– L –

Loneliness isn’t what kills people. Rather it’s the sudden realization, after the noise and din recedes, that they have no original thought; an echo of silence is deafening as it is hollow.

Young Once

Hello Gentle Reader,

There is a quote from Patrick Modiano’s novel “Out of the Dark,” which attempts to capture the essence of many of Modiano’s narrators and characters, who have, in a myriad of ways, been orphaned by time and having been left untethered and unmoored within a liminal space, one whose temporal nodal points have yet to be delineated in any chronological construct outside of the understanding they exist within the wake of ominous events and periods; specifically in these cases, the dog eared era known as “The Occupation,” and “Vichy,” both during and after, whose shadows underpin a France – and more specifically Paris – whose eagerness to change their wartime narrative, is not only a nationalistic point of concern but an existential one, which can only be achieved through demolishing the reminders of this humiliation and disgrace, and reconstruct a new one to fit their preferential image of: underground resistance, everyday subterfuge and the unyielding principles and ideals that are unmistakably French: Liberty, Equality, Fraternity; while simultaneously erasing or denying any testimony, testament or evidence to the contrary, that is, competing discourse, which brings to light or gives air to the notion that France or its citizens, complied, aided, abetted, or worst of all: collaborated with the occupying forces; and so Paris and France during this interlude become shapeless and shifting, completely emancipated from time, which extends into these postwar periods, populated by Modiano’s characters and narrators: amnesiac drifters, disillusioned writers and filmmakers, questioning detectives and investigators, directionless youth, vagabonds, petty criminals and other dubious and disgraced shadows; who Modiano writes:

“We had no real qualities, except the one that youth gives to everyone for a very brief time, like a vague promise that will never be kept.”

Youth unto itself is not a subject or theme specified in the novels of Patrick Modiano. Rather it is a state. A piece of the novels landscape. A feature employed to provide some definition of narrator or the subsequent characters, in addition to placing them within some context of time. Modiano’s eternal themes are far more compelling beyond the transient mercurial period of youth; memory, its mechanics and unreliability; time, both its passage and its caustic disintegrating touch; identity, both its shifting nature and the search for it, having been obsoleted by the passage of time, erased by amnesia, or reconfigured and reinvented; all of which is wrapped up in Modiano’s signature style: unadorned atmospheric prose, a reserved language caked with dust, perpetually distant veiled by a layer of gauze obscuring any sense of clarity or elucidation. It is difficult to imagine sunlight in Modiano’s world, which instead finds itself coloured in sepia tones or the black and white portraits of the mid-century postwar noir world. Sunlight in the world of Modiano exists simply to frame, pose, texturize and characterise the shadows. Conversely, it will become such an overwhelming substance it bleaches and erases the world into a whiteout of nothingness. As a writer, Patrick Modiano is not concerned with illuminating or enlightening. Rather, Modiano is a writer compelled with asking questions, strolling through obscured boulevards, retracing a lost landscape on the verge of being redeveloped, displacing the ghosts, the memories, the evidence of ones past or their connection to it. Phone books, address books, personal notebooks – another staple of Modiano’s fiction – become the portable archives capturing this evaporating and evolving urbane world, desperate to transform itself into something new and modern, something with soft lighting and vogue products, be it clothes, purses, hats, perfumes. Whatever it is, just make it luxurious. Do away with the old dim garages with their enduring smell of petrol. The operation itself one which celebrates the notion of being perpetually: ‘in transit.’ The state of transience is the cornerstone of the conditions for back door dealings and black markets. Just imagine then, the back offices glowing behind opaque windows. Who knows what questionable business agreements took place back there. The records having been thrown into various fires. The documentation, corroboration and confirmation of all those suspicions is expelled from the chimneys in plumes of ubiquitous smoke. The means to get the conviction, and if not conviction then the ratification, of what took place have all but disappeared, having been destroyed. There is a misguided notion that this would stamp authenticity to one’s memories, affirming their sense of time and place in addition to veracity. Never forget, in a Patrick Modiano novel resolution including confirmations, affirmations, ratifications, do not take place. Conclusions are too neat, too clean. Modiano never ends in certainty, but fades further into the inarticulate incompletion of ellipses.

The surreal duality of life under the occupation as cited by the Swedish Academy in the Nobel Prize citation, is finally presented and given some tangible shape in Patrick Modiano’s Nobel Lecture:

“That Paris of the occupation was a strange place. On the surface, life went on ‘as before’ – the theatres, cinemas, music halls and restaurants were open for business. There were songs playing on the radio. Theatre and cinema attendances were in fact much higher than before the war, as if these places were shelters where people gathered and huddled next to each other for reassurance. But there are bizarre details indicating that Paris was not at all the same as before. The lack of cars made it a silent city – a silence that revealed the rustling of trees, the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves, the noise of the crowd’s footsteps and the hum of voices. In the silence of the streets and of the black-out imposed at around five o’clock in winter, during which the slightest light from windows was forbidden, this city seemed to be absent from itself – the city ‘without eyes’ as the Nazi occupiers used to say. Adults and children could disappear without trace from one moment to the next, and even among friends, nothing was ever really spelled out and conversations were never frank because of the feeling of menace in the air.”

“Young Once,” takes place in the afterimage of the occupation; but this time casts a long deep shadow, particularly through the repetitive mention of the Vélodrome d'Hiver, where Louis’s father was a bicycle racer of some noticeable renown. For the uninitiated, however, the Vélodrome d'Hiver – colloquially styled Vel’ d’Hiv – was employed by the French police during the occupation, who under the orders of the occupying Nazi forces, rounded up Jewish people throughout the city to be held at the stadium, before being transferred to death camps such as Auschwitz. The majority of those being arrested and interned were women and children. This event became infamously known as the “Vel' d'Hiv roundup.” Modiano’s casual disclosure and inclusion of the name: Vel’ d’Hiv or Vélodrome d'Hiver, and leaving it to linger in the text with the implied menace and venom, ensures readers who are not familiar with the scandalous history will be inclined to look into it. Patrick Modiano, is a writer who does not spell it out for his readers. In this instance, it’s an implied understanding that they know; if they don’t, they’ll hunt for the information. There is some appreciation for Modiano to allow the barbs and shards of the facts to settle. What originally passed as an innocuous detail suddenly transforms into horrifying reminder of the past Paris and its wartime activities.

Regardless, “Young Once,” does not linger over the atrocities or claustrophobic horrors of the occupation. Its presence is atmosphere, summoned forth by such facts as the mention of Vel’ d’Hiv; or the notes in a police file; ultimately it exists within the context of memory. The novel itself, is told from the reminiscing perspectives of Louis and Odille, who at the novels opening, are set to turn 35, whereby both are resolute and resigned in their understanding this is the age which they say farewell to their youth, while embarking on something else. Maturation perhaps? Settled fruition? They never clarify what is next; all the while, they do not mourn the end of their supposed youth. The same youth, best encapsulated by the earlier quote from “Out of the Dark,” when Louis and Odille were but two abandoned youths, discarded in the world, whereby they were circled by otherwise more menacing figures. In the case of Odille, the term menace should be replaced by cruel or more fittingly, down right deranged and corrupted. Being used as bait by the police in a sting operation to capture a violent sex offender; then there are the routine sexual advances of a club owner, and a series of disingenuous apologies and regrets from music record executives, who would love to help, but Odille’s voice just isn’t in music fashion at the moment. Louis, while not assaulted or sexually exploited, finds himself under the wings of one of Modiano’s stock archetypes, the vaguely ambiguous criminal, or possibly criminal, whose crimes are never quite brought to light. They’re merely rumbling accusations. Echoes from the past.

“Young Once,” continues in the same vein and trope of Modiano’s work, by continuing to obscure, obfuscate, and vaguely circle the insinuations of something abhorrent or rotten at the centre, without every quite settling on it or revealing it. Patrick Modiano is a writer whose novels continue to explore what has become the endless liminal space of the occupation and the immediate postwar period. The vague grouping in the dark for answers which will never reveal themselves, is the pinnacle of Modiano’s style. Readers, who enjoy Modiano though, come back for the atmospheric qualities. The delight in being for a brief period disoriented and discombobulated in the unreliability of memory. “Young Once,” is yet another brush stroke in this grisaille canvas of incomprehensible ghosts and absence, or another chapter in a novel mapping out the endless hallways, doors and rooms of an archive, complete with filing cabinets and bookshelves spilling over, a deluge of undiluted chaos of mementos, both remembered and fabricated.

 

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

António Lobo Antunes Dies Aged 83

Hello Gentle Reader,

Some writers are merely a part of the landscape. They are ubiquitous features. Ones readers routinely pass and cross over with. While there are others who are legendary. Pure forces of natures, which others aspire to. The Portuguese writer António Lobo Antunes was one such writer. Few writers come to mind today who could match or rival Lobo Antunes work in its singular vision and uncompromising execution, with the exception of a few including but not limited to: Krasznahorkai László, Mircea Cărtărescu and Nádas Péter. António Lobo Antunes was renowned for his masterfully modernist deluged polyphonic novels, which raged against fascism; confronted Portugal’s dark, brutal and violent colonial past; the horrors and atrocities of war, its unending inhumanity; the inevitable decay of familiar relationships as they slide further and further into dysfunction; while always providing a testament on the landscape of memory, existential loneliness, the fractured nature of the self, and a few filtrations with nihilism. There truly is no writer quite like António Lobo Antunes, who could do it at all, and do it competently. The literary style of Lobo Antunes will always be remembered as being difficult, who captured the disillusionment of 20^th century Portugal, in a late modernist prose that was frequently compared to Faulkner for its textual, grammatical, musical complexity and density. Needless to say, many readers were often put off by this description, viewing António Lobo Antunes as a high brow literary writer which would only alienate them. Though, those who were up for the challenge, their efforts were amply rewarded. When Jose Saramago was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature in 1998, many critics thought the Swedish Academy had awarded the wrong Portuguese writer, favouring instead António Lobo Antunes, who would remain a perennial candidate and figure throughout the early 21^st century. Personally, I have yet to make my way to António Lobo Antunes, ironically attracted and put off by the reputation of his works density and demanding nature. Yet no writer has ever written more beautiful titles then António Lobo Antunes, which I hope are the product of the writer, and not the liberties of his translators. Titles such as the recently published “Midnight Is Not in Everyone’s Reach,” “Commission of Tears,” “Until Stones Become Lighter Than Water,” “What Can I Do When Everything's on Fire?” António Lobo Antunes death marks yet another grand old master leaving the mortal realm. It is difficult to imagine any successor, which is perhaps for the best, Lobo Antunes shoes would be massive to fill; his shadow alone, has enough capacity to drown the indignant and arrogant writer who though themselves worthy enough.

Rest in Peace António Lobo Antunes, its more then deserved; your work will endure.

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

The International Booker Prize Longlist, 2026

Hello Gentle Reader,

The International Booker Prize Shortlist for 2025 has released this year’s longlist of thirteen titles each competing for a coveted spot on the shortlist, which will be announced in at the end of March. This year’s longlist is redemptive when compared to last years prize, which gave the direct impression the judges last year were far more interested taking proxy social and political positions via the prize. This is not to say this year’s longlist does not delve into unique subjects or wade into historical or political concerns, but the effect is less paramount with the judges repositioning the prize to consider the books within a literary context first.

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

“The Deserters,” – by Mathias Énard, Translated from French by Charlotte Mandell
“The Wax Child,” – Olga Ravn, Translated from Danish by Martin Aitken
“The Director,” – Daniel Kehlmann, translated from German by Ross Benjamin
“Taiwan Travelogue,” – Yáng Shuāng-zǐ, translated from Mandarin Chinese by Lin King
“She Who Remains,” – Rene Karabash, translated from Bulgarian by Izidora Angel
“The Duke,” – Matteo Melchiorre, translated from Italian by Antonella Lettieri
“The Witch,” – Marie NDiaye, translated from French by Jordan Stump
“Small Comforts,” – Ia Genberg, translated from Swedish by Kira Josefsson
“The Remembered Soldier,” – Anjet Daanje, translated from Dutch by David McKay
“The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran,” – Shida Bazyar, translated from German by Ruth Martin
“On Earth As It Is Beneath,” – Ana Paula Maia, translated from Portuguese (Brazil) by Padma Viswanathan
“We Are Green and Trembling,” – Gabriela Cabezón Cámara, translated from Spanish by Robin Myers
“Women Without Men,” – Shahrnush Parsipur, translated from Persian by Faridoun Farrokh 

This year’s longlist is a cornucopia of preoccupations, magic and the esoteric; questions of war, colonialism; the moral culpability of the individual when viewed within the context of history; the imbalances of power via money, sex and pure geopolitical power. This year’s longlist highlights a variety of concerns without anchoring itself down by making any perceived political statement. Which is rather admirable considering Shahrnush Parsipur’s novel “Women Without Men,” right now will be read within the lens of the current upheaval in Iran and the death of Jina Mahsa Amini in 2022. This same perspective will certainly be applied to Shida Bazyar and her novel “The Nights Are Quiet in Tehran.” Perhaps though, this is why the judges chose these two novels, for the immediate relevance to the current state of affairs in the Middle Eastern nation, which is currently be antagonized further by the United States of America.

The mercurial world of womanhood enters the realm of the occult via two novels which careen towards magical realism and then pull themselves back, “The Wax Child,” by Ola Ravn and “The Witch,” by Marie Ndiaye. Ola Ravn’s novel is based of the terrifying reality of 17^th century theology, where witches and the dark arts were as a real threat to people as fires or plagues. It captures the superstitions of the time with visceral clarity and the suspicions of female empowerment, all from the perspective of the titular wax doll, who remains casual and intimate observer of these strange and violent times. Marie Ndiaye “The Witch,” tackles the notion of orphic spiritualism from an otherwise hereditary and folklore tradition, as the character Lucie understands, her lineage is a long and proud one of witches, while her own powers remain underwhelming and disappointing at the best of times; but her daughters, however, have inherited her gift ten-fold. What follows is a rumination on family, the complexity of mother-daughter relationships, and the nature of home.

Yáng Shuāng-zǐ and Daniel Kehlmann are the two writers to watch out for the most on this year’s longlist. Yáng Shuāng-zǐ’s novel “Taiwan Travelogue,” has been on a winning street both at home and abroad, having won the National Book Award for Translated Literature in 2024. The novel is a bittersweet love story between two women during the early 20^th century, when Japan controlled Taiwan. The novel questions love, power, language and history. Its complexity should only endear readers, showcasing the power of what great literature can do. While the eminent German author Daniel Kehlmann tackles history and biography, recounting the life of G.W. Pabst and his ethical culpability when making a deal with the Nazis. Questions circulate and remain, was Pabst an unwilling cog in a tyrannical machine now miscast as collaborator; or was he collaborator all along, who alienated in California returned to Austria, in order to reclaim the twinkling silver dreams of cinema?

Mathias Énard remains a dark horse for this year’s prize as well with his novel “The Deserters,” which remains the darkest dystopian parabolic novel on the longlist, recounting on one end, the fever dream of a solider emerging from the Mediterranean wilderness, escaping an unspecified war and its incessant violence; while on the other end, a tributary conference to the mathematician Paul Heudeber, whose endorsement of communist ideals were a direct product of his opposition to fascism. Written in Énard’s signature neo-modernist prose, “The Deserters,” is the best of translated literature, complex writing wrestling with nuanced ideas, while pathologising them in turn.

Certainly, a compelling list this year, with a mixture of lengthy novels and those of expedited nature. Regardless, this year’s award appears to move the prize back in the right direction, bringing to attention a variety of writers to the reading publics attention. Ia Genberg for example is once again nominated with “Small Comforts,” which examines the complex relationship individuals have with money, and money’s influence on society as a whole – and of course one’s entire life. This same delineation was turned towards human connection in Genberg’s 2024 International Booker Prize shortlisted novel: “The Details.” “Small Comforts,” only continues to showcase Ia Genberg as the keen observer of the absurdity of the human condition and life itself.

Here's hoping this year’s shortlist is equally as interesting.
 
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

– XLIX –

Privacy is not only a virtue, its personal policy, which keeps my nose clean and my interests free from ruin.

Cees Nootebum Dies Aged 92

Hello Gentle Reader,

It is difficult to imagine any contemporary writer whose shadow cast as long and as deep as Cees Nootebum, who for decades was considered a mountain of Dutch literature and a towering figure in European literature at large. One of those great literary statemen. As a writer, Nootebum approach literature with an insatiable sense of curiosity, fueled further by his love of travel. His work maintained a continuous drive for adventure. This sense of momentum is first grasped with his debut novel “Philip and the Others,” recounts an adventurous young man traveling, drifting and hitchhiking through Europe, until one day he spots a beautiful and mysterious woman in Paris. What follows is an odyssey into the ethereal. The pursuit of locating this mysterious woman, and while he finds her once more, he soon looses her once again and this time forever. The novel already showcased the hallmark themes, specifically the poetics of momentum; the importance and sensuality of travel; and being led by curiosity, open to new experiences and new lives. As Philip is advised early on, so to does Nootebum to his readers, you must evade and avoid everyday life, use the time available to you look outwards and experience all the physical wonders of the world. Only then do you live life, but also find and lose love. As one of the last in the fading European vanguard of literary statesmen, Cees Nootebum was not a writer devoted specifically to prose or poetry or theatre, but whose bibliography swelled beyond these traditional definitions, encompassing a great many prose pieces which included short stories, novels, essays, travelogues, and personal works which defy clean definitions, to also poetry. All of Nootebum’s work remains defined by a unyielding spirit of adventure infusing his work with an erudite understanding of history, mythology and other cultures, showcasing the complex world we live in, but also the beauty of human beings in their ability to maneuver between borders, be it national, linguistic, or cultural in origin and forge new found relationships and understandings. Cees Nootebum is one of the great writers whose themes are eternal, capturing the passage of time, the poetry of adventure and wandering, while lacing it with existential questions. Despite being called one of the most remarkable writers of the time, only a sampling of his works has been translated into English at this time, but what is available should be considered a real treat and only a taste of the writers completely work.

 Rest in Peace Cees Nootebum.

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

Regarding the Choreography of Sex

Hello Gentle Reader,

Erato the muse of lyrical and erotic verse strikes an enchanting figure. Though one who has fallen out of serious fashion. Romance is a term which has a variety of itineration’s, forms, textures and meanings. The affairs of the heart; the longing of the eye; the mechanics of sex are compelling subjects, but also spiced with pitfalls and landmines. These subjects are easily dismissed as being too indulgent; while their orbital proximity to the melodramatic only hinders them further. This does not mean human relationships or the exploration of love as an intoxicating state of being are not serious topics of discourse; though the intensity of the subject matter makes them molten to handle, in addition to being a highwire balancing act. All of which requires not only careful management of the subject but precise execution. Any wrongfoot, misstep or misalignment and it all comes tumbling down. Samuel Richardson first showed the possibility of exploring the affairs of the heart with the novel, “Clarissa; or, The History of a Young Lady,” in 1748, which left readers enchanted and enthralled waiting with bated breath for the next installment of dear Clarissa’s story. This novel also cracked open the wellspring of sensibility, from which all other romance narratives pull their strength from. Afterall, who hasn’t pined or longed for just a brush with Eros? In turn, those who have swam in the depths of Aphrodite’s embrace, are equally acquainted with the cold plunge and shock when cast ashore. Regardless, when it comes to prose and exploring the nature of desire, eroticism, romance, writers sail precariously close to the window.

When it comes to poetry, however, there is more grace. Poets such as Pablo Neruda, revitalised the soulful eroticism of poetry. Lines with such aesthetic beauty, reverberate long after they are read or recited as pure depictions of unadulterated love with striking originality and sensuality, they defy the boilerplate cliché conventions, inventing new modes and images of expression:  

From “Poem XIV: Every Day You Play,”

“I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,

dark hazels, and rustic basket of kisses

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,”

or from “One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII,”

            “I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
            or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
            I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
            secretly, between the shadow and soul.”

And there are many other poets who continue to grapple with the complex themes related to desires, dreams and yearnings of the heart. The intoxication of attraction. The freefall of infatuation. The passionate hunger of lust. The aches of absence. The all-consuming pains of departures. The bitter grief of separation. Poetry, however, is suited to capturing the intensity of the moments. Bottling the experiences as best they can. The distillation and concision of poetry’s nature, ensures the work is never drowning in treacle sentimentality. For those who have been in love know its intensity is sharp and transient. A tickle. A tremble. A flutter. A shiver. A heartbeat. The moment of breathlessness; a lapse in one’s senses. Any lingering and the flames are extinguished, reduced to dust and ash. The potency is in its instantaneous nature. The spark of it. To this I was once told: we burn bright; we burn brilliant; but we don’t burn for long.

The wellspring of sensibility first cracked open by “Clarissa; or, The History of a Young Lady,” has shown no signs of drying up. This is further exemplified by the industrial production of cheap romance novels, complete with their whisk away plots and sensual exaggerated covers. These romance novels are sprinkled throughout the landscape of our memories and childhoods. The mass market paperbacks picked up at drugstores or grocery stores. They littered kitchen tables, coffee tables, end tables and bedside tables. Residing next to ashtrays, coffee-stained coasters and the television remote. In cavernous houses of wood paneling, shag carpet and linoleum kitchen floors; dreams and desires wilted away just as the flowers in the vase on the windowsill. Days filled with housework. The cooking, the cleaning, the shopping. Interrupted with pauses for daily kept appointments with daytime television, be it soap operas or talk shows. While there were other moments and times. Those interludes were available to crack open the paperbacks. The scene already set; having been pulled from a long list of prescribed templated sets. In the forthcoming and following pages though, they chart the course of the heroine (another stock character) and her whirlwind romance with a male figure dripping and oozing with fantastical sex appeal. Rugged, devotional, passionate, attentive, affectionate. The whole packaged deal. Everything that just happens to be missing in their own lives. Married life had settled into routines. There are no more flowers. No discrete kisses sneaked or stolen in the corners of rooms. He snores laying facing the wall; breath reeking of beer from his night out at the pub. The kids tucked in the for night. Dishes drying on the rack. Tomorrow and the continual chains of days, will carry on with only slight variations.

When we were young, we would flip through these books – what were collectively understood and described as smutty – to find the alleged big reveal. Though we never found anything other then some vaguely described positioning and action. Nothing that could be described as graphic or explicit in nature. Such visual treatment was reserved for men, with their gentlemen’s magazines. Filled with smart articles about sports, fishing, lifestyle, longform journalism, fiction and intellectual interviews; all sandwiched between spreads and pin ups of beautiful young women who stripped down to reveal all; posing seductively and enticingly for what is now described as: ‘the male gaze.’ Each of us knew then, our fathers weren’t purchasing these magazines for their articles, for the same reason as we know why they were stashed out of sight. As we got older, we dismissed our mothers tawdry romance novels as nothing but discounted intimate fantasies. Something to entertain unfulfilled and lonely housewives. While our fathers’ collections of man-about-town magazines were nothing short of pervert material for dirty old men.

The appeal of romance media is the escapism qualities. While I would not go so far to describe love as an ideal or a sustainable state of being. It is, however, a powerful force, which is interwoven into human culture and is a universal subject, transcending borders, cultures and languages. The proliferation of this escapism fantasy continues. It’s an industrial complex all on its own. Publishers discuss how the enduring romantasy genre is not just a trend or a fad. It’s been a complete shift in readers consumptions and habits. While there are articles out there questioning whether or not such novels are contributing to what is being called the normalization of anti-intellectualism or dumbing down books; I am of the school and thought: read what you want; what’s important is you read. Further to this point, the wildfire success of the television show “Heated Rivalry,” an adaption of a couple of novels from the “Game Changer,” series of gay sports romance novels by the Canadian writer Rachel Reid, showcases the enduring appetite readers and viewers have with romantic narratives.

What separates “Heated Rivalry,” from other viral media sensations or contemporary shows, is its unapologetic approach to engaging and depicting sex on screen. To the point where cut scenes and snippets of the show disseminated on social media and on the internet give uninformed viewers the impression that its softcore porn. Needless to say, I was the uninitiated viewer. However, over the course of six episodes and the immediate plunge into these physical affectionate scenes, move beyond the hook and bait catching required to grab the attention and appetites of viewers, and instead begins to reveal an ever-evolving relationship between these two characters. One which was obviously predicated on physical attraction and responses, but gradually becomes deeper, moving beyond discrete nondescript rendezvous and blossoming into a deep-felt love. As with any romance story, the course of love is never shot with a linear arrow. The relationship between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov is designed to be complex. From the reality of Russia denying sexual orientation as a human right; to hockey’s hyper ultra masculine sports culture, with one character in the show commenting on his own realization that he was different from his team mates and was perhaps that word that was thrown around as an insult on the ice and in the locker room. Then there is the romance trope itself, with both characters operating as rivals on the ice and in public. While it is a useful ruse to further support the concealment of their relationship, it adds further complications.

The conversations regarding “Heated Rivalry,” generally fixate on the shows unapologetic and unbashful display of simulated same sex intimacy without lingering over the conventional build up employed to get to these otherwise volcanic moments. The show is taut, terse and lean. This first season consists of six episodes and moves at an expedited pace. Therefore, sex and the physical interactions between the characters operates two-fold. First by developing and entrenching their characters enduring yearning for each other and second by moving the narrative forward into further emotionally complex territory and great character development. While initially, I was put off by what I perceived to be a torrent of gratuitous sexual exploits of extremely beautiful and virile men; the showrunners managed to handle the passionate and physical nature of sex to capture both its titillating nature, while displaying the sensuality of it, the unmentioned beauty. Even one might go so far as to say, a sense of vulnerability. The sex scenes themselves became more akin to choregraphed dance scenes, showcasing the entanglement and entwinement of two souls, and not just being a romp in the sack. As for the dialogue, it’s what one would expect from young hockey players; this includes their monosyllabic text messaging. There’s plenty of fucks and fuck you’s bandied about, in addition to regular reminders one is an asshole and the other one is boring. While some critics I’m sure take issue with this simplistic dialogue, it’s important to note, hockey players are not renowned for their eloquence, and in a world that routinely advertises – no demands – authenticity in every way, then this is a naturalistic grasp of the direct and otherwise repetitive language employed by these sporting professionals. If I were to issue a criticism, it would be context was often lost on me, which caused the characters to initially appear light or undeveloped. For example, I am still not completely sure what was the catalyst to their relationship or the initial spark to ignite it; but these two brilliant breakout actors who embodied these characters filled them with such subtle details and gestures, this compensated for a lack of context. One of my favourite scenes is when Illya video calls Shane and sees him wearing glasses, which causes a flustered and embarrassed Shane to remove them, yet Illya requests he put them back on and taps his cheek beneath his eye when requesting it. For some reason, I thought this was rather endearing. While in turn, the pain and confusion exhibited by Shane after a particularly cold dalliance with Illya whereby he begins to text after leaving: “we didn’t even kiss,” before deleting the draft. To reiterate, the course of love is never shot with a linear arrow.

“Heated Rivalry,” follows suit in the critical acclaim and success of other recent film and television series which portray same sex relationships with equal poignancy and enduring poeticism. First there was the tragic ghost love story “All of Us Strangers,” which grapples with the realm of romance and reconciliation of the personal tragedies, while touching on themes of urban isolation and alienation. It’s a beautiful film, which handles its supernatural and fantastical elements with grounded realism, crafting a beautiful heartbreaking narrative which concludes with a tragic realisation. Then there was the historical limited series “Fellow Travelers,” depicting the volatile, difficult and complex relationship between two men from the lavender scare of the 1950’s into the AID’s epidemic. This series as well, ultimately ends on a tragic note, but not without a bit of a fight. Yet it’s rooted in the historical experiences of gay people who were persecuted during this time. This is what separates “Heated Rivalry,” from its contemporary and previous predecessors, as the narrative moves away from tragedy. While in all fairness, in the case of “Fellow Travelers,” there were few options for either Hawk or Tim “Skippy.” They either entered into loveless conventional marriages, undercut with anonymous illegal hookups, or attempted to live their lives as honestly as possible with all repercussions and consequences this would entail, resulting in the contraction of AIDs and death. While “All of Us Strangers,” ends on a bittersweet point of pathos, it remains an exquisite ethereal rendered film. Regardless, it is nice to see a same sex romance narrative end on the precipice of hope. The final drive in the golden hour, the day softens into an encroaching evening with tomorrow holding real possibilities. In addition to this, the beauty of “Heated Rivalry,” is the portrayal of this relationship in the same bewildering and wonderous way as described by Leo from Herta Müller’s novel, “The Hunger Angel,” when he confesses his own first experiences with an illicit tryst in the park: “Something had just happened to me. Something forbidden. Something strange, filthy, shameless, and beautiful.” The relationship of Shane and Illya is portrayed not only as beautiful, but natural and normal. They fall into each other with ease. The unabashed sex may have enticed many viewers into watching the show, but what they were treated to went far beyond the mechanics of copulation.

The other component of “Heated Rivalry,” which separates it largely from its predecessors, is the show exists purely within the harlequin romance fantasy. This show is not looking to bring any social or political critique to its narrative. Yes, Russia’s draconian LGBT Propaganda laws are referenced and brought up, but they are not the focal point of the television show. “Heated Rivalry,” is not designed as a show to take aim and issue with these laws, let alone debate or criticise them. Rather their reality is a feature of the landscape. A complication and shadow of a threat that Illya endures and manages. Some critics took umbrage with the shows lack of engagement with real world issues of homophobia or heterosexism. Here again though, this is not the point. “Heated Rivalry,” splinters off and becomes beautiful because it has decided to be a simple romance story. It does not seek to punch above this; yet ironically in turn hits all the right keys, tones and ques, strikes above the treacle sentimentality the genre is usually tarred and feathered in. The burgeoning relationship between Shane and Illya is littered with enough road blocks and issues; statements regarding international politics, scenes of displacement and disownment, or familiar strife would pull the narrative away from the cloistered world of these two individuals navigating their emotions for one another. The love between Illya and Shane is built on the empathetic understanding that their love suffers from the same level of consequence, uncertainties and risks as any heterosexual relationship, with, perhaps some added levels of complications. Still, love is love.

Romance may have fallen out of serious discussion. While poetry is given greater reign to ruminate on the matter, revitalizing and exploring the eroticism of the soul. Television shows such as “Heated Rivalry,” have begun to introduce a new level of nuance to the escapism the genre expertly facilities. One beyond the bubble gum superficiality which is often associated with it. While other writers, such as Elfriede Jelinek as a prime example, have taken romance novel tropes and contorted them into a viscous psychosexual satire turned sociopolitical commentary; it is nice to see – now and then at least – a television show which appears to accept the limitations of the romantic trope, yet enhance them by embracing them all the same. “Heated Rivalry,” is not perfect by any means; but it’s a beautifully shot show, with incredible actors and plenty of unabashed choregraphed sex scenes between beautiful people, which may leave you longing for your own now departed juvenescence. Though I maintain – for now at least – “Heated Rivalry,” continues the narrative evolution that Patricia Highsmith first pioneered with her novel “The Price of Salt,” (republished as “Carol,”) which upon its initial publication in 1952 brazenly changed the course of the ending of the gay oriented novel, by allowing her characters the possibility of a happy ending. Rather than ending in suicide or some other god forsaken tragedy (marriage) which was the prescribed ending of such stories. Though I doubt Highsmith would appreciate the notion of “Heated Rivalry,” standing on her novel’s shoulders, it certainly occupies similar ground, by continuing to open the door for these narratives of love to blossom not under the threat of oppression or exposure, but as works that define love as a human concept. Free from societal limitations, but made complicated by our own emotional miscommunications. Afterall, all love deserves sunshine.

 

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

Venus Khoury-Ghata Dies Aged 88

Hello Gentle Reader,

Vénus Khoury-Ghata has sadly died only a little over a month of turning 88 years old. Khoury-Ghata will forever be remembered as a titan of Lebanese-Francophone literature, and an absolute singular gem of contemporary French language poetry. While French poetry, often finds itself more interested in celebrating its pantheon of legacy poets turned to legends, with an understanding and adherence to form – though all things considered, there not as bad as the English in this way – Vénus Khoury-Ghata poetry flowed with a soulful lyricism that embraced a surreal and complex imagery. Khoury-Ghata’s poetry reviewed and commented on the nature of womanhood, motherhood, exile, memory, death and what can be described as the unarticulated forces that inhabit daily life. Vénus Khoury-Ghata unapologetically blended an appreciation of the Arabic poetic tradition with its sense of Homeric mythic perspectives with the technical flare of French poetry traditions. Though the sensuality and exuberant generosity of the lyricism found in Khoury-Ghata’s poetry is indebted more to the Arabic traditions then the French in which they were composed. There’s a sense of curiosity to Venus Khoury-Ghata’s poetry and its embracement of narrative and sustained poetic discourse, which would run through collections, creating a sense of unity within them. Though they were cut through with the surreal and dreamscape imagery of the French surrealists and symbolists. Khoury-Ghata’s path to poetry is perhaps more vocation than it was instilled passion. Growing up in the Christian quarters of Beirut, Venus Khoury-Ghata came from otherwise humbling beginnings: her mother was illiterate, while her father was a policeman who embraced French culture and language and shared it with his family.  Khoury-Ghata often described reconciling this bisected reality as writing in French from right to left, reconciling the duality between the Arabic and the French. Vénus Khoury-Ghata’s literary talents were not just contained to poetry; she is also a master in prose. Employing the same poetic perspective, weightless sparsity, and a bent for surreal imagery to explore to engage in the world in prose, with her personal novel “A House at the Edge of Tears,” recounting the destitution and degradation of her beloved beautiful brother, who initially inspired her to the literary world and whose literary ambitions were thwarted and ensnared by drug addiction and completely obliterated by his incarceration in a psychiatric facility. Vénus Khoury-Ghata will be remembered as one of the great French language poets of her generation. A singular visionary poet.

 

Rest in Peace Venus Khoury-Ghata
 
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

– XLVIII –

If I wanted the truth, I would have asked a child, and as it happens, I am not fond of children

Days of Sand

Hello Gentle Reader,

There is something to be said about poets who dare to dabble in the inkwells of prose. Afterall, poetry and prose approach language and narrative from completely different starting points and have varying expectations of what the destination is. Poetry is the lark form. There is an understanding of language. The composition, the textures, the resonance, the cadence followed by the echo. Whether or not the tune is sharp or flat; if the rhythm and rhyming scheme floats with elegance, reaching for the effervescent points of euphonic, or if the rhythm clatters, the lines dragging along the stanza as a series of chains clanging and jangling in a Marlian procession of rusted grating damned cacophony. Turners of language; cultivators of silence. Poets master schools and forms; be it Elizabethan or Italian sonnet, limerick or villanelle. These defined forms exist to support and provide structure to the ephemera which poetry courts. Whereas prose is the catchall. Where poetry corresponds with air, the lightness of the sky, the shapelessness of clouds; prose encompasses the solid and firmness of the earth; the salt and the spice of it. Not concerned with tradition or form, prose maintains itself through the universality of grammar. Structured around sentences and paragraphs; punctuated with comas, semicolons, colons; concluding with periods, exclamation marks and question marks. As long as these principles are adhered to, the form is malleable and shapable. Prose is flexible beyond the traditions of established thought, theories, schools or forms. This of course being said, the prose written and celebrated today is best described as punchy. Sentences are hardboiled. They are rendered down to their bleached and translucent bones, whereby they rattle with solemn and hollow reportage. As a point of personal judgement, this scaled, scalped and trimmed sentence structure complete with concrete pithy style, can be traced to Hemmingway; whose barebones reportage writing style was praised upon its initial debut as a significant departure from the exuberant eloquence of Henry James. Now, however, the style has become propensity of every writer milled out of some creative writing fine arts degree program. It is understandable why students and aspiring writers are instructed not to emulate the overwhelming cascading verbosity of Henry James. Yet the directness championed by Hemingway has all but washed, glazed and baked the writings of today to a templated scripture. There is no scrolling expressiveness. Its all been replaced by a style effectively described as write by numbers or the building block composition. The poet, however, who splashes in the ever-expanding pond of prose, is capable of approaching language and sentences from an original and different perspective. Gone is the utilitarian and wooden production of sentences, since replaced by a prose whose qualities invoke an undercurrent of sophistication, evident in a complexity of metaphors and imagery; the smoothness of the sentences rippling forward in controlled purposeful current; not a series of blocks assembled in a manner of tracking the trajectory of point to point. Nevertheless, there is a word of caution to poets who move into the vacuous realm of prose. Unencumbered and therefore unmoored by form or structure, it is easy to become enveloped and lost within the sheer quantity of an overabundance of text and be swept out and away. Some poets when turning to prose, loose the plot and the point, whereby readers drown (or give up) in a novel that is infused with beautiful language, but has no where to take hold or take shape or form. While others take to prose with ease, mastering both forms. Hélène Dorion is one such poet.

“Days of Sand,” has been classified as a novel. Yet, this assembly of text by the Québécoise poet Hélène Dorion, would be best defined as a meditation rather than a novel. While French publishing is open to a myriad of genres to at least attempt to describe the insurmountable shapes and figures prose can take; the counterpart of English publishing is less generous in accepting terms such as meditations or fragments as standalone literary forms unto themselves, they can certainly be a part of a novel or essay, but as singular compositions, no it just wont do. Which inevitably explains why “Days of Sand,” for all intents and purposes is described as a novel. Despite this, Hélène Dorion embraces the free form of prose with ease, crafting a series of vignettes compromised of memories; meditations on language; thoughts and ponderings, become collated into a seamless menagerie of what may be described in the loosest of terms as a memoir. Hélène Dorion’s vignettes are impressionistic in scope and scale. Rather then being an oil painter, Dorion is a watercolourist providing impressions and insinuations to shape the negative space, without anchoring the work into the firm elements of autobiography or requirements of a traditional memoir. Furthermore, Dorion’s memories are nonlinear in scope and spirit. The spark alight with the spontaneity of reminiscences. How they are incited, provoked and spurred on is never revealed, such a detail is inconsequential in “Days of Sand.” Hélène Dorion’s interest remains firmly interested in tracing the memory and revelation as its recalled and considered.

“Our lives depend perhaps upon what wanders about in our heads as children, and which we only re-encounter in pieces, in images that are only ever fragments, half-true stories driven by words. We reshape the thread linking the worlds, delving into the imaginary and reality, without concern for the other.

One day the window opens on its own. We are ready to let in the scenery. The wind blows, bringing with it faces, scenes, minor events, others more troubling. The present carries enough weight in the balance of time to modify constantly the vision we have of the past. We turn the glass around. we listen to what has been echoing forever in our voices. We are ready to reconstruct our memory.”

Memory via the pen of Hélène Dorion is pétillant in spirit. A carbonated chaos were flashes of memories whip and whirl through the window, becoming half remembered truths and stories. A convoluted mosaic constructed of chipped and fragmented tiles. The brightness of Dorion’s prose comes from its enveloping sensory qualities enriched further by the lyrical and poetic qualities. The distance between remembered and the event itself, creates a crystalline – almost cold – understanding. Dramatic incidents of escaping house fires, nearly drowning, the solitude of illness and recovery, are recalled and reflected on, but never melodramatically chewed over. Rather they lead to observations, mediations, and realizations. The understanding of one’s parents eventually ceasing to exist in the world, witnessing their own entrance into orphanhood. There are ruminations of the complexities of piecing together the origins of one’s family, or at the very least, the semblance of it. This is complete by half-true stories and personal mythologies in which we all come to accept as the testament. Memories of long-haul road trips for family vacations, hallmarks of childhood. The resolve and understanding that one will become a writer, not as a point of cultural pedigree, but as a inherent vocation from within oneself. In the end though, the “Days of Sand,” persists through its flashes, snapshots, and fragments: “The sand runs out and the wave soon will carry everything away; all we can do is love.”

Hélène Dorion’s border cross into prose is a beautiful success. In maintaining the same adherence to sharp and precise language, Dorion is capable of striking at the heart of the matter, rather than linger over details in any excessive or languid fashion. “Days of Sand,” is a collection of reminiscences, meditations, recollections and reflections. Each sequence or vignette an exquisite pearl along the strand. Readers, however, should be forewarned in advance. While “Days of Sand,” is titled a novel and won the now defunct Prix Anne-Hébert award in 2004, it is not concerned with narrative or character. There is no story to grip to it. Rather it’s a free-flowing series of short recollections and reminisces, examined from a new temporal reality, truths and observations can be understood with some degree of clarity granted by the privilege of age and distance. For readers who enjoy their prose with a greater sensory appreciation and delight in the freefall of poetry in prose, “Days of Sand,” is perfect, complete with an at times ellagic quality of time passage now viewed within retrospect.

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