Little Party Dress,” proves that Christian Bobin is a tonic of a writer. A masterful writer of contemplation; with a poet’s sensibilities for design, coupled with the architectural elements of prose, Christian Bobin explores the sensations, the bewilderment, the extraordinary realities of life, and the profound beauty of the quotidian. While his work may at times be refracted through the lens of Catholicism, Bobin’s work is never verse and chapter, or static scripture. Its celebratory. Even during those bittersweet moments. Those wistful scenes; the fleeting instances where youth is now retired to memory; where hope and joy is but a flutter and flicker of light straining through the endless grey. Christian Bobin’s talent remains apparent in his ability to vacillate between poetic introspection and essayistic delivery. A truly remarkable – albeit underappreciated writer in English – it is no wonder why Bobin and his work is cherished in France. For all the rush forward and through everything, meeting milestones and checking boxes, Christian Bobin is a writer who celebrates days without an agenda or an itinerary. Days vacant, vapid, and filled with the emptiness and small ceremonies, that are required to allow an individual to wander, dream, and reacquaint themselves with the world anew.

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

The Booker Prize 2025, Longlist

Hello Gentle Reader,

This years Booker Prize already found it off to a questionable start, when the judging panel was announced, and amongst them was the actress Sarah Jessica Parker. While its not unheard of for actors sometimes be included in the judging panel – Dan Stevens was part of the judging pane back in 2012 – but critics maintained the actors in question have a strong relation or background in literature studies as in the case of Dan Stevens. Sarah Jessica Parker, raised eyebrows because it appeared she was bringing more ‘glamour,’ or ‘star power,’ to the prize, rather what some may have considered serious qualifications. To be frank: anyone can read and provide an assessment of a novel, but for the sake of qualification, does this inevitably mean the individual in question (celebrity or otherwise) have the qualifications to provide critical analysis in order to advocate for, and adjudicate the award? If yes, then why not have a member of the reading public audition or interview to be a judge? Taking celebrity criticism out of the picture, the judges can be commended for assembling what can be described as some fairly decent novels, as over the years the Booker Prize has found the quality of their lists significantly lacking. Without further delay the following is this year’s longlist:

Jonathan Buckley – “One Boat,”
Kiran Desai – “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,”
Andrew Miller – “The Land of Winter,”
Natasha Brown – “Universality,”
David Szalay – “Flesh,”
Maria Reva – “Endling,”
Ben Markovits – “The Rest of Our Lives,”
Katie Kitamura – “Audition,”
Susan Choi – “Flashlight,”
Benjamin Wood – “Seascraper,”
Ledia Xhoga – “Misinterpretation,”
Claire Adam – “Love Forms,”
Tash Aw – “The South,”

While I do not share the judge’s admission and appraisal that they have assembled the most globalist-oriented longlist, they have certainly made an effort and there are a few unique titles to spotlight as worthy contenders for the prize. There are also noticeable exclusions, such as Alan Hullinghorst with this new novel “Our Evenings,” or “Gliff,” by Ali Smith or “Theft,” by Abdulrazak Gurnah or “Time of the Child,” by Niall Williams or “What We Can Know,” by Ian McEwan. Perhaps they would have been included on the longlist if certain reforms were not introduced.

I am happy to see Jonathan Buckley (finally) get a nod by the Booker Prize, as Buckley is certainly one of the more innovative writers currently writing in English. “Tell,” Buckley’s previous novel, is told from the perspective of a set of recorded interviews with an eccentric businessman and art collectors’ gardener. The novel examined the nature of how we define our own lives and those of others by creating narratives and stories. “One Boat,” appears to be a more conventional novel, recounting the story of Teresa, who lost recently looses her father, returns to the small Greek town on the coast, where previously she came after her mother died. It’s described as an intensely psychological novel, and knowing Buckley the conventional elements will be flexed and bent by his literary mastery.

Kirian Desai returns for the Booker Prize with her long-anticipated novel “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” which took 19 years to write. The novel is an epic love story and family drama novel, crossing continents and countries, as it traces the intertwined fates of two people navigating the complexities of family expectations, matters of the heart, the weight of history, and the alienation of the modern world. Kirian Desai previously won the then Man Booker Prize for her novel “The Inheritance of Loss,” in 2006. “The Loneliness of Sonia and Sunny,” is an unapologetic epic novel and is the largest novel on this year’s longlist.

Andrew Miller returns to the Booker Prize with his novel, “The Land of Winter,” after previously being shortlisted for the prize in 2001 with his novel, “Oxygen.” While at the time “Oxygen,” received mixed reviews from critics, “The Land of Winter,” has been generously praised, and in what can be now be considered strong Miller fashion, “The Land of Winter,” is another novel of tender, graceful and eloquent exploration of the human heart, tracing the trajectory of two marriages in a post-war Britian, during an exceptionally brutal winter, the Big Freeze of 1962-63. Critics praise Andrew Miller for being an excellent cartographer of the minutiae of regular life, his novels are propelled by the intensity of their character driven narratives, and “The Land of Winter,” retreads this ground, but is a masterclass in historical detailing and psychological portraiture, capturing people and a society coming out of the shadow of war and rationing austerity; in addition to the frailty of people, but also their tenacity to persevere. What can easily be dismissed as bleak or relentlessly depressing, is sustained by Miller’s ability to sketch out hope without melodrama.

Tash Aw also finds himself returning to the Booker Prize with his new novel “The South,” after having been previously been longlisted in 2005 and 2013. The beginning of what is reported to be a planned quartet, “The South,” is framed as a coming-of-age narrative of a young named Jay, who with his family moves to the countryside that his grandfather has left them. It’s a dystopian landscape of diseased and dying vegetation. Regardless, Jay is sent out to work the fields in whatever way that is left, which is how he meets the farm manager son, Chuan. What follows is an intense relationship between the two boys, which plays out against a family day which finds itself increasingly infiltrated by an increasingly globalised world. “The South,” carries the hallmarks of a burgeoning epic slowly unfolding, as its set to drift with Jay and his family through the coming years and decades to come, no different then Naguib Mahfouz’s “Cairo Trilogy,” as it recounts a period of extraordinary social and political change from the experience of a family living through it. Whether or not this will help or hinder Tash Aw and the Booker Prize, is still unknown.  

This years Booker Prize is perhaps a significant improvement from last year. Perhaps not perfect, but a start. It doesn’t carry the stench of being organized with any political motivation or didactic principles introduced; though I still wouldn’t go so far as to call it globally encompassing, they’ve listed some unique talent nonetheless.

 

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

– XLII –

Life is an endurance test: jobs, other people, and of course, yourself.

What the Bee Knows

Hello Gentle Reader,

“Parabola: The Search for Meaning,” often shortened to “Parabola,” was one of those wonderfully curated publications. A quarterly publication which explored the nature and history of mythology, folklore, and their ancient and continued attempts to define and delineate some meaning to existence, the world, and the undefinable concept of the human condition; but also, their continued inspiration and parabolic employment in literature and beyond. It was lovingly published by the not-for-profit organization, The Society for the Study of Myth and Tradition. Contributors included renowned writers and poets such as: Robert Bly, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Pablo Neruda, Ursula Le Guin, and Italo Calvino; in addition to academics with expertise in the Jungian discipline of psychology, ecology, folklore, philosophy and a myriad of other subjects. “Parabola,” however, didn’t draw them in for their literary talents or their scholarly integrity and academic acuity; but rather they were framed within the perspective of ‘The Seeker,’ continually traveling, wondering, and pondering in awe and curiosity of the human condition, and the need and capacity to create myths, stories, and narratives in order to explain, frame, and order not only their existence, but understand it in relation to the greater world and by extension the universe. A unique feature of each issue of “Parabola,” was how each issue sought to concentrate and ruminate on a particular subject. For example, the first issues defining theme in 1976 was “The Hero,” subsequent subjects and themes covered were, “Magic,” “Rites of Passage,” “Inner Alchemy,” “Mask and Metaphor,” “Holy War,” “Guilt,” “Words of Power,” “The Knight and The Hermit,” “Liberation & Letting Go,” among a plethora of a back catalogue full of eccentric subjects. The publication’s themes were eclectic, expansive, and inspiring, in addition to being multifractional, whereby they could be examined and re-examined from a myriad of perspectives and angles. Unfortunately, “Parabola: The Search for Meaning,” became yet another casualty to a changing publishing industry as it clangs through time, and its final issue was published in April of 2025. The final theme was “The Mystery of Time.” An early and frequent contributor to the magazine was the writer, P.L. Travers, who is fondly remembered and beloved for being the creator and writer of the famous “Mary Poppins,” series of novels.

As a writer, P.L. Travers maintained a distant relationship to the idea of children’s literature, going so far to refuse and refute all attempts to classify, categorize, or characterise her work as that of a children’s writer. Travers went so far as to publish an essay in The New York Times titled: “I NEVER WROTE FOR CHILDREN,” (in all capitals for added effect). In the essay, Travers hovers over the subject of children’s literature, but rather than land a punch or mount a reasonable defense of why she is not a children’s writer, she instead skirts the issue as much as possible, and in doing so adds further fog and uncertainty to the already amorphous identity that children’s literature encompasses. P.L. Travers is less interested in assembling a case to fend off and is far more interested in conjuring an exasperated sense of mystique. Whereby, logically, if the subject cannot be defined, how can she be charged with dabbling in it? When Travers decides to rapier into the realm of polemics, she’s pointed in her flèches, accusing publishers and booksellers of being the real culprits for the need to delineate literature between the realms of adulthood and children; expressing further exasperation when books are placed into age groups:

“[. . .] I see books labeled for “From 5 to 7” or “From 9 to 12,” because who is to know what child will be moved by what book and at what age? Who is to be the judge?”

While Travers is thankful that some children have indeed found her books and were kind enough to read them, she maintains she never wrote with them as the intended target audience. A point further illustrated when P.L. Travers invokes other children’s writers from Beatrix Potter to Lewis Carol and Maurice Sendak. In particular, Travers summons forth Beatrix Potter’s own defense and annoyance at being defined and equally dismissed as a children’s writer: “I write to please myself!” P.L. Travers remains, however, not necessarily offended in the continued review and appraisal of her work as a writer of children’s literature, but rather how demeaning this is not only to her as a writer, but also to children or adults who decide to enjoy the work, and engage with the sense and spirit of being ‘childlike.’ Regardless, P.L. Travers maintains the position she is not a writer concerned with the literary habits of children; but instead, a practitioner and devotee to myth and folklore. No different then The Brothers Grimm and the Ancient Greek orators. What saves Travers from entrenching herself into an indignant position is her attitude towards children and their readings. Rather then being disdainful and dismissive of the book’s children read or are interested in reading; Travers instead decries the malpractice of editors, publishers, and booksellers attempts to corral them into predefined notions of age-appropriate material, the aptly aforementioned labels: ‘From 5 to 7,’ or ‘From 9 to 12.’ Travers rather encourages and supports children having the agency and curiosity to explore all books that they want to read and to enjoy them as is. After all, children like all people are interested in stories and if the story is entertaining enough, compelling enough, or thrilling enough, they will happily appropriate it for their own enjoyment, and as far as Travers is concerned no greater compliment can be provided to a writer. Ultimately though, P.L. Travers perceived literature as a dragon’s hoard of treasure, vast and unmanageable, which just so happens to lack any sense of curative objective. What unites it as a whole is an appreciation for language and the ancient act of storytelling.

Throughout her life, P.L. Travers earned the distinction and reputation of being described as a serious and sharp writer, equal to a fire-breathing dragon crowned with curls, who did not suffer fools kindly. She was not the sing-song nanny, defying gravity by sliding up bannisters, utilizing a spoonful of sugar to soften the harshness of reality. No, that tinseled whimsical abomination (by Travers view) was the product of the commercialized imagination of Walt Disney and his film adaption of Travers’ beloved “Mary Poppins.” Speaking of which, it is no secret that P.L. Travers hated what had been done to “Mary Poppin,” with the film adaption, bleaching away the darker elements of the Edwardian nursey and the sharper characteristics of the titular nanny, and replacing them with an over confectioned frivolous showgirl. It comes as no surprise that this would be the first and only film adaption of the series in Travers’ lifetime. It has been resurrected as a musical, which Travers characteristically laid out stipulations for; while a film sequel was released, it is considered an original continuation of its own, not another adaption. It’s difficult to imagine Travers warming up to either of them. The damage was done though, when people hear or think of “Mary Poppins,” in any fashion they imagine a whimsical and charming character, rather than the stern but kind and orderly nanny Travers had created. Regardless, “Mary Poppins,” remains P.L. Travers most famous work and creation. The character, novels, and the film adaption inevitably made her a wealthy woman during her lifetime. Despite this, Travers maintained that her preoccupation as a writer was far more interested in folklore and mythology, which predated the publication and popularity of “Mary Poppins.” This is further supported by the fact that during the Second World War, and in the employment by the now defunct U.K. Ministry of Information, Travers lived for five years in the United States, and for a period of two summers lived amongst the Navajo, Hopi, and Pueblo peoples, taking an interest in their myths and folkloric traditions. In interviews and articles, P.L. Travers presented herself as more folklorist and scholar of myth, which is what ultimately led me to hunt down her collected essays and reflections on myth, symbol and story: “What the Bee Knows,” which is compiled of essays, articles, and interviews she contributed to “Parabola.”

First and foremost, P.L. Travers is no rhetorician or polemicist. The essays of “What the Bee Knows,” are not distant clinician observations or scholarly studies. They are not the musings of an anthropologist’s investigation gradually piecing together a portrait of a society and culture. Nor are they a detailed report outlining the autopsied ins and outs of the fairy stories and myths after scrutinizing examination. No, quite the opposite in fact. They’re strange and bewildering musings. Where other writers and essayists keep a healthy distance between themselves and their subject; Travers, however, openly acquainted herself with them, becoming drenched and overcome; until ultimately, she is anointed a disciple. The essays unapologetically wade into the esoteric. Often, P.L. Travers’ literary voice became more concerned with evocation and enchanting in orientation; loose and easily overtaken by oneiric interpretations or freefalling into some unconscious and interior fantastical realm or other imaginings or day dreams. The expectation of a severe, pithy, and acerbic no-nonsense writer, were quickly thwarted, when greeted by what could only be described as some performative act, where P.L. Travers conceals herself in the persona of some Madam Zelda figure at a séance table, complete with crystal ball, incense burners and overstuffed cushions. Throughout her life, Travers viewed herself on a quasi psych-spiritual journey, often under the tutelage of individuals and gurus such as A.E. (George William Russell) to George Gurdjieff, among others. Rather than review and analyse her pursuit of abstruse fulfillment, Travers instead indulges into a variety of thematic concerns as if they were writing prompts, revealing some critical thought or literary admissions, in addition to autobiographical details, and more ethereal ruminations of the subject at hand. It’s a mixed bag, and often delighted in being more hermetic than enlightening. By the time I read through the first batch of essays and reached the interview titled: “Where Will All the Stories Go?” It became apparent that the conversation between Travers and Laurens van der Post was exclusively between them, and had no room for an interloper like myself. Truth be told, it’s barely tolerable to read someone engaged in a sermon of the mystical; it is completely indigestible when two individuals hoard the handcar and pump it into the depths of the mines of mysticism, extolling all the minerals, gems, and subterranean surprises, while your stranded at the entrance of the alleged cave of wonders. 

“What the Bee Knows,” provides a different facet to P.L. Travers bibliography, one which is always overshadowed by the indomitable figure of “Mary Poppins.” While I had hoped it showed the serious and scholarly talents of Travers, the supposed literary analysis she often insinuated about in her interviews, but instead was met by a writer who seemed far more interested in being swept up in the tempests of the primordial storms of mythmaking, symbol, and story. While they were often interesting at times, one too many veered towards the musings from a psychedelic trip, not necessarily engaging and lacking a concrete structure in which readers can properly orient themselves to the topic at hand. There is no doubt P.L. Travers was sharp and incisive, her interview with The Paris Review presents her as such. While her essay with The New York Times presented her ability to both dismiss the notion of children’s literature from the perspective of a writer who had often been designated one; but rather then offend and dismiss children as readers, Travers in turn defended their own right to explore and read the books they come across, to search out and enjoy the stories that compelled them, regardless if it was deemed age appropriate or other wise. Yet, “What the Bee Knows,” never quite lands with any impact. In abandoning itself to the ethereal otherworldly calls of fairy or the unconscious wellspring, the lack of tether is a disservice, whereby Travers authorial perspective is overwhelmed by the subject matter and is then swept out to some strange sea. “What the Bee Knows,” could have benefited from a concrete clinical perspective, or dialed back the sermons of esoteric occultism and enchantment, the devotional defenses of a fevered disciple, and instead sought a more grounded way to explore an otherwise interesting and compelling subject, that of myth, symbol, and story.

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

 

For Further Reading

 

P.L. Travers, The New York Times: "I NEVER WROTE FOR CHILDREN,"

 

We Do Not Part

Hello Gentle Reader,

Pathos is the nucleus of Han Kang’s literary oeuvre. Han’s preoccupation to explore the intensity of the human conditions emotional landscape, retains a particular interest towards mankind’s proclivity to perpetrate and engage in violence. Violence of course comes in a variety of forms, be it: physical, political, psychological, emotional, or spiritual. Han cartographs the trajectory of violence and its subsequent fallout and consequences with a pathologist’s dedication to understand; while always stopping short of entertaining any notion of diagnosis. Violence, as far as Han Kang can summarize is not an activity or action strictly unique to human beings. It is a forceful consequence of life itself. An otherwise existential and natural fact. Practically primordial. While human beings though remain unique in their ability to enterprise and invent new modes, methods, and means in which to perpetrate, retaliate, and engage in acts turned arts of violence. As far as society and people are concerned, violence is mere natural consequence and tool encompassing change. For example, the guillotine remains one of the most striking images of violence inspiring terror to provoke political and social change and subdue opposition to its progressive purposes and ideals. The guillotine, with its brutal function, was defended for its perceived ethos and humanistic approach. Its engineering ensured the condemned were executed with mechanical precision, minimizing the follies and mistakes of manual executions; while denying executioners their petty pleasures. As such, the guillotine was deemed the most humane form of execution for its swiftness and indifference. A tug of the rope, the drop of the blade, and the deed is done. No different then hanging, public burning, or any other form of decapitation, the guillotine was also a crowd pleaser. A public spectacle where people crowded to coo, jeer, and awe at, delighting in the bloodied spectacle. As for someone like Robespierre, who had their initial hesitations towards employing violence in order to ultimately achieve the French Revolutions goals for rationale rule and enlightened governance, before embracing it as the means in which to further purify the revolutions ideals by deposing tyranny. In turn, the despotism Robespierre curated around him, and his liberal embrace of political violence alienated his former allies and would-be supporters, until at last Robespierre found himself beneath the metallic glare of the guillotine.

Designating pathos as the stellar core of one’s literary preoccupations is riddled with challenges and pitfalls. Especially for Han Kang’s unapologetic surveying of violence as an inherent natural and existential factor of the human condition. Poor writing, terrible execution, and no sense of planning, means the work is always teetering on the precipice of melodramatic hysteria, sensationalism, hyperbole, and such mawkish second-hand emotion, that any actual weight and discussion of these elements are lost within the white noise of a writer who has no control or appreciation of their subject matter, and therefore has no business or talent writing about the subject. Writers who perilously dive into the cavernous landscape of emotional spelunking, are often lost within their subject, which overpowers their work with solicitous sentiment. There is nothing as frivolous as a writer whose work panders for affecting responses from their reader. Its feeble as it is cheap, with no literary quality or hope of redemption. Thankfully for Han Kang, her use of language is what steers her novels from becoming moored and mired within the swamp and ruin of such frivolity. Han’s literary language relies on brittle lyricism to make its case, avoiding smouldering on shock value sensationalism, or lingering to long wallowing into caricature of melodrama. In “Human Acts,” Han wrote about the inherent violence of the Gwangju Uprsing with a frankness towards the real human cost; while ensuring she can sketch out the sinew to other episodes and perspectives ensuring the narrative was capable of moving forward, without chewing on the macabre and grotesque details. In an opening chapter, the boy recounts the makeshift morgue being used to house the bodies of the dead. The bodies washed. Their details and identities recorded. Han reticently observes these moments with their resolve and resilience, not in the death of the participants, but the care, order, and administrative efficiency taking place in managing the deceased. In one scene though, to offer a glimpse or understanding of the events which had previously taken place and a foreshadowing to the events that will take place; Han describes one body whose neck has been sliced open by bayonet. The red of the wound and the uvula dangling at the back of the throat. The image speaks for itself. Han does not insulate further with brutalist imagery or extrapolate beyond; the scene stands alone. The same tactics are employed in, “The White Book,” a deeply personal and autobiographical novel, whereby Han recounts the tragic circumstances of her older sister’s birth and death, juxtaposing it against a writer who’s on a retreat in Warsaw, Poland, who reflects on the city’s decimation and destruction during the Second World War and the process of it being rebuilt. Woven throughout the narrative is an inventory of white objects and poetic philosophising on the colour white, the nature of grief, loss, and the fragility of the human condition. The sparsity of the work, the ellipses and its elliptical nature ensure it’s a short fragmentary meditation, provides enough space for the work to breathe in its poetic intensity, without becoming indulgent in solipsism.

Han Kang’s skill in utilizing figurative language effectively, restraint, and literary maturity to understand and veer towards subtlety, when writing about subjects which are inherently flavoured with a heightened degree and level of poignancy, and detail historical acts of brutality and violence, it is safe to assume that her most recent novel to be translated, “We Do Not Part,” would once against showcase Han’s curated control of her brittle lyricism and dedication to probing the enduring question of violence and its relationship to the human condition, by recounting a brutal atrocity that had taken place within contemporary Korean history. Instead, “We Do Not Part,” didn’t quite land its punches or find its footing. “Human Acts,” was a symphonic novel. Structured around the political uprising and subsequent crack down and slaughter in the city of Gwangju, the novel spiraled outwards, showcasing how the events that took place within that city continue to reverberate, and how those consequential effects persist with the families of victims, and are felt within the society at large, and remembered within a societal and collective consciousness. This gave, “Human Acts,” a concrete structure, a scaffolding if you will, in which the novel continued to build off and gain momentum. The second chapter of the boy’s soul’s desperation to get home to say goodbye to his mother before the sun rises, remains an exhilarating piece, showcasing Han’s talents to propel a narrative with a sense of emotional urgency, while remaining coldly distant, to ensuring the impacts landed organically rather than manufacturing the required responses. In “We Do Not Part,” the prose became overladen with cumbersome repetition, and lacked the necessary focal point in which to take off. Instead, Han’s fragile lyricism became lost within the white noise of its own production. Or if more preferable, lost within increasingly tiresome descriptions of snow and wind. Throughout the beginning of the novel and continued well after, the prose and sentences became increasingly episodic, simply describing “then this happened, then this happened, then this happened, then this happened,” as if Han found it difficult to find the natural rhythm or flow to propel the narrative and instead described minute actions and responses as they happened in a manner of a play by play.

In addition, “We Do Not Part,” lacks the concrete structure of “Human Acts,” where the symphony bloomed; instead, “We Do Not Part,” is more ephemeral, lacking the gravity to anchor it. Instead, the novel is characterized as more of a singular flame within a non-descript room, whose light exists only to showcase the dancing flickering mercurial shadows shifting, twisting, and changing on the wall and ceiling, as they always remain imperceptible and constantly in motion. This is perhaps the biggest downfall of “We Do Not Part,” as the novels prose became increasingly circuitous. Crossing and crisscrossing the same ordeals. Treading and retreading the same territory. Kyungha’s snow ridden odyssey through Jeju Island to get to Inseon’s remote village and home, should at once be filled with tension and urgency to save the bird; instead, it becomes lugubrious and laborious. Leaving many readers to wonder: what’s the point? Then there is the premise of the novel. “We Do Not Part,” draws out getting to the discussion of the massacre that took place on Jeju Island, and when it finally reaches this pinnacle, Han appears to cram all her research and testimony into the island’s tragic history and unresolved grief into the last three quarters of the novel. It also became increasingly apparent, that Han only started to find her footing as the novel began to conclude. Her lyricism became sharper, clearer, and far more engaging. Kyungha’s moaning and wallowing ceased, beyond a few non-descript comments about the cold and chill; but in the delirium of the later components of the novel, Kyungha thankfully became less perceptible, without commenting on her ailments, or projecting a sense of longing companionship on an elderly passerby.

“We Do Not Part,” is Han Kang’s longest novel (which is currently translated). In previous novels, such as “Greek Lessons,” Han showcased herself as a master of the slow burn, gradually delving into the psychological interior of her characters, her prose penetrating and image rich, provide enough bait and tackle to string readers along. The same can be said of the “The White Book,” whereby the personal—even private—nature of the work is tolerated because Han is sparing. The waxing prose of Han’s book allows it to ruminate and contemplate the nature of loss, grief, and their relation to love, and in turn the kernel of guilt that is felt with the understanding that her life is only made possible because of the death of her older sister. Once again though, Han’s prose is psychologically acute without being self-indulgent. Its evocation comes through a layering of images and an association of images, and the metaphors produced from there. “We Do Not Part,” lacks this in its first half to three quarters. The novel would have benefited from being moulded and shaped more; pruned and sharpened with greater scrutiny. Instead, the rambling meandering roundabout journey became vacuous and vapid. “We Do Not Part,” could have employed a more concrete structure, instead of relying on snow which is unreliable, as it drifts, blows, and accumulates, and sadly the novel got lost within the ether of it, becoming colourless and anesthesia inducing. “We Do Not Part,” is disappointing, and rightfully so, because Han Kang can do better and has proven as much; furthermore, the assertion to call “We Do Not Part,” Han’s masterpiece, is misguided as it is disagreeable.

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

– XLI –

Education is not everything, but it is a component of opportunity. At the very least: it makes you more interesting.  

Edmund White Dies Aged 85

Hello Gentle Reader,

While it’s not a term that I appreciate or endorse, regardless of the younger generations attempts at remediation of it, The Chicago Tribune is correct in defining Edmund White as “the godfather of queer lit[erature],” a sentiment echoed by Alan Hollinghurst, who described White as “The Patron Saint of Queer Literature.” More specifically, White brought the gay experience to forefront as a serious literary topic and discussion. While not necessarily gentrified to the point making it more agreeable with the prevailing ideas of romance and sexual relations; White’s work did abandon the shock value transgressions of Jean Genet, and instead embraced a more eloquent and measured commentary on the gay experience and love, both within the confines of oppression and need to confirm or fit in, to the freedom of liberation with all its boundless beauty. In order to do this, Edmund White often mined his own catalogue of experiences. His monumental trilogy, which started with “A Boy’s Own Story,” recounts the coming out tale of a gay adolescent during the 1950’s, this would later be followed up with “The Beautiful Room is Empty,” and “The Farewell Symphony,” which chart the young man’s course through the 60’s and into the horrors of the AIDs pandemic as he approaches middle age. The hallmark of Edmund White’s career was a luxuriance of style, which has been praised by both Alan Hollinghurst and Colm Tóibín, who both agreed that White’s candor and openness regarding discussions and descriptions of sex and sexual exploits, does not need to be framed withing a pornographic manner, but can be discussed within the context of beauty and romance as its heterosexual counterpart is. This may also come from the fact that Edmund White was as much a scholar as he was purveyor of novels, having written biographies on Arthur Rimbaud, Marcel Proust, and the aforementioned Jean Genet. In 1977 he co-wrote the book “The Joy of Gay Sex,” to provide a how-to guide for the other half, and took its cues from the monumental book “The Joy of Sex.” Of course, “The Joy of Gay Sex,” and the subsequent Gay Liberation, was cut short by the arrival of AIDs, which burned through the gay community like wildfire. Through essays, novels, biographies, and memoir, Edmund White continued to curate an environment, whereby homosexuality could be discussed within any terms, be it literary or otherwise; but, as Colm Tóibín also pointed, White was a great surveyor of city life, a true connoisseur of the urbane, and his work could capture the colour, light, and personality of a city. His legacy is monumental in a myriad of writers choosing to explore such relationships and lifestyles. “A Boy’s Own Story,” is a classic alongside James Baldwin’s “Giovanni’s Room,” and Jean Genet’s “Our Lady of the Flowers,” which inadvertently or otherwise set the foundation for a whole generation of future writers to write about gay relationships and love, with all its nuances and complexities.

Rest in Peace Edmund White.

