Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe

 Hello Gentle Reader,

When it comes to literary form, biography is the one which teeters perpetually on the brink of collapse. The prospect of capturing a singular life from cover to cover, filling each page with veracity and amusing anecdote, is by no means an easy feat. There’s also a question of politeness. Perhaps what a skilled biographer would describe as the principle of doing no harm weighted against the value of truth, as the two are not always synonymous with one another. No biographer, however, would want to be accused of having an axe to grind and as such committing a hatchet job on their subject. The perfect literary assassination, with the subject dead and unable to retort or refute the findings of research and unearthed gossip. Prime opportunity to air out the closets and reveal the catacombs of misdeeds. A treasure trove of terror and horror, which will surely shock, disturb and disgust the reading public. Who despite their audible protests and verbal judgements, delight in pecking at the depravity now served up on offer. Without this appetite, true crime as a genre would have already gone extinct. The truth is people enjoy a salacious and scandalous reveal. Schadenfreude is a particular pleasure which people participate in. Whereas autobiography is quite contrary as a literary form. The definition of self-indulgent. The first step in a relaunch for many public personalities and celebrities to regain lost ground. Whereas for others, it’s means and method in which to settle accounts, old scores and set the record straight. An autobiography is always slightly skewered. Sprouting from the wellspring of one’s own life by their own recollection. How convenient. Though there is the understanding that if you write your own narrative (obviously ending before your dead) all those unwanted secrets remain hidden. Memoir though is perhaps a politer mercurial term. It carries an air of sophistication steering clear from the egoist and self-serving motivations and connotations shadowing and haunting the term autobiography.

How a biographer approaches their subject is certainly a matter of personal style. When it comes to academics and historians, it’s easy to imagine they approach their subject with a distinct sense of time, distance and understanding. An appreciation of different temporal realities and therefore by extension worlds is clearly a pre-requisite in which to review any period in retrospect. How else can one reconcile their subject’s casual brutality? Yet, when lopping off limbs was a reality of warfare or a permanent signifier of crime committed and justice served; one can’t argue with the social code of the time, let alone apply contemporary moral judgements and attitudes to it. Instead, these social realities are required to be notated and explained, providing context and texture to the reality of the subject and their own position within them. While other subjects leave behind not just a trove of information, but a dragon’s hoard, as in the case of Patricia Highsmith. Whose two biographers: Andrew Wilson and Joan Schenkar, inherited a wealth of personal papers, information, private thoughts, confessions and details that including every revelation in the subsequent biography would be impossible. Both biographers viewed the self-oriented meticulous chronicling, documenting and self autopsying by the otherwise renowned recluse and viciously private writer, with a sense of perverse irony; but understood in turn that Patricia Highsmith was setting the record straight or at the very least providing her version of events. Andrew Wilson and Joan Schenkar worked with these details very differently. Wilson’s biography was linear and conventional inform; while Schenkar layered her biography on detail after detail, creating a dark labyrinth in which to get consumed and lost in in the life of the subject, who was dark and obsessive and intriguing. Which were only further confirmed and proven by the subject’s own testimony. As far as biographers go, Ian Collins is neither a distant academic or historian; not a journalist or a fellow writer commissioned to crack at writing a biography. Rather, Ian Collins was a dear friend of Ronald Blythe, who would later become the literary executor and pen the marvelous biography: “Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” which opens with a wonderful memory and image of both the subject and the otherworldly sanctuary that the is the legendary Bottengoms Farm:  

“One hot August day in 1988 I took in a sweeping view on the Suffolk-Essex border and then dropped into a green tunnel – like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.

A deep track fell and rose and wound towards the River Stour and first to a Tudor longhouse almost engulfed by a wildly magical garden. Within this sheltered hollow there was a murmuring of birds and a tapping of typewriter keys. The sounds were oddly in unison.

The door stood open. A robin hopped among stacked plant pots in a room which appeared to be outside the house and outside time as I had previously known it. Then, bounding down the stairs, at the age of sixty-five, came Ronald Blythe. A purposeful man of letters momentarily resembled the White Rabbit.”

Throughout his 100 years, Ronald Blythe accumulated an array of introductions and accolades. When appearing on the radio program Desert Island Discs, Blythe was introduced as follows:

“As Akenfield has become a classic, so its author has become this country’s literary custodian of its rural values.”

The rugged scholar and writer of human civilisations relationship with the natural world, Robert Macfarlane, once described Blythe as a: Grounded-Truther. Other monikers include, the Sage of Wormingford, Scribe of the English Countryside and the Bard of Rural England. For many though, Ronald Blythe was affectionally known as Ronnie. Ian Collins description of Blythe as on par with the White Rabbit from “Alice in Wonderland,” affirms the spritely vernal figure Blythe strikes and embodies. Rather faun^* like. Lithe and spirited; the personifications of spring’s renewal and fertility. Even in appearance there was a Cervidae structure to Blythe. A limber and supple frame retaining a dexterous youthful flexibility throughout the years, having been maintained by a lifetime of never learning to drive, which was instead supplemented by a sustained embracement of cycling along country lanes and roads; undertaking long walks along the countryside; in addition to gardening, which Ronald Blythe was equally renowned for alongside his writing. While never satyr in qualities of unrestrained passion or lustful pursuits; Blythe was a reveler of the seasonal changes and liturgical calendar, giving thanks and celebration in tow. While in turn, there were brief and discreet dalliances; but that is all they were. Brief moments of shared intimacy, nothing substantial with no long-term prospect. For Blythe, notions of romance were secondary and tertiary concerns to these literary ambitions, and there was an understanding early on that any frolic or foray into romance would inevitably be a death sentence to any aspiring literary career. The narrative regarding the bachelor turned steadfast apostle of literary pursuit is further thickened by the quiet understanding and uncomplicated fact that Ronald Blythe was gay. No pronouncement, no fuss or concern. In a time where homosexuality was not only criminalised, but considered a mental illness; a state of being which could be cured or rehabilitated into remission by embracing a heterosexual mindset. All of this is further enriched by the paradoxical reality of Ronald Blythe’s faith, having been a devote Anglican, and ordained and operating as a lay reader of the Church of England. Blythe, however, provided the impression of having been unbothered by all these competing contrary components of his being. They were in fact remediated and reconciled accordingly. Perhaps twofold: divinely and naturally. Blythe’s sexuality was merely a fact and facet of nature and as such a reflection of God, whose love was infinite. What may have caused a spirit or existential crisis in others, Blythe tended to without concern, allowing both facets to exist either in cohesive harmony or at the very least perpendicular. All while exercising reasonable caution and judgement to maintain a sense of safety and avoid suspicion. In his later years, readers of “Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” maybe be somewhat surprised to learn there was an embracement of Silenus indulgences. Rest assured, Blythe was far from shepherding or providing pastoral care with a thyrsus in hand. Though the figure of Silenus is not without wisdom – often described as arcane and deep in spirit and scope – which is perhaps best summarised by the Romans themselves: In vino veritas. Throughout it at all, Ronald Blythe remains a verdant figure. A green shadow. Better yet, a contemporary green man rising from folkloric roots of time immemorial, providing commentary on the natural worlds passage throughout the celestial calendar; the personality of each season, each with their own marvel; while reviewing the rural world as it is and preserving the memory of what was.

Ronald Blythe is best remembered for the now classic agrarian work: “Akenfield: Portrait of an English Village,” first published in the late 60’s. The book itself proved to defy categorization and easy literary taxonomy. It was not a point of journalism. It could not be a study or work of anthropology or sociology, as these were academic disciplines of the fine school of humanities and as such were governed by authorities, scholars and experts. None of which Blythe answered to. Oral history, as it is now known, was still in its niche infancy stages. At best it was a piece of rustic ethnography or an authentic rough scrabble piece of social survey. Blythe preferred to look “Akenfield,” as an undefinable testament on a sense of life now in the twilight shadow of extinction and a countryside on the verge of industrial transformation. It captures a tapestry of experiences, memories and remembered conversations through reimagined and reworked local figures, who were often described and defined by their occupation or vocation. Inevitably, the book would transform Ronald Blythe’s life and define him as Patricia Highmith herself wrote in praise of Blythe:

“You are making your reputation as the most reliable non-fiction writer of our era. No fiction writer is reliable, of course, one doesn’t expect it.”

This is further supported by what would become the legendary series of columns known as the: Word from Wormingford, which appeared on the back page of the Church Times. To quote The Guardian, the column was: “one of the most elegant and thoughtful columns in British journalism.” And who could disagree? The columns were later collected into a series of annual editions: “River Diary,” “Bookman’s Tale,” “Stour Seasons,” “Under a Broad Sky,” to name a few, and would later be anthologised into a selected assembly: “Out of the Valley,” and the final centenary commemorative compendium, “Next to Nature: A Lifetime in the English Countryside.” While it is true, that Ronald Blythe is indeed remembered and referenced by “Akenfield,” the Word from Wormingford columns showcase Blythe at the pinnacle of his literary powers. Ian Collins put it best: “But his greatness as a writer was to come with great age.” These rural missives formed almanacs filled with literary, spiritual and philosophical observations and thought, which would enrich any reader:

“Gems of observation, memory, meditation quotation, appreciation and acceptance illuminated lyrical prose zooming from personal to universal in a sentence and time-travelling in a short paragraph – pondering the past and what might pass for eternity, while always praising the present. ‘And remember that the moth and rust must eventually reduce all that you physically possess to dust. A dancing dust, judging by the motes caught in the early March sun which streams through my room.’”

Despite this, Blythe’s literary career and readership would suffer neglect as the 20^th century emerged to greet an impending new millennium:

“In 1999 ‘Akenfield,’ appeared as a penguin modern classic, though subject and author seemed not be modern at all. In the metropolitan world of contemporary literature around a new millennium, Ronald Blythe was dismissed as a rural, nature or regional writer. While still shinning as an anthologist and advocate, an original and universal author maturing into magnificence was eclipsed. When Viking Penguin gave way to Canterbury Press for Word from Wormingford compilations, he was further marginalised as a Christian writer.”

How sad, considering only a decade or more before, Blythe would have been considered a literary statesman in his own right. Ronald Blythe was one of judges of the now famous 1980’s Booker Prize. The same one which saw Anthony Burgess the favourite to win the award with his masterpiece “Earthly Power,” who also refused to attend the ceremony unless he was guaranteed to win the prize in advance. Blythe’s heart and personal favourite was J.L. Carr’s quiet poetic novel “A Month in the Country,” which details a traumatised veteran of the First World War finding quietude and solace in the countryside. Ultimately, William Golding would win the prize for “Rites of Passage,” – the decision famously made 30 minutes before the announcement – and for a while the English literati praised their foresight, with Golding going to win the Nobel Prize 3 years later.

The ease in which Ronald Blyth was dismissed, betrays in essence the ignorance of the publishing industry and the writers they publish; but also, how easily they fall into chasing the shimmering illusion of the next big hit. The enduring fad that maybe, just maybe, turn into something substantial and long-lasting. Despite his faith, it would be inappropriate to call Blythe a Christian writer. There is no evangelical firebrand zealotry in his work. Those seeking affirmative discourse on fire and brimstone and condemnation of the heathen sin bound secular majority, will be left disappointed (if not thoroughly outraged) by what they found instead; as Blythe’s treatment of faith routinely diverged into the realm of primeval and a particular countryside mysticism.

Despite a lengthy bibliography, Ronald Blythe remained a perpetual enigma for many. Even in the Word from Wormingford columns, the unacknowledged observer maintains a transparent image, with no sense of history or personal biography to note. What Blythe did acknowledge or the details commented on freely throughout his life was he came from a rural stock. Generations of farm labourers; a broad term unto itself. Blythe never commented on the abject poverty of his upbringing, his mother a nurse from London’s slums and his father a farm labourer who suffered immensely during the First World War in Gallipoli and would later become a gravedigger. Blythe worked hard at losing his rough country accent by listening to radio. Blythe would later come to memorialize his fathers experience in the Great War in “Akenfield,” in the figure of Leonard Thompson. The imagery of bodies being buried into the trenches and ground spongey underfoot, came directly from Albert Blythe’s own experience. Same with the macabre hand, which the soldiers shook as they passed by. As for the maternal influence, Matilda “Tille,” Blythe imbued in her son a love of words and storytelling. As many of his generation, Ronald Blythe’s education was short lived, having concluded at 14. Despite this, Blythe never gave up on learning. Books, libraries, churches, country lanes. The entire landscape would prove to be an education. After working as a bookstore clerk, and deemed unfit for military service during the Second World War, Ronald Blythe found further occupational success working as a reference librarian Colchester. Its is from here, Blythe’s literary ambitions and life would be realised and transformed.

What Ian Collins accomplishes in “Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” is what makes it a magnificent and spectacular biography. The question of how does one distill and define a life between two covers – especially one as rich, long and great as Ronald Blythe’s – is a herculean task. While indeed recounting Blythe’s life chronologically (cradle to grave), Ronald Blythe’s biography in Ian Collin’s hands is less an ironed-out account and more of a cultivation of a wonderful garden turned wild forest. While Roanld Blythe may be the subject of the biography and its epicentre, the cast of characters who emerge either in relation or association to Blythe is extraordinary. From the stingy great aunt who made some fortune for herself with owning sweet shop, but whose miserly attitude towards worldly pleasure forbade anyone to eat the apples from her trees, except the windfallen ones. The mentorship with James Turner, who was the inspiration of the poet figure in “Akenfield,” and facilitated the ferrying of Blythe into the bohemian realm of the Suffolk artists helmed by Sir Cedric Morris; whose tumultuous relationship with Arthur Lett-Haines proved a cautious warning.

The Nash’s will always feature prominently in any biography of Ronald Blythe. John Nash and Christine (Nash) Kühlenthal were fast enduring friends who became virtual family. Christine in particular, is the fairy godmother like figure anyone would be fortunate enough to meet (and perhaps everyone needs in their life). It was Christine who encourage Ronald Blythe to leave the library and pursue his literary ambition, which led to the adventure and time by the sea, where Blythe would work for the Aldeburgh Festival and come into the orbit of Benjamin Britten’s circle, and make the acquaintance of E.M. Forster. A particular favourite memory and scene of Christine, was the short vignette of how a group of village children playing in the grounds of Bottengoms, whereby a girl had fallen into a pond. Quick to the rescue, Christine salvaged the girl from her sodden clothes with a fairy costume retrieved from a trunk housing the costumes of a past pantomime. In the end, as Blythe took care of a failing John Nash, the now legendary artistic abode of Bottengoms would pass to Ronald Blythe, and is graced with two blue plaques signifying the ancient Tudor houses cultural significance both in visual and literary history.

Ian Collins illuminates each of these individuals like a firefly briefly illuminating in the dark. The quickest flash of bioluminescence amongst the foliage. They include but not limited to Peter Hall, George Mackay Brown, Charles Causley, James Hamilton-Paterson and many, many others. Though Patricia Highsmith does rise slightly above the others, in part due to her notoriety and venomous vitriolic legacy. The two were warm and appreciative friends during Highsmith’s time in Suffolk before she packed up and move onwards to France and would later settle down in Switzerland. It always surprised and perhaps amused Ronald Blythe to be included among the lengthy list of Highsmith’s lovers. The irony would not be lost on either one, considering both preferred their own sex. Yet, in a fling that is now something of literary legend, each one wanted to see how the other half got on with it. Needless to say, it went no farther. The two did maintain a warm and amicable friendship though, with Highsmith inviting Blythe to her Swiss fortress of solitude. Wisely, Ronald Blythe never did entreat Highsmith on her offer, preferring to maintain their friendship from a distance via correspondence. Despite, Highsmith’s own penchant for bitterness and caustic cruelty, Blythe in turn spoke warmly of Highsmith and praised her mysterious and dark elements, which were the inspiration of her novels and short stories.

Inevitably, all biographies end at the point of finality. Especially considering when the subject has indeed deceased. Here again, Ian Collins doesn’t linger to long on the details of decline, but finds praise and appreciation to a small army of ‘dear ones,’ who would come and support Ronald Blythe through his final years, ensuring he would be able to die in the place which had been his home and has been a special abode for many years, Bottengoms Farm. Collins writes of Blythe’s final trek up the aforementioned green tunnel with poignancy, showcasing how beloved Blythe was throughout the community:

“When undertakers arrived for Ronnie’s last journey up the track, dear ones lined the path in a ragged guard of honour – a teenager with shorts and muddied knees straight from the rugby field, his parents, the family of friends. A robin sang. There was a smell of leaf mould nurturing the next green growth.”

While Richard Mabey provided true words regarding the enduring legacy that Ronald Blythe had left behind, having been neglected to long:

“’I hope that our dear dear friend – and hero – may at last be recognized as one of the great prose writers of the past century.’”

Ian Collins completes his biography of Ronald Blythe with the most beautiful image of the world in which Ronald Blythe loved, cherished and ultimately left behind, as we all do:

“For all the natural losses, otters are back in the Stour and buzzards returned to nest in a willow below the garden from 2007. In his final summer, Ronnie heard chiffchaffs and cuckoo as he sunbathed amid dragonflies. He could no longer reach nightingales on Tiger Hill but was lulled to sleep as always by hooting tawny owls and snuffling badgers.”

“Blythe Spirit: The Remarkable Life of Ronald Blythe,” is a truly beautiful biography. Roland Blythe is a marvelous subject, whose love of cultivation was not just limited to that of horticultural and gardening or literary pursuits. “Blythe Spirit,” showcases a man and a writer who cultivated a variety of lives, relationships and friendships. It is difficult to imagine a writer who celebrated the countryside with such grounded understanding as Ronald Blythe, who approached the rural world through a sense of generational inheritance and understanding about being born to work the land, plow the fields, shepherd the flock. In this there was some folkloric wisdom to his perspective, one that could not be achieved or emulated in any academic discipline, be it botany, geography, ecology or biology. A truly remarkable writer, who was criminally neglected, should now be renewed, studied and appreciated. As it is doubtful that there will ever be a writer quite like Ronald Blythe again, who was able straddle two worlds. The one slipping into obsoletion and the other carelessly marching forward. In the case of Ian Collins, I can’t recall ever reading a biography with such warmth and love for its subject, Ronald Blythe (or Ronnie) could not have chosen a more wonderful biographer to record, recount and celebrate his life and story.  

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

M. Mary

– LII –

Resigning oneself to uninteresting work or unfulfilling work or thankless work or work passed over by others is a particular human tragedy that is widespread.

The International Booker Prize Winner 2026

Hello Gentle Reader,

This years International Booker Prize Winner is Yáng Shuāng-zǐ and translator Lin King for the historical metafictional novel “Taiwan Travelogue.” This is the first time a book written in Mandarin has won the International Booker Prize.

This year’s shortlist was an interesting group. Marie NDiaye and Daniel Kehlmann were the two most renowned and recognizable writers of this year’s shortlist with their novels “The Witch,” and “The Director.” Kehlmann was considered the front runner for this years award as well; while Rene Karabash’s novel “She Who Remains,” was viewed as the literary dark horse, for its unapologetic fragmented and poetic narrative; while the brutal and beautiful exploration of the dark complexities of the human soul in “On Earth As It Is Beneath,” by the Brazilian Ana Paula Maia, was rightfully noted by John Self in The Guardian to be an eccentric but absolutely deserving winner.

Still, regardless of what itineration the Booker Prize takes, it delights to defying expectations when it can. John Self in his article for The Guardian noted that only two works on this year’s shortlist were stylistically divergent or non-linear, the aforementioned “She Who Remains,” and the winner “Taiwan Travelogue.” Of the two, however, according to Self, “Taiwan Travelogue,” was more approachable in form, and as such charming in its deviating structure. The novel was in turned praised by the judges for its inventive dressing, concealing and orbiting around the romantic core of the novel, while also providing pointed historical evaluations and critiques of colonialism and Japan’s imperial past, while grappling with the complex relationship Taiwan has with this past, which does not easily define itself into resentment as in the case of Korea, another former colony; but instead exists within a clouded lens of nostalgia and revulsion.

Regardless, “Taiwan Travelogue,” is by far one of the more playful novels to have won the International Booker Prize.

Congratulations to Yáng Shuāng-zǐ.

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

For Further Reading

John Self, The Guardian: “What should win this year’s International Booker?”

Trysting

Hello Gentle Reader,

It is difficult to imagine any subject that has been discussed, contemplated, adored, celebrated, inspired by, decried, raged against and written about, then love. Love is one of those eternal subjects. It is a subject as universal as death. A product of the human condition. Operating as both seductor and tormentor. How many poets have waxed and waned over the subject and its fickle nature. Each of them vexed, provoked, infatuated with it. Desire sweet as sick. The very same which occupies your waking attention, clouds your vision, haunts your dreams. A never-ending swirling intoxicating state. The lilting tune in your ears. The palpation in your chest. The quickened pace of your heart beat. The flush on your cheeks and skin. The way it leaves you breathless and dare you admit, wanting? Eros is a tempestuous state. Imperious as it is impulsive. One untethered and unencumbered. It has the uncanny talent and ability of stripping away inhibitions. Afterall, when it comes to love, everyone is punch drunk. Just look at Aphrodite, the ancient Greek goddess of beauty, love and passion; who was born of the seafoam produced by the castrated genitals of the primordial god Uranus, whose testicles having been cast into the sea by his own usurper son, the Titan King Cronus. The goddess and personification of beauty and love spawned from violence and male virility. Other versions propose the genesis of Aphrodite sprouted from drops of blood falling into the sea from Cronus’s sickle after castrating Uranus, whereby the primordial god’s essence mixed with the waves and water to manifest the seafoam facilitating the inception and formation of the seaborn goddess. At which point one could argue the world would never know peace again. Best not to forget the story and myth of the Trojan War. Regardless, to be in love—that is to be, just head over heels; completely flung off the deep end; freefalling into a state of ecstasy—is to be whisked away down a rose laden garden path. The cost of admission? Discrete kisses, either relinquished or stolen; or worst still, rational thought. Though, this describes the impassioned state of rabble-rousing infatuations. The very ones which cause a kaleidoscope of butterflies to unfurl and riot within the depths of your core. Alit and a flutter. What a dizzying state of giddiness. No surprise though. Eros the god of desire, is the cherubic son of Aphrodite and Ares the god of war (depending on which mythic lineage you subscribe to, others state the father is Zeus while others mention Hermes; never Hephaestus), which explains the volatility of the mischievous gods golden tipped arrows, and their turnabout erisian effects on those shot through with them. Mythically speaking, love is usually depicted with violent cause and effect circumstances. Golden apples; bow and arrows. In the end the city is sieged and burning.

What then of other loves? Where is the one with no proclamations or announcements. The one who refuses to engage in exclamation or exaggeration. Its tender and gentle. The kind everyone else notices before you do. The one, were you sigh all day. Not from exasperation, but the quiet understanding of a still unacknowledged and unarticulated longing. Then there is that wistfulness in your eyes. A glazed over look, distant, though not forlorn. Theres a dreaminess to it; a private thought occupying you. All the while, your completely absent and unaware of your daydreaming. Despite this, it is obvious to everyone else why you are sighing and who you are thinking of. This is quieter love. One tended and cultivated with care, blossoming slowly, with a natural ease. The eroticism, the obsession, the burning adoration, have been exquisitely extinguished. In their stead, is a yearning. Love threaded with a stitch of the melancholic. The pinch of absence keeps the home fires burning.

Though not all love is tinted with innocent blushes, scored with the soundtrack of sweet nothings. It’s not the sighs punctuating the day. Its not love at all, but is misappropriated and described as such. In reality it’s merely the mechanics of copulation. Isn’t that all an affair is, a bit of fun on the side? An intimate betrayal with no real successor. Guilt all around. For him with his unsatiable appetite and wanting someone else to tend to. The other woman (as she is now known) whose taken in by his flirtations, his empty promises, a few sad sob stories about the frigid unaffectionate wife. Then the wife, who swears she gave him the best years of her life, as if she were a used car, and has taken to sleeping in the box room for the past two years of their strained and struggling marriage. Yet, they continue on. After each row, when another plate is smashed against the wall or another dinner ruined by their increasingly bitter and resentful insults. They collide again, reminded of somehow at sometime, they once (at the very least), liked each other. Where then does this leave the other woman? Edward Hoppers painting “Eleven AM,” (1926) captures the isolation and quiet humiliation of this subject, at least when reimagined as a poem by Joyce Carol Oates. The subject of the painting, is a nude woman (though she does have her shoes on) sitting on an armchair gazing out an open window. The light carries the late morning maturity. The kind of light overlooked during the working day. It’s an hour and a lighting of an early lunch. Code for a brief dalliance. All the flirtations repeated on loop; all the promises reiterated: I’m so crazy about you; can’t get enough of you; I’ll leave her for you, just be patient. In the poetic reimagining, the subject reveals she’s been stood up the night before, and has been waiting all morning for the lying bastard. This isn’t love, its regret. A rendezvous with no substance, leaving lingering disappointment. What a perfect subject for a painting. The promise of love and the failure of deliverance. What is in short, the abject and sober regret after sex and the affair concluded. The lies we engage in to coddle ourselves and sustain the fantasy, however infinitesimal it is in becoming a reality. 

Loves complexities are rich and varied. While its fallout, its heartbreak, has been equal fuel for inspiration for centuries. In “Trysting,” Emmanuelle Pagano curates and cartographs the various facets and complexities of love as a subject. Both its universal experience but its deeply personally felt realities. From the eleven in the morning betrayals, to the strange ways we fall in love, all the way to the myriads of ways in which we fall out of love. Through it all Pagano explores the textures, colours, characteristics, personas and disguises love as emotion, response, and reality take shape.

“She puts her arms around me, talks to me, supports me with her words and her eyes. I cannot respond. So I lie to her. I need her in order to become the an I must become, but I’m not sure I love her.

This is much harder than I had expected. I often dream of stopping, but I see her smiling at me and I can’t think straight. I would like her to teach me not to lie anymore, but if I stop lying, I’ll no longer be able to tell her that I love her.”

Written in fragmented vignette’s, love may be the nucleus of “Trysting,” but the subject is anything but static. Emmanuelle Pagano chases, ensnares and encapsulates through the multiple voices and perspectives found in a fragment or a shard, the endless forms and possibilities of love. Be it juvenescent obsession; youthful rebellion in the orchard; the private pleasures of intimate embraces; the mundanity exalted to new heights by the whirlwind of companionship; the sudden sensation of being resurrected, rekindled and encouraged to live again; all of which is captured within beautiful turn of phrases, which continue to explore a literary sensuality when discussing the erotic, showcasing that an embracement of love or discussions of sex, does not denote something merely to sexualization or pornography:

“I wake up, and I can hear the sound of little creatures walking around on an invisible pile of cloth stretched tight next to my ear, stretched between me and him. Between me and him, just enough room for a cloth pulled taught like paper. I open my eyes and its nearly light. He’s scratching his stubble. The tiny sounds stop as he smiles at me. His hand leaves his face to touch mine.”

For good measure, however, “Trysting,” does not skip merrily through the rosy meadows of love without complication, or without consequence. Pagano turns to the complexities of love and their devastating aftermath with equal poeticism:

“It’s been a long time without her now. I’m starting to get used to the loneliness, the evenings, the little seven ‘o clock sadness.”

“Trysting,” often came across as reading the private intimate correspondence of anonymous people. It’s the discovery of ancient love letters, confessions and missives. Secret details tucked deep within their souls, never barred or let loose or revealed. It’s a beautiful book, which delights in the atomised nature of love. Its inability to be captured or distilled coherently in one unifying image or experience. Emmanuelle Pagano has provided a wonderful series of treatises on the eternal subject of love, which is often viewed as a treacle and sentimental subject or worst melodramatic and tiresome. Pagano has provided the cartography exploring how love is an attractive and binding force, while also being the very cause of our disconnect and severance from one another. “Trysting,” is not a remedy or tonic to sate or quell the concerns of a growing loneliness epidemic sweeping western society, but it is an enchanting piece of literature which celebrates the ties that bind and the ache of such absence.

“When she left me, I cried so much I became truly disgusting, full of phlegm. I began to wonder why tears are the only excretions we don’t find repulsive. Perhaps because they’re transparent—but then what about saliva or sweat? My tears come with snot, slobber, convulsive hiccups, and a torrent of ridiculous thoughts, stupid questions.”

While “Trysting,” is a short and beautifully written book, its atomised structure, lacking character or defined plot or story, can often mean the fragments and shards begin to blend into one another, and readers may find themselves skimming along, not quite taking in the beauty of the language or profundity of experience being remarked on. My advice when reading “Trysting,” dip in and read for short bursts and then walk away, it keeps the prose fresh and the subject engaging. While Gentle Reader, if I am to add my own slight confession, I’ve been a resident of singledom my entire life. Love and romance belonged to the more spirited and outgoing people; it would have taken a very special person to coax me out of my shell, let alone notice me. No regrets though. A life on ones own has its own merits, its own pleasures that are entrenched now. Yet after reading “Trysting,” there were times where the “what if’s,” were entertained. What is it like waking up with a man in bed? Who laying next to you, smiles when you open your eyes? It should be noted: when entertaining any speculative situation, you always imagine yourself significantly younger and beautiful, of course! What lovely flights of fantasy though, which were tempered with reminders of how many couples and marriages were in fact unhappy, but marching forward, somehow duty bound to go to hell with each other. Some take their vows seriously. Nonetheless, they were lovely little daydreams, punctuated with sighs.

 

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

Anna Hallberg Elected to the Swedish Academy

Hello Gentle Reader,

Anna Hallberg, has been elected to the Swedish Academy. Hallberg will take Chair No. 18, which was left vacant after the Finnish-Swedish poet Tua Forsström resigned from the Swedish Academy in 2024. Following in what could be described as a conventional tradition now, Anna Hallberg is primarily a poet, as were both the previous occupants of the chair: Tua Forsström and Katarina Frostenson; while one could additionally include Artur Lundkvist in this tradition, Lundkvist is perhaps better recognised now his political positions and Soviet apologist attitudes then his poetry.

Anna Hallberg’s current poetry collection “AN,” is nominated for the Nordic Council Literature Prize.

Anna Hallberg will officially be instituted into the Swedish Academy during academy’s general meeting on December 20 2026.

 

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

Carol Rumens Dies Aged 81

Hello Gentle Reader,

For readers of The Guardian, Carol Rumens column “Poem of the Week,” was an institution of the paper. The column itself provided thoughtful and engaging literary analysis. Rumens herself, carried her columns with assured authority, not because she was an academic or former poetry editor or an accomplished poet in her own right; but rather, because she was a great reader, admirer and lover of poetry. This appreciation allowed Rumens to approach poetry with a affection of the form itself; celebrating its technical brilliance; a poet’s unique style; the forms historical context, legacy and roots; while delighting in the playful use of language. In Carol Rumens hands, poetry (which for the unrehabilitated facilitates a Pavlovian response, whereby readers slouch in their seats, eyes glaze over, minds drifting away, as an academic lecture is unleashed from a professor or teacher, droning on about meter, rhythm, rhyming scheme, syllabic count and stanza organization), becomes a pleasure and a joy. Poets, who have gradually been reduced to the ironically neglected top shelf of ivory tower heights, descend and return, whereby they are read for pleasure; not requirement or assignment. Carol Rumens analyses, only enhanced the poem of the week. Rumens never pathologised or autopsied the poem; dissecting and vivisecting them to provide readers a taxonomical overview of how it operates and functions; nor did Rumens strip them back or down to their baseline components and parts. Rather than looking at poetry through a clinical lens, splayed out on a metal examination table, Rumens operates as a delighted and excited tour guide, who is never exhausted by the wonders or treasures she will impart from her research and contemplation. Rumens guided readers through the poem as if it were a cathedral or basilica or palace or castle, praising the architecture, the craftsmanship; revealing the hidden cadences and inherent lyricism; reflecting on the imagery and symbolism; before pausing to review the entire structure, and cherish just exactly what the writer had painstakingly worked at crafting. Carol Rumens revitalised poetry appreciation, by showcasing its inherent human qualities, its ability to capture the strobe of lightning. Those flashes and fleeting moments which springboard into queries and existential ponderings, grappling with the eternal question of what is the human condition, and what is it to be alive. Carol Rumens herself, was a poet of equal renown, and had written one novel (“Plato Park,”), three plays, while being an avid translator and editor of Elizabeth Bartlett’s poems. When it came to her own column, Carol Rumens reflected on it modestly, revealing the sincere pleasure in reading and writing about poetry; while confessing to owing a duty of care to fellow poets and their poems. Though, perhaps most importantly, Carol Rumens conveyed the real frustrations about the challenges poetry faces:

“I’m sick of hearing that too much poetry is written and published. No, too little poetry is taught and read. A poem isn’t usually a butterfly or a mobile phone. It deserves a longer life. I wish I wrote better about poems and poetry, but I know I should go on writing, any way, as best I can.”

In this regard, Carol Rumens was a remarkable guide for reading poetry. Her columns were erudite and informative, but never dry in their discourse. Reading Rumens column was more like chasing butterflies in the meadows, rather than observing the lepidoptera pinned to boards encased behind glass. Carol Rumens “Poem of the Week,” columns revealed and celebrated the soul, the heart, the breath and life of poetry.

Rest in Peace Carol Rumens, you will be missed.

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

M. Mary

For Further Reading

The Guardian: "Carol Rumens, poet and the Guardian’s poem of the week columnist, dies aged 81,"

The Guardian: "Archive: Poem of the Week,"

– LI –

Insisting on being right changes nothing, except annoying everybody.

J.H. Prynne Dies Aged 89

Hello Gentle Reader,

Some poets have the quality and fortune of forever being lauded and appreciated. Canonized into some literary sainthood. Others are less fortunate. Sentenced to dusty tomes and shelves, neglected, but adored by an almost cultish following. J.H. Prynne is a poet who embodies and could be described by some as the epitome of the later. As a poet, Prynne was considered a defining pillar of what is now reflected on as the mid-century (and therefore late) modernist school, “British Poetry Revival,” which continued the modernist traditions of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound, while taking inspiration from the poets across the pond, with their postmodern sensibilities encapsulated by John Asherby, Frank O’Hara and Robert Creeley. These poets sought to push against the poetry corralled under the banner “The Movement,” which promoted a return to a traditional formalistic approach to poetics, rejecting the metaphysical wonderings and natural rhapsodizing of Dylan Thomas. “The Movement,” also claimed membership of Kingsley Amis and Philip Larkin, who would later go on to be grouped in with the “Angry Young Men,” crowd. Truly mid 20^th century literature had no shortage of movements and ideas. They swelled, crested, crashed and receded, with alarming regularity. Difficult to imagine how some writers didn’t end up shipwrecked, stranded, or drifting as mere flotsam. As for J.H. Prynne, there is no contemporary who could be considered his equal. Prynne was a poet of competing contradictions, erudite and intellectually flexible, while being obfuscating and obtuse. Here was a poet whose love of language would also be the reason which alienated readers and was ignored by academic and literary circles. As critics and academics viewed the work as being to willfully hermetic in nature and indentured to an inflexible aesthetic form, which was not only out of fashion but out of place. Regardless, J.H. Prynne found resounding success in the avant-garde and small publishing houses, who would become his poetry collections homes throughout his long career. It wasn’t until the eighties, however, that Prynne’s poetry found academic and critical evaluation with his first collected poetry selection titled “Poems.” A further collected poems edition titled “Poems,” was published in 2024; Prynne’s prolific nature is equally a point of admiration for its industrial scale. J.H. Prynne poetry can always be viewed as the antithesis to the violent firebrand music of Ted Hughes or the pinched bleak misery observations of Philip Larkin, as Prynne’s poetry held onto a lumine opacity. Incomprehensible and argumentative, yes, but shimmering with singular opalescence. Beyond his poetry, J.H. Prynne was an influential academic teaching in Cambridge and was a Life Fellow of the Gonville and Caius College, additionally he was the colleges librarian. Despite not being canonized in the public or literary imagination, J.H. Prynne will endure in a legendary capacity, not just by his complex verse, but also due to his refusal to participate in publicity campaigns, readings, or photographs. J.H. Prynne is and was no Charles Causley or Wendy Cope in his deliberations, but his language, however difficult it was to parse, is Prynne’s enduring legacy to literature.

Rest in Peace J.H. Prynne.

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

David Malouf Dies Aged 92

Hello Gentle Reader,

David Malouf, one of the great Australian literary statemen has died at the age of 92. Best remember for his Booker Prize shortlisted novel “Remembering Babylon,” which captured the essence of Malouf’s literary themes, a clash of oppositional worlds and forces. In the case of “Remembering Babylon,” it is the colonial history of Australia and its Aboriginal inhabitants, bringing for questions of belonging, the nature of exile, the abject shock and horror of displacement, and the loss of a promised land. Written in Malouf’s sensuous and luxurious prose, the kind of prose writers used to aspire to. Prose that was worked at, full bodied in perspective and composition, allowing readers to appreciate the amount of kneading chiseling the writer had put into the sentences; not stripped down to a freshly flensed raw bone. David Malouf remains in many ways one of those rare writers. Whose eloquent and elegant language never worked to conceal a lack of depth or capacity for storytelling. Malouf was in continual philosophical inquiries with regards to memory and its expansive influence on individuals, but in terms of identity but also personal history; the experience of time as a component of human nature, an understanding that we age and decline; the intersection between natural landscape and personal character, how the natural world and upbringing influences ones character, in this Malouf celebrated the Australian landscape; while also being a writer who was acutely aware of the interior world of his character, teasing at their consciousness as the prism in which experience is filtered, categorized and understood. Malouf’s ability to capture the language of feeling separated him from younger generations of writers, who have all but abandoned the interiority in favour of external action and reactions. Captured in a language that is neither full bodied or eloquent in execution, but rather dry, calcified and anorexic. Though, David Malouf’s prose was not always appreciated. While an accomplished poet before turning to the novel, Malouf’s debut “Johnno,” was decried by critics and battered fiercely about in the literary circles. Though it found praise from Patrick White, and in due spread via word of mouth, leaving readers to make up their own minds about the coming age story of two youth’s growing up in Brisbane in the war time and postwar years. “An Imaginary Life,” does just that, imagines the final years of the exiled Ancient Roman poet Ovid; while the novel “Ransom,” retold and reimagined parts of the “Iliad,” on style and cue, David Malouf has always proven himself to be a masterful prosaist, capable of exploring the human condition and consciousness through a variety of lens, settings, be it autobiographical, historical or mythic. Beyond novels and poetry, David Malouf wrote essays, short stories, a memoir and libretti (including an operatic adaption of Patrick White’s “Voss,”). Australia has lost one of its great literary statesmen, David Malouf was an exceptional writer.

Rest in Peace, David Malouf.

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

M. Mary

Territory of Light

 Hello Gentle Reader,

The Guardian recently ran an article by Blake Morrison about the memoirs dilapidated positioning within the literary field in an era dominated by new social and electronic media, which has democratised the form and flooded this new media landscape not with a torrent, but a deluge of narratives and personal anecdotes, which at one point and time would have been described as literary confessionalism. A term itself reminiscent of the intimately burning style of the mid-century modern poetry of the last century, which included practitioners of the form: Robert Lowell and Sylvia Plath. Now, however, it has subsequently been cheaply redefined as ‘oversharing.’ Morrison quotes the late Martin Amis, who in turn also wrote a memoir (“Experience,”) who best sought to summarize or at least enlighten the appeal and excuse to writing a memoir: “We are all writing it or at any rate talking it: the memoir, the apologia, the CV, the cri de coeur.” It’s not a stretch of the imagination to consider the fact that everyone in their own way, on their own terms (or as close to) is struck with main character syndrome regarding to their own life, and is in the process of mentally compiling, recording, drafting their own narrative. Though, as Morrison points out, the memoir was a reserved form with geriatric qualifications. Written (or ghostwritten) by those who were considered and defined as distinguished in life and profession; politicians, generals, starlets, celebrities; who in the process of looking back at their lives and careers, tended to their expired juvenescence, but also celebrating their accomplishments of their illustrious lives and professional careers. The battles they won; the elections they fought, the reforms and the policies they instituted; their lives of silver screen glamour and equally brilliant and beautiful personal lives, both the ones captured by the intrusive flashes of the paparazzi, but also the staged portraits elevating them from mortal to demigod; while also providing the platform to set the record straight and settle old scores. This once reserved form is now swept up in the influx of what Lorrane Adams has classified as “nobody memoirs.” Given the platform’s availability and affordability (if not outrightly free), individuals are no longer narrating their lives internally, but instead disseminating them for public consumption. What is striking regarding this cascade of personal voices and revelations entering the public sphere, is their candor. These intensely personal narratives embrace the recently revered principles of vulnerability and authenticity to new heights of unrestrained concentrated earnestness turned brutalism. Where confessionalism was ground breaking for its burlesque fire dancing qualities. Intimate narratives and poetic scopes grappling with taboo or sensitive material concerning the authors lives and their lived experience and not through allegory, persona or mythic metaphor. They were fire eating narratives of raw emotional intensity, whereby the personal is elevated through beautiful language and haunting imagery. They were rebellious exorcisms besmirching and usurping the collectively held perspective of the post-war American dream. A necessary tonic. What is on offer today, however, flagrantly reject even the sense of poeticism and instead lay bare their experiences with chisel bluntness of an austerity that is matter of fact and testimonial in nature; to the point intrapersonal inquisition.

The incursion of these unflinching candid testaments from individuals, proves to be the counterbalance to the curatorial ‘highlight,’ appeal of social media content creation, whereby individuals go to great lengths to pose, curate, stage and exhibit the supposed luxurious side of their lives. Those beach getaways. Improvised and spontaneous trips with their loved ones or their best friends. The advertised fantasy of living that life. The envy of all. Whereas the excavation and exposure of revealing personal details, satisfies another form of exhibitionism and voyeurism. The need to release and explode, coupled with the bystander’s shock at the spectacle, yet so engrossed they are powerless to turn away from it. Writers, however, have long turned to self-exploration or personal experience to mine for material. In a similar fashion to confessional poetry, the new journalism movement of Tom Wolfe and Joan Didion, sought to question the previously held principles of objectivity within reportage, by introducing subjective perspectives, incorporating multiple points of view, utilizing extensive dialogue beyond succinct quotes, all to saturate their reportage, beyond the cut and dry sharpness of traditional journalistic standards. Then there is autofiction, a paradoxical form employing fictional or literary devices to authorial or autobiographical experience to structure new ways of reviewing and understanding truth within the construct of lived experience. One of the most respected and well-known practitioners of this form is Annie Ernaux, who has described her bibliography as a form of personal ethnography. Ernaux staves off the indulgences of solipsism through her literary language, which the Swedish Academy aptly described as ‘clinical acuity.’ Ernaux abandons the language of confession and heightened earnestness, by recording with bleached exacting sterile language the facts of the matter. This includes distilling the hardscaped life of her parents; her mother’s dissolution with dementia; the traumatic experience of a failed back-alley abortion; the infatuation and obsession of a love affair. Before any of these forms, however, there was the Japanese literary form the ‘I-novel.’ A genre which intentionally blurred and crossed the line between first person narrative and authorial voice turned intervention to personal exploration. This form was a reaction to the previously prescribed traditional literary sensibilities, which ignored the emotional resonance and psychological acuity of the characters. As a reaction to this and from the influence of newly introduced and imported western media, the I-novel sought to explore the psychological interiority, the framework of consciousness and emotional responses in a literary perspective, these forms were previously employed in diarists structures. Unsurprisingly, many writers soon used this particular form as confessionals and literary social critiques. 

One of the forms renowned and most recognized figures is Dazai Osamu, whose novels charted the course of what is often described as nihilistic clowns or self-stylized ‘losers.' Individuals who are often considered alienated, defeated and existing on the margins of society. Naturally these narratives reflected Dazai’s own complicated and tumultuous scandalised life, which inevitably ended in suicide. Throughout his short-lived literary career, however, Dazai Osamu developed an enfant terrible reputation. While this originally eclipsed his work, it is now a marketing feature and has cemented Dazai as one of the great and daring Japanese writers of the 20^th century. Japan remains a nation that is often considered a literary powerhouse; similar to Ireland or France. Famous writers of the 20^th century include but not limited to: Sōseki Natsume, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, Nakahara Chūya, Tanizaki Jun'ichirō, Kawabata Yasunari, Mishima Yukio, Abe Kōbō and Ōe Kenzaburō; with contemporary writers being Kanai Mieko, Murakami Haruki, Ogawa Yōko, Kawakami Hiromi, Kawakami Mieko and Murata Sayaka. Japanese literature has inevitably always charted its own course and path on the international stage, with previous generations of writers (Sōseki, Akutagawa, Kawabata and Mishima) gained appeal for blending western literary traditions with Japanese aesthetic sensibilities, while contemporary writers have turned towards whimsical magical realism in the case of Murakami, or out of kilter societal critiques as in the case of Murata. While Tsushima Yūko is of the old guard, while being a seasoned practitioner of the I-novel, with “Territory of Light,” being exquisite and elegant introduction to the form and the author. 

“Territory of Light,” is framed as a novel, recounting the first year of a mother navigating single motherhood. The novel was originally serialised in the late 1970s (78-79) in the Gonzu literary journal. Each segment or chapter reads as its own fragmented vignette. The sinew connecting them is the shared perspective of monitoring the situation between the mother and her three-year-old daughter as they navigate their newfound singularity. The opening chapter states factually that the father/husband wants to separate, though remains committed to finding his former family a suitable home to live, seeing as the narrator refused to move back in with her mother. Despite his drive to depart from the marriage, no rental unit meets his standards. What is startling by Tsushima Yūko’s style is its drifting and observational nature of the writing. Where Ernaux writes with flensing shortness, stripping away all artifice to its bleached clinical base elements. Tsushima writes with a lightness of touch to point of effervescent neutrality. Problems and issues are insinuated; they are never directly delineated. For instance, the former husband (Fujino) remarks about her going to listing agents on her own, will produce no results and find the rates increasing. In the end, however, the narrators locate an apartment on the fourth floor of a dilapidated office building, whose outer walls are covered in windows embracing and filling the room with light. What follows is not a regurgitated diary of events and itineraries, outlining the logistics of commuting to work while managing daycare drop offs and pick ups, or a case study in the financial hardship of what is a socially skewered sexist dive into poverty. Rather, “Territory of Light,” captures this immediate slice of life between mother and child and their unconventional lives against a society which is renowned for having a strict sense of conformity and social structure.

The lives of the narrator and the child are difficult. The disruption of the family unit has rippling consequences for both of them. For the child there is an increase in behaviour issues and developmental slips, from wetting the bed, to violent outbursts, and an attempt to maim another child at daycare. For the narrator she has become a pariah. A single mother is the epitome of female failure and as such faces repeated criticisms, slights, and insults from the world at large. The narrator, however, is no pinnacle of innocence either. She’ll hurl insults at her daughter or physically strike her. Routinely leaving her alone to go out drinking; while neglecting to clean the apartment. Yet, the work is routinely prevented from being moored in a miserable self-expose of personal squalor, by how Tsushima Yūko works with the material, capturing the texture and interplay between light and shadow as it frames the events. These scenes are juxtaposed against other tender moments. One instance is shortly after the two move into the apartment, the roof floods pouring down into a neighbour’s commercial office space. Understandably the neighbours are less then impressed with the situation, but their indignation towards the narrator is palpable, leaving one to wonder if they would have been as aggressive or outrageous if a man was present? A similar scene plays out with a nearby sweet shop owner and his wife. In the wake of the water burst, both the mother and daughter investigate the roof to find it flooded, with the daughter delighting at the new found sea. In the closing vignette, the narrator returns to the roof looking out towards the sky as a chemical factory explodes in the distance. This is where Tsushima Yūko strengths as a writer are, capturing intensity of moments through images, not by pathologizing. The prejudices and ostracisation faced by the par are recounted as a fact of life. Tsushima is cognisant about never depicting the narrator as a victim, as she frequently perpetrates and engages in questionable behaviour herself.

“Territory of Light,” will certainly be considered a I-novel tradition, for two reasons. Tsushima Yūko was indeed a singe mother raising her daughter, but was also a product of a single mother. Additionally, Tsushima Yūko is the daughter of Dazai Osamu who died when she was one year old, and makes a brief cameo via memory in “Territory of Light.” The I-novel may be considered a natural form for her to gravitate towards and inherent, but a vast amount of Tsushima’s work is yet untranslated, and the recent novel “Wildcat Dome,” is certainly not written in the subjective singular intensity the form demands. The wonder and delight of “Territory of Light,” shines through when Tsushima highlights the inconsequential gravitas mundane life and the sense of randomness of the events, with a literary language that is understated and routinely avoiding the hysterical. When the train is delayed because of a suicide, the narrator approaches the incident and recounts the scene before fleeing back. While other moments are otherwise oneiric in their delivery. “Territory of Light,” succeeds by Tsushima Yūko observing and recording the caustics of light rippling and shimmering throughout her apartment and life. It’s a strange book which never critically stakes its claim as a social critique, but retains an undercurrent solidarity pushing against the strident conservatism and conformity of the society, which fails to provide a social net for the most vulnerable. Reading “Territory of Light,” provided further context as to why it was considered a major media announcement in 2020 when the Japanese minister, Koizumi Shinjiro announced he was taking two weeks paternity leave. The goal was to break the stigma regarding men in Japan taking childcare leave. All of which comes when the country’s decreasing and aging population are becoming defining social crises for the nation. Regardless, “Territory of Light,” reads like an effervescent dreamy book, which is in stark contrast to a great deal of autofiction with its rendered and stripped-down prose.

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

For Further Reading: 

Blake Morrison, The Guardian: "‘Enough of this me me me’: Blake Morrison on memoir in the age of oversharing,"