The Village on the Edge of the World

Hello Gentle Reader,

The prevailing advice granted to young and aspiring writers for decades now has been: write what you know. Authenticity and intimacy have dominated literary values for years. This explains the abundance of narratives merrily marching into the swamp of solipsism. Few novels produced today have the same sense of curiosity, playfulness and sense of style as their predecessors, who were by far, more daring. Though it is not all indulgent excess and portraits of an artist as a young narcissist. In the case of Annie Ernaux, the paradoxical notion of autofiction (that literary alchemical abomination; a chimeric combination, soldering the candor of autobiography with the illusionary narrative of fiction), is intrinsically linked to her bibliography and literary style. By all accounts, Ernaux is often credited as one of the progenitors of the literary genre, and if not a progenitor, then Ernaux is elevated to the heights of grand dame of the form, its most recognizable practitioner. Personal anecdote, memory and experience when stripped back of sentimentality, become the objective and intimate metrics in which a life can be measured, evaluated and assessed within a larger sociopolitical and historical context. In order to accomplish this state of objective evaluation, Ernaux flenses, prunes and renders experience down to its baseline marrow. All of this splaying, peeling, pairing and flaying is done without concern for emotional indulgences. Rather, the objective is to completely erratic the semblance of sentimentality or sensationalism. This can only be achieved by reducing and boiling the excess away. In awarding Annie Ernaux the Nobel Prize in Literature, the Swedish Academy highlighted and praised the “clinical acuity,” of Ernaux’s work. The scalpel style literary language, carving out and cutting away. Slicing and sliding through the fleshiness of memory and experience with steel exactitude. Ernaux referrers to the process itself as scraping the language clean. A reductionist method of literary subtraction reaching completion, when only the essential elements remain. The foundational baseline of utilitarian components. Any semblance of an emotional posturing or lingering corpulent embellishment will need to be carved away. This otherwise blanc stye ensures the veracity of the subject matter is maintained through the sterility of the testimony reflected in pristine and crystalline language preserving what is otherwise raw authenticity. Ernaux has maintained the objective of her work is to inevitably survey the intersection between individual experience and memory in relation to and consequence of larger sociological phenomena and collective memory. The intrapersonal introspection operates as the nodal point of perspective. Memories provide the furnishings, texture. While sociopolitical events and history twist, twine and lace through it all, providing the context and momentum for narrative. Annie Ernaux’s work routinely surveys and cartographs the juncture between personal recollection and public record, and despite distancing her narratives by employing third person or collective voices, Ernaux remains the lodestone of the narrative. The experiences, observations, memories all refined, distilled and channeled through Ernaux. When it comes to Herta Müller, however, biography and lived experience are treated as scaffolding for narrative. Rough outlines and sketches. Dark wells in which the writer pulls from the unflinching and unsettling details to depict with pointillistic precision the landscape of the dispossessed.

Where Annie Ernaux employes objectivity and distance to ward off the accusations of tabloid voyeuristic sensationalism. Silence is prevalent in Herta Müller’s novels. While Müller’s style is renowned and recognized for its sensory sharpness capturing the dehumanising absurdities encompassing the obscenities of daily life in Ceaușescu’s communist Romania. Biographical elements are reworked and reimagined as evidential details giving weight to the surreal cruelty defining life behind the Iron Curtain. These included a village closed off within itself, a microcosm of a depraved dictatorship in its smallness; an unforgivable betrayal of a friend; a friend’s murder staged as suicide by the state, or, a close friend pushed to the point of paranoid psychosis and eventual suicide; a mother’s displacement to a forced labour camp in Siberia, and the silence upon the return; a fox pelt rug gradually being mutilated and then decapitated. Then there is the general poverty. The endless and relentless demoralising ugliness of life being strangled by the state’s chokehold. Enforced and facilitated further by the secret service (the Securitate) who engineered a torrent of terror onto the populace, through surveillance, informants, betrayals and interrogations. Through it all, however, Müller as the point of biography or character is polished to the point of transparency. Narrative structures are abandoned, replaced by the free falling and wheeling illogical association of language attempting to capture the inarticulate sensation of life within a state of constant and persistent fear. Its anxious and unnerving, leaving individuals jostling and jumping against one another, attempting to hold themselves together, while conforming to a state of agreeable acceptance, to avoid detection or attention. As Müller writes in “The Land of Green Plums,”:

“We laughed a lot, to hide it from each other. But fear always finds an out. If you control your face, it slips into your voice. If you manage to keep a grip on your face and your voice, as if they were dead wood, it will slip out through your fingers. It will pass through your skin and lie there. You can see it lying around on objects close by.”

In “The Village on the Edge of the World,” Herta Müller pulls back the curtains of silence within her novels. The same silence which provides the staging ground to showcase Müller’s idiosyncratic literary language, which has been incubated and mutated by surviving an authoritarian government. What is revealed is an unadulterated refuse of a society, impoverished and corrupted by an ideology imposed on it by a corrupt incompetent government and state buckling under the megalomania of a dictator who is untethered from reality. “The Village on the Edge of the World,” is frank as it is austere in its unflinching recollection of a life not so much lived, but endured. Herta Müller’s biography is now fleshed out with devasting detail.

“Ugliness was ubiquitous; it was the only true form of equality under Socialism. And it was intentional; it was part of the dictatorship’s agenda. The objects produced under Socialism ensured you grew tired of life: concrete buildings, furniture, curtains, tableware, the flowerbeds in the parks, posters, monuments, shop windows. As if everything material, whether it was cement, wood, glass, porcelain, even the branches of the trees, were in of itself brutal and vulgar, as if you couldn’t possibly turn into anything more beautiful. As if, in this country, matter sprang of its own accord into the will of the regime. This ugly equality pressed on you, made you apathetic and undemanding; this was what the State wanted. For Socialism, our heady minds were ideal – a lust for life makes you spontaneous, and therefore unpredictable. Misery makes you ugly. Instead of meat, the State gave us offal: pigs’ feet, which had long claw were referred to as ‘sports shoes;’ or chicken feet with talons; or chicken heads in water that had been frozen together into heavy, blue-red blocks of ice, and which would be hacked apart into portions with a hatchet before being weighed. People would carry the frozen chicken heads home with their bare hands: in this sate of misery, even a handkerchief was of no use. On your way home the ice would drip steadily, as if the dogs were marking their territory with bloody urine. And everyone queued for hours for this offal.”

There is no room for nostalgia. Perhaps because there is no driftwood to cling to in this abyssal sea. When reviewing her own childhood, Herta Müller remains candid in her assessment. The alienating emptiness of the open prairies, where Müller was left as a child to tend to the cattle. She describes the countryside as such:

“I used to experience Nature as physical harassment.”

Then there is the insufferable smallness of the village with its refusal to distance itself from its supportive past of the Nazis. Müller recalls the frequency of the men getting drunk and singing their old war songs. Müller’s own father was a member of the Waffen-SS during the war and was later a prisoner of war. These facts of parenteral accomplice and guilt weigh heavily on her own conscious. Mixed amongst this is the childlike logic and beliefs. How plants and trees would uproot in the middle of the night and move around. The same with household furniture. Yet, where this may be seen as whimsy and the imaginings of a child with fairytale delight, this too was tainted for Müller by the never-ending nightmare of waking reality, complete with daily beatings and corporal punishments. If childhood is the idyll for many, then for Müller and others, it was the genesis and training ground for a life of sustained continued hardship. From there, what follows are the established facts and events. The translation job in the factory, followed by the cataclysmic catastrophic event when the Securitate come to recruit Herta Müller as an informer, who declines. Then it’s a saga of harassment, torment, aggravation, indignation and humiliation. Having refused to cooperate with the secret police, Müller would lose her desk and office, but needed to persist in working at the factory, in the stairwell on her handkerchief. Word spread (by the secret police) that Müller was an informer and soon everyone distanced and ostracised her in the factory, before she was dismissed. Then came hard scrabble years, of working as a tutor or a school teacher. Each one would never last before the employers or the families were forced to disassociate due to political pressure.  

“The Village on the Edge of the World,” revealed many of the personal consequences of life in communist Romania. The relentless campaign of harassment and humiliation the Securitate waged against Herta Müller and her friends. Fun fact, the flat (apartment) beneath Müller’s was entirely occupied by the secret police, surveilling and eavesdropping. The book also reveals the deeply personal tragedy and betrayal by her friend Jenny, which is reimagined in “The Land of Green Plums.” Their parting in Romania was grief stricken and stained with tears, but their reunion in Germany was shattered and ended in a grievous act duplicity, where Jenny had recorded Müller’s movements during their visit and had a key cut of the apartment. All of which was to be returned to the Securitate to continue their crusade of cruelty and torment even from behind the Iron Curtain. Afterall, Herta Müller was now a free agent and her uncensored and unapologetic criticism of Ceaușescu was surely making its way back. Jenny was then found to be in in a relationship with one of the cruelest members of the secret police. Jenny would later develop cancer and die. This event only proved how diabolical and deranged the state was in its need for total control. The two never reconciled, and this remains for Müller, a substantial wound and scar.

One of the most effective and devious attacks and acts of sabotage, however, the Securitate did against Herta Müller was when she was finally allowed to emigrant, they stamped her papers as February 29, 1987. Where in actuality 1987 was not a leap year, and this ‘clerical error,’ would do nothing but halt the bureaucratic gears going forward. The fastidiousness of the Germans difficult to please, (I’m sure) at the best of times.

“The Village on the Edge of the World,” succeeds at most in providing a panoramic view of the personal anecdotes and experiences of Herta Müller. One particular scene was when Müller meets with her western editor supporting the publication of “Nadirs,” in the early 80’s. The two retreat to some mountain resort under the guise of a skiing holiday. And while initially her editor is suspicious of the comings and goings, she soon flirts with extraordinary political danger when a delegate of Asian technocrats (be it Chinese or North Korean) arrive with their Romanian escorts. Suddenly, caution is tossed to the wind and she wants to drink and dance with the men. The previous paranoia of adject rooms and wiretaps in the hotel, prove to be delusions to this naïve editor, who when confronted with real danger, looks at it as an exotic experience. Here again, it was Herta Müller who had to exercise survivalist restraint to maintain their safety. Other anecdotes describe the depravity of the regime. Its desire for complete subjugation and control:

“The regime maned to control even the most private matters. Intimacy was nationalised. Women were forcibly examined using insidious methods: for example, they needed a certificate from the gynecologist in order to get access to dental treatment.”  

While another merely recounts the vampiric leeching proclivities of the state:

“Whenever I went into a clothes shop, I was seized by a sense of grief and repugnance. Everything looked like it sent – and it smelt of stolen life. 

For those who think salvation and sanctuary would arrive through emigration, it never quite lands correctly. The insidious irony is not lost on Herta Müller either, who remarked: in Romania I was the German; in Germany I am the Romanian. The sense of foreignness and displacement is constant companion and reality. Even upon arrival in then West Germany, the BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst, or German intelligence) were convinced Herta Müller was an operative working for the Securitate, delaying her citizenship.

“The Village on the Edge of the World,” is an engaging and engrossing companion piece to reflect on in tandem with the rest of Herta Müller’s bibliography. Originally, I was under the impression, “The Village on the Edge of the World,” was a collection of new essays, as the author has stopped writing and publishing since 2009 with publication of “The Hunger Angel,” and winning the Nobel Prize in Literature. Instead, it is a curated transcript of conversations and lectures Müller had given over a decade prior. I was initially disappointed by this, however, came around as Herta Müller’s candor and detail exhumed the depravity of Ceaușescu’s Romania, but also brought to the forefront the complications Romania now faces with regards to acknowledging its own history. There has been no reconciliation of the past and it is theorised if not confirmed with an official acknowledgement, the current intelligence service is compromised of former Securitate agents. Justice and redemption are lovely ideas, but often fail to come into practise. Ceaușescu may have been executed. The Iron Curtain fallen along with the Berlin Wall. The Soviet Union collapsed. But as Putin is staunch reminder from this cold ugly era, the corruption, the violence, the depravity remains. Having never been brought forward, accounted for and prosecuted. “The Village on the Edge of the World,” provides the biographical context that has shaped all of Herta Müller’s literary oeuvre, while splintering off into discussions of the language influencing the world, as viewed between German and Romanian:

“[. . .] take the pheasant, for instance: it is a bird that can’t fly very well, it gets ensnarled in the undergrowth is easy prey. All of this is contained in the Romanian expression: ‘Man is a great pheasant in the world.’ Man, too, is easy prey: he can’t assert himself, he overpays, he is no match for life. However, in German the pheasant is a braggart. The German language has made a saying out of the bird appearance, while the Romanian saying is based on its character. I feel closer to the sad Romanian pheasant. This is why one of my books is titled Man is a Great Pheasant in the World^*.”

^* The English translation of the novel “Man is a Great Pheasant in the World,” is “The Passport.” The original German title with the Romanian saying, provides greater reflection on the circumstances and character of Windisch, who becomes the pheasant from the adage. Continually at the mercy of the authorities and officials delaying his passport application, requiring more tithes. More tolls. More services. More sacrifices.

 

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

The Booker Prize Longlist 2026

Hello Gentle Reader,

For a while now, the Booker Prize has become less interesting. Even before its doors were open to American writers, the Booker Prize had often slid into a cycle of awarding and recognizing previous winners or well established, lauded and honoured writers, often pushing out or squeezing up and coming writers from the table. Which is ironic, considering the prizes ability to circumvent and defy expectations; Anita Brookner’s win remains one of those stellar moments of pulling the rug out beneath the literary establishment’s feet. This year, however, was perhaps the first time in a very long time that I saw potential in quite a few publications coming out, and hoped they would at least be acknowledged on this year’s longlist. Sadly, they did not cut the mark. Before the lamentations though, here is this years Booker Prize Longlist (in no particular order):

            Marlon James – “The Disappears,”
            Gwendoline Riley – “The Palm House,”
            Djamel White – “All Them Dogs,”
            Makenna Goodman – “Helen of Nowhere,”
            Luke Kennard – “Black Bag,”
            M. John Harrison – “The End of Everything,”
            Elizabeth Strout – “The Things We Never Say,”
            Kenan Orhan – “The Renovation,”
            Rebecca Perry – “May We Feed the King,”
            Chloe Aridjis – “The Shadow of the Object,”
            Emma Cline – “Switzy,”
            Missouri Williams – “The Vivisectors,”
            Douglas Stuart – “John of John,”

Included on this year’s longlist are two previous winners, Marlon James and Douglas Stuart. If either writer wins again, they would join a small cohort of writers who have won the Booker Prize twice, whose ranks include: J.M. Coetzee, Peter Carey, Hilary Mantel and Margaret Atwood. There is no surprise in finding Elizabeth Strout nominated once again, after having previously been nominated twice before. This time, however, Strout provides a survey of the contemporary American society, one infected and infested with the rhetoric and antics of a president whose boisterous demeanor is equally matched by his demented demagoguery, which is further parroted by his sycophant acolytes insulating his echo chamber of insularity.

The inclusion of M. John Harrison and his novel “The End of Everything,” is both baffling and praiseworthy. As if the Booker Prize is slowly rehabilitating its image from the connoisseurs of literary snobbery that it is known for. Even their website pushed back against the term ‘literary fiction,’ in attempt to come across as egalitarian in scope. This is where M. John Harrison would raise a few eyebrows, as the author is a staunch science fiction writer, and the novel “The End of Everything,” is a dystopian vision which does not dilute its otherworldly perspective in the slightest. What M. John Harrison succeeds at, however, is crafting a novel that does not behave like the typical dystopian fiction. Rather than autopsying a world in ruin, Harrison provides a guided tour and meditation of what the end really looks like in the obsolesce of time and the erosion of memory and events. “The End of Everything,” may be read as a parable of the sustained and quiet disintegration of now. Bleak and unflinching in its dreamlike exposition. Whether or not the novel reaches the shortlist like Alan Garners oddity of a gem “Treacle Walker,” or remains sanctioned to the longlist like Susanna Clarke’s regency postmodern fantasy “Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell,” is yet to be seen.

For a prize that is renowned for being asphyxiatingly closed off at times, it is always a delight to find debut writers receiving some acknowledgement for their efforts. Especially in the case of Djamel White and his novel “All Them Dogs,” which has become a word-of-mouth sensation. A sleek noir gangster thriller laced through with eroticism, which runs counter to the hypermasculine and violent world that gangs and gangers inhabit. Certainly, an interesting inductee on this year’s longlist. Hopefully “All Them Dogs,” is included on the shortlist.

For every longlisted writer, there are always others who have been left out in the cold. It came as quite a surprise to see many potential writers denied their spot on the longlist. Deborah Levy, the dark horse of contemporary English literature, returns with her new novel “My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein.” Deborah Levy is no mere breath of fresh air, but a bolt from a blue. The resuscitating jolt to kickstart a literary industry that is not only flatlined and stagnate but anemic. Seeing Levy shortchanged from the longlist, perpetuates and confirms the literary worlds resignation to remain in a state of disrepair. Which is why it is equally infuriating to see Ali Smith also denied a seat on the longlist with her novel “Glyph,” as Smith is yet another titan of playful experimentation who appears to be left shouldering the weight of keeping English language literature interesting, beyond the flattened uniform prose of todays generation of writers. It is difficult to imagine a contemporary writer who has been as daring and playful as Ali Smith, whose equally as engaged with the immediate concerns of today. Another writer, many expected to see on this year’s longlist was the previous winner Yann Martell with his postmodernist novel “Son of Nobody,” which recounts an academic working on deciphering a fictional ancient poem recounting and documenting the Trojan War, while surveying his own heartbreak and martial breakdown. Despite being called ‘structurally problematic,’ many expected to see what has been called one of this year’s more daring novels highlighted on the Booker’s longlist.

The one that annoyed me the most for not being included is Melissa Harrisons novel “The Given World.” Having first learned about Melissa Harrison via other nature writers such as John Lewis-Stempel, I’ve grown increasingly curious about her, and her celebration of the English countryside in a vein that is reminiscent of Ronald Blythe and J.L. Carr (via a “A Month in the Country,”), but Melissa Harrison doesn’t just celebrate the wonder and beauty of this perceived and propagated idyll, her attention has turned towards the mounting evidence of a human created climate catastrophe, which is only just starting to ramp up in extreme weather events and ecological disasters. “The Given World,” was heralded as a modern day “Under Milk Wood,” by critics, and I looked forward to seeing this polyphonic novel included on the longlist (at minimum). Sadly, much like “Helm,” by Sarah Hall last year, Melissa Harrison was snubbed this year, and I find myself gnashing my teeth together in a fury. Regardless, I look forward to purchasing “The Given World,” and reading it, after I get through my current overdue pile of books to read. To Melissa Harrison, keep the faith, by all accounts what I have read so far is “The Given World,” is a generous warm and engaging read capturing a world subtly in flux and teetering on the brink of ecological adjustment and irreversible change.

It is, however, disheartening and disappointing to see Howard Jacobson’s novel “Howl,” sidestepped for the award, though not surprising. Say what you may say regarding the current conflict in the Middle East, the rise of antisemitism in the world is as palpable and as suffocating as the wildfire smoke choking out the sky. “Howl,” is a novel of nuance and complexity, doing what great literature should do, which is grappling with complex atrocities, social perspectives and personal perspectives. “Howl,” is a deeply uncomfortable novel, which will ultimately outrage and inflame the youth of today, whose ignitable indignation is tinder dry and always waiting on standby for the newest spark to unleash their explosive righteousness. The novels depiction of a man living in maddening times of virulent extremism, decried as being a coward one minute and a supporter of genocide the next. What saves it from wading into the septic ruins of a political novel, is Jacobson has always a maintained distance via a dark comedic wit, “Howl,” is no different. The notion of Jewishness is more complicated now then it has in the postwar period. Though it does more then that, perhaps Jacobson grapples with the political volatility of what is best described as: now. The onslaught of madness. The pantomime of political theatre of everything. The basic virtues of decency and goodness, now commodified like a carnival token to win a cheap prize. Shrinking away from these works and their discussions is not only an act of cowardice, but endorsing de facto self-censorship in order to placate social cohesion. Literature and literary awards should never shrink away from controversy because it may upset someone else.

Other omitted titles that raised a few eyebrows included Ben Lerner’s novel “Transcription,” which recently won the George Orwell Prize for Political Fiction, and has recently been praised as one of the best novels of the year. “The Correspondent,” by Virginia Evans was equally rumoured to be a potential longlisted title after winning the Women’s Prize for Fiction. Another novel that became a success through word of mouth amongst readers. What makes “The Correspondent,” even more unique is it returns to the epistolary form. After the original snub of “Hamnet,” in 2020 and its glowing Oscar reception of its film adaption, many expected the Booker Prize to induct Maggie O'Farrell onto the longlist with her recent novel “Land,” recounting the story of a surveyor and his son, capturing the cartography of an Ireland prior to The Great Hunger and the devastation left in the famines wake. It has been praised as a poignant well-researched and personal novel, which tackles themes of the historical injustices perpetrated of an imperial and colonial age, which are très à la mode today. The ironic consequence and rationale, as to why these writers and their novels may not have been included, can be speculated to be the reasoning of predictability. Afterall, Lerner’s novel “Transcription,” has already been declared one of the year’s best, and is speculated to be a Pulitzer candidate next year; while, “The Correspondent,” already won the Women’s Prize for Fiction, and can the Booker Prize really compete with the afterglow of an Oscar win of a film adaption? This, however, is just pure speculation and satire on my part. Regardless of the reasons, the judges inevitably have to compromise with one another and this will always mean trade offs and exchanges. A game of accountancy. One book at the cost of two, until finally it’s a begrudgingly agreeable list of 13.

There it is though, this year’s longlist for the Booker Prize. Congratulations to this year’s writers, it’s certainly an interesting list, which seeks to placate the established and rise up the new. Pity, some great novels and writers didn’t quite pass the butcher’s block.

 

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

– LIV –

Austerity as economic policy is merely a financier's notion of lingerie.

Shahrnush Parsipur Dies Aged 80

Hello Gentle Reader,

In todays continued relentless news cycle, it is difficult to avoid any mention, comment, analysis or any lengthy commentary on Iran. Specifically, within the context of the aggression between the United States of America and Israel, with the continued on and off again ceasefire, or any negotiations to open the Strait of Hormuz, which is impacting the worlds economy and inflationary measures.  To hear the news, however, the Iranian writer and iconoclast Shahrnush Parsipur has died at the age of 80, was a change of pace, of what can only be sumarised as the endless reportage of a series of Neanderthalic nations, engaged in a ritual of state of chest pounding to prove themselves the bigger man. Its not only juvenile, its downright pathetic. Shahrnush Parsipur’s death marks the end of a writer who has persistently and continually pushed against the political limitations of Iran, having been imprisoned four times throughout her life, both in the current theocratic Islamic Republic of Iran of today, but also of the previous Shah regime. Parsipur’s “Prison Memoir,” is set to make its debut in English in full in 2027. Despite having lived in exile in the United States since the early 90’s, Shahrnush Parsipur has not been readily available in English. The monumental novel “Women Without Men,” first published in 1989 (and subsequently banned), was finally translated and published in 2026 and was later longlisted for the Man Booker International Prize. The novel traces the intersecting lives and destinies of five women during the coup d'état in 1953, who come to live in a garden on the outskirts of Tehran. The novel traces the defining feminist themes which were the hallmark and defining legacy of Shahrnush Parsipur. The novels discussion and discourse on female sexuality caused a scandal in the socially conservative and theocratically tightly controlled Islamic society, which once again saw the author imprisoned. While the novel was also deeply critical of the prevailing misogynistic and socially engineered principles to subjugate, demean, oppress and control women. Over the past few years, the world has seen Iranian women surge as political agents and revolutionary forces in Iran and the Arabic/Islamic world, pushing back against their limited social agency and prospects in addition to religious dress codes thrusted and enforced on them by doctrine or law. The death of Mahsa Amini was considered by many to be a catalyst in a wave of social outrage and change that would sweep through Iran. The late, Shahrnush Parsipur held this belief as well, believing that substantial revolutionary change and a call to political freedom for all, would not come from men, but from the women. While the current hostilities have all but thwarted these burning needs for change, they are hopefully not extinguished, and will reignite, whereby the Iranian people can manifest their own destiny, away from the clerics and the geopolitical machinations of a impetuous and imperialist United States of America.

Rest in Peace, Shahrnush Parsipur

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

For Further Reading: The Guardian: "Shahrnush Parsipur, Iranian author of Women Without Men, dies at 80,"

– LIII –

There are two facts to life: it is unflinchingly unfair, and it can always get worse.

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 spiritual 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 at “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: “Village Hours,” “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 the 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 in 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

*It should be clarified. Mythologically speaking, my main understanding between Fauns and Satyrs, was: Fauns were deer mythological beings, more civilized to their satyr counterparts and representatives of spring and fertility. Satyrs by comparison were mythological beings with goat legs and horns, lustful raucous rambunctious revelers associated with the rustic pastoral god Pan, chasing nymphs and with no real civic duty.

– 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