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

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o Dies Aged 87

Hello Gentle Reader,

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o will always be remembered and acknowledged as one of the greatest giants of contemporary African Literature. A revolutionary literary master, whose life and work sought to not only emancipate Kenya from colonial attitudes and lingering influence, but remediate and restore African languages into established and official literary canons, and became renowned as one of the most fervent and zealous advocates for traditional languages to be reintroduced not only in daily life but also in official capacities and cultural institution. This advocacy and in turns political engagement often had consequential effects on the writer’s personal relationships. In one firebrand essay Ngũgĩ criticized the legendary and venerable Chinua Achebe’s perspective that writers can ‘Africanize,’ and subvert the colonial languages of English and French to their own will. The two writers’ relationship became tense after that. There’s a hint of irony in this as well, as Chinua Achebe was instrumental in getting Ngũgĩ’s debut novel, “Weep Not, Child,” published. In turn, “Weep Not, Child,” is the first English language novel to be published by an East African writer, and was originally published under the name James Ngugi, which would later be abandoned in favour of a revitalized name he took, to push back against any lingering sentiment of colonialism and push for greater nationalism and Kenyan identity based on tradition and folklore. Literature and politics often went hand in hand for Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, whose efforts to inspire, facilitate, and maintain a proud nationalistic African identity and pride, one founded on the principles of independence, often came with violent consequences. While his earlier works were written in English, by 1977 Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o began to write and publish solely in the Kikuyu language. Additionally, while Ngũgĩ’s earlier novels were preoccupied with criticizing the colonialism of the English, subsequent novels were equally scathing of an independent Kenya, which Ngũgĩ accused of becoming the old guard in a new form, full of elites who had all but abandoned the everyday Kenyan. The publication and staging of the play “I Will Marry When I Want,” found Ngũgĩ imprisoned without trial by then then president of Kenya. While imprisoned Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o wrote his first novel in Kikuyu “Devil on the Cross,” which was drafted on toilet paper, as the writer was denied any other writing materials. While he was later freed by the new president, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o remained an unofficial political opponent to the government, and while attending a book launch in London, the writer learned of an impending plot to assassinate him back in Kenya, which led to a 22-year period of self-imposed exile. When returning to Kenya after this exile, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was welcome back as a hero, but was later brutally assaulted in his home, while his wife was violently raped. Regardless of the political violence thrust upon him, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o remains a pioneering writer and intellectual, whose promotion of indigenous languages has spurred movements seeking to preserve them. Yet sadly, as in the case of many writers before him, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o was also considered a perennial Nobel Laureate in waiting, but as in the case of other magnificent writers never received the award. Regardless, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o literary reputation is safeguarded even without the award. Ngũgĩ will be remembered and studied for years to come as a vanguard and powerful force which sought to move African literature away from mere concept or theoretical possibility to a subject of serious study, and in turn working towards capturing, preserving, and promoting indigenous languages for future generations.

Rest in Peace Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o.
 
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

Paul Durcan Dies Aged 80

Hello Gentle Reader,

Paul Durcan is yet another giant of Irish poetry. Ireland does seem to produce exceptional writers with a particular proclivity towards poets. Paul Durcan’s career is of no exception. Since his debut in 1967, Durcan proved himself to be an original voice, whose poetry was oppositional and adversarial as it rallied against authority, oppression, and intolerance. This took place for Durcan on both a level of the individual against society, but also the individual against the family; and while Paul Durcan loved Ireland and celebrated the absolute majesty of the Irish culture, he was not afraid to confront its failings either with brutal and eviscerating satire. Don’t mistake Paul Durcan as a poet whose work is infused with the dour atmosphere of the pissing rain of the emerald, complete with the iron chokehold of the catholic church on the eternal soul; or poems kneeling into states of subjugation, confessing, and performing acts of penance and repentance, only to be followed by rallying cries of independence turned cries of mourning due to the senseless of the violence and the human cost. Durcan’s poetry was at ease in unfurling into flights of fantasy and slipping into the surreal. Paul Durcan’s poetry readings were equally highly regarded for their intensity; while on the page Durcan is often regarded as being unpolished – a component of the poet’s style and charm – but in live recitations, the came through, the immediacy in which the poems were composed capturing the complexity and palpability of their subject, were reawakened and disseminated to the assembled. Paul Durcan’s early ambitions to become a poet is now part of his biography and legend, in part because it captures the senseless brutality and savagery of mid-century modern psychiatry, whereby the young Durcan was institutionalized by his father (a respectable, though difficult and abusive judge) for his literary ambitions under the vague diagnosis of ‘clinical depression,’ whereby for the subsequent years the young Durcan would be subject to 27 rounds of electroconvulsive therapy (shock therapy), in addition to god knows what other cocktail of drugs that were administered. According to Durcan himself, he was fortunate to get through ordeal without being lobotomized. Despite the complications felt towards Ireland, Paul Durcan was often an instrumental figure in founding and creating institutions that promote and protect Irish culture such as Aosdána; and his poetry is often found in the school curricula. Paul Durcan is a classic Irish poet, with his formidable wit and indominable spirit, whose love for Ireland is equally tempered by its unsentimental criticism of it.

Rest in Peace Paul Durcan.

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

– XL –

To be beyond reproach is to be dead.