Hello Gentle Reader
My mother used to say to me when I was younger: in with the new and out with the old. That reminds me of my old clothes – and the ‘handme,’ downs that followed, but also the new clothes as well. There also came new other items of the house: new dishes; new glasses; dog and the addition of cats – all continuously new. Now days most people remind me of the paramount reality: the only aspect of life you can count on is change. For someone like myself who has the delightful trait of being a ‘fixed,’ personality – someone stabilized within the confines of the reality that has been shaped now. No immediate changes or unnecessary adjustments; which is of course why routine in my life is paramount, next to shadow of the realization that change is inevitable; and why in my own personal space/living space, or quarters of my own, do not move or touch my stuff. Everything has its order, its organization and its place. When something is missing because it was moved, nothing becomes more infuriating and frustrating – the invasion and then the blasphemy itself of feeling entitlement to actual move something without, my own consideration, is even more exasperating. Foreign finger prints on a books dust, often is a sin for my books. Tenderly loved, like an old woman who fusses with plants and talks to them; I take great care to make sure that my books are kept in the upmost condition. That being said, when a book has lost its lustre or proves to be a dead weight; if at all possible it is returned to the establishment in which it was purchased from. If the return policy refuses me my refund and no leniency is granted, then an alternative is usually made. A gift for someone who loves books. Though philanthropy is not a cheap hobby or one that one gets any gain from, other than that tingle in their chest; so it is usually more profitable to try and get some money back. Books that have been reviewed here have been given away. Natsuo Kirino’s “Real World,” was given away after the first reading. It came at a discounted price that one could not refuse, and therefore there was no real loss. Other books like Will Self’s short story collection “Grey Area,” and “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel however did bring in some losses. As did the selected stories of Patricia Highsmith. Quick decisions without enough research and though put in them, leads to some poor financial management. – As with the books, so does this blog at times find it has rather unmentionable posts lying about; in need of getting rid of. Some still need to go; and many more books need to be re-read and re-reviewed and updated. The only problem with that is that, right now that is not in proper time management. To be honest and frank Gentle Reader, there would be great pleasure in reading so many works; like “The Black Book,” by Orhan Pamuk and “The Passport,” by Herta Müller; or “Ragnarok: the end of the Gods,” by A.S. Byatt, or “The Strangers Child,” (well in a few more years) by Alan Hollinghurst, even “Palace Walk,” by Naguib Mahfouz, and “The Sound of the Mountain,” by Yasunari Kawabata. Yet there is still excitement over other books that have yet to be read “Ninth,” by the Hungarian author Fernac Bernas, “Aminidab,” by French writer and Philosopher Maurice Blanchot, among so many other writers and books, that are on the “to read pile,” but also incorporating a list of authors and books that are looked into for reading. That is why though Gentle Reader previous posts have been deleted. Posts that have been seen as ‘prototypes,’ at best, but for the most part they were deemed a waste of space on the blog.
A New Year and a clean slate. A chance to continual improve and refine. To a New Year, that is just around the corner.
Some good books are coming out in two-thousand thirteen. The release of Will Self’s first booker nominated novel “Umbrella,” – which I am sure will be full polysyllabic words and may be a sumptuous read, though one does need to make sure that it is not bought on spontaneous impetuous grounds. Careful considerations and reservations in regards to it are to be held. It is written in a High Modernist style reminiscent of James Joyce’s almost unreadable and intimidating novel “Finnegan’s Wake.” One of the pre-eminent French writers Pierre Michon’s novel is set out to in February, by Archipelago Books titled “Elven.” The second book in Karl Ove Knausgaard in his monumental Proustian like memoir “My Struggle,” is also due out by Archipelago Books. These volumes of a family memoir and narrative have made Mr. Knausgaard, beloved and bereaved at home in Norway, and a literary enfant terrible. New Directions Publishing all brings forth one of the greatest modern Arabic works of fiction “That Smell and Notes from Prison,” by Sonallah Ibrahim. One can only wait and see what else is going to come from two-thousand and thirteen.
A wish for all to be safe, in their evening and night of celebration and spirits, as they ring in the New Year; and look forward to seeing you Gentle Readers, in the New Year, for another year of writing and discovery.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Monday, 31 December 2012
Thursday, 27 December 2012
A Year of Reading in Review
Hello Gentle Reader
This time of year, there comes a moment when everyone thinks about the previous year in review. The good, the bad, the tragic – everything from the personal to the monumental is placed under the scrutiny of all individuals. From the disappointing and anti-climactic end of the world, that was supposed to happen – I know many people must be truly disappointed, that the mountain that refused to bloom or open up like some flower or the cavernous maw of a whale, to release a spirit into the world. Disappointing indeed. Though many marked the beginning of the twenty first of December, with celebration; but truly if the Mayans could project or had any foresight into the future they would have foresaw their own demise. Though the snack of the impending nuclear holocaust, did end. The twinkie did see its final end in two-thousand and twelve.
However the year did have its tragedies. National, internationally, and literary. The Colorado theatre shooting – the Aurora Shooting; to the recent Newtown Massacre; and the death of the poor nurse, after her prank by two Australian radio hosts, had turned deadly, as she committed suicide. Literary tragedies include the trio of deaths of Nobel Laureate in Literature Wisława Szymborska often dubbed the Mozart of Poetry; the perennial Nobel favourite Antonio Tabucchi who became Pessoa’s apprentice and from there shaped his own identity; and one of the three great giants of the Latin American boom who did not receive Nobel Recognition Carlos Fuentes. Other authors who had passed were Gore Vidal, Soviet/Russian poet and dramatist Vasily Belov, Maeve Blinchy and so many who had slipped under the radar. Other tragedies include Philip Roth's retirement, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's career ended by Dementia.
The year in the Review had some great moments of discovering some interesting books. From “in Red,” by Magdalena Tulli, to “Mister Blue,” by Jacques Poulin – both from the wonderful Archipelago Books. I had my first encounter just recently with Nobel Laureate Elfriede Jelinek and fellow Austrian writer Peter Handke – amazing yet slightly disturbed authors. Nobel Laureate Herta Müller’s novel “The Hunger Angel,” was finally released in English, much to my anticipation and excitement. Fellow Laureate in Literature Orhan Pamuk’s youthful gothic novel “Silent House,” was also released for the first time in English as well. It was the first time I read the olderst Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing’s monumental novel “The Golden Notebook.” It both baffled and shocked me in its open discussion of menstruation, sex, being a woman, and mental break down. Incredibly uneven, and incredibly long this novel is something that would most likely become a classic and yet rarely read by the average reader, instead being read by sociological courses or history classes.
Awards wise it was a year that could have done better. The Booker followed its routine path of awarding for the third time, a previous winner again. This time the first woman and English writer Hilary Mantel for her next novel in her Tudor trilogy “Bring up the Bodies.” Unable to read the first book “Wolf Hall,” as its verbosity was a bit to talkative to the point that reminded me of a sparrow’s machine gun chatter. A statement could have been made awarding the award to other less known writers – though making it on the shortlist always works too. Alison Moore is going to be a rising star in English letters. The Nobel could have gone to more deserving writers like Ko Un of South Korea or Adunis of Syria.
In the coming year look for some Hungarian books in Review. Also Cesar Aira makes an appearance – one of many I presume; look for the Austrians Peter Handke and Elfriede Jelinek and the overdue conclusion to the Short Story Review; among many other books.
Twenty Thirteen is coming soon; and here is hoping for a great New Year.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
This time of year, there comes a moment when everyone thinks about the previous year in review. The good, the bad, the tragic – everything from the personal to the monumental is placed under the scrutiny of all individuals. From the disappointing and anti-climactic end of the world, that was supposed to happen – I know many people must be truly disappointed, that the mountain that refused to bloom or open up like some flower or the cavernous maw of a whale, to release a spirit into the world. Disappointing indeed. Though many marked the beginning of the twenty first of December, with celebration; but truly if the Mayans could project or had any foresight into the future they would have foresaw their own demise. Though the snack of the impending nuclear holocaust, did end. The twinkie did see its final end in two-thousand and twelve.
However the year did have its tragedies. National, internationally, and literary. The Colorado theatre shooting – the Aurora Shooting; to the recent Newtown Massacre; and the death of the poor nurse, after her prank by two Australian radio hosts, had turned deadly, as she committed suicide. Literary tragedies include the trio of deaths of Nobel Laureate in Literature Wisława Szymborska often dubbed the Mozart of Poetry; the perennial Nobel favourite Antonio Tabucchi who became Pessoa’s apprentice and from there shaped his own identity; and one of the three great giants of the Latin American boom who did not receive Nobel Recognition Carlos Fuentes. Other authors who had passed were Gore Vidal, Soviet/Russian poet and dramatist Vasily Belov, Maeve Blinchy and so many who had slipped under the radar. Other tragedies include Philip Roth's retirement, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's career ended by Dementia.
The year in the Review had some great moments of discovering some interesting books. From “in Red,” by Magdalena Tulli, to “Mister Blue,” by Jacques Poulin – both from the wonderful Archipelago Books. I had my first encounter just recently with Nobel Laureate Elfriede Jelinek and fellow Austrian writer Peter Handke – amazing yet slightly disturbed authors. Nobel Laureate Herta Müller’s novel “The Hunger Angel,” was finally released in English, much to my anticipation and excitement. Fellow Laureate in Literature Orhan Pamuk’s youthful gothic novel “Silent House,” was also released for the first time in English as well. It was the first time I read the olderst Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing’s monumental novel “The Golden Notebook.” It both baffled and shocked me in its open discussion of menstruation, sex, being a woman, and mental break down. Incredibly uneven, and incredibly long this novel is something that would most likely become a classic and yet rarely read by the average reader, instead being read by sociological courses or history classes.
Awards wise it was a year that could have done better. The Booker followed its routine path of awarding for the third time, a previous winner again. This time the first woman and English writer Hilary Mantel for her next novel in her Tudor trilogy “Bring up the Bodies.” Unable to read the first book “Wolf Hall,” as its verbosity was a bit to talkative to the point that reminded me of a sparrow’s machine gun chatter. A statement could have been made awarding the award to other less known writers – though making it on the shortlist always works too. Alison Moore is going to be a rising star in English letters. The Nobel could have gone to more deserving writers like Ko Un of South Korea or Adunis of Syria.
In the coming year look for some Hungarian books in Review. Also Cesar Aira makes an appearance – one of many I presume; look for the Austrians Peter Handke and Elfriede Jelinek and the overdue conclusion to the Short Story Review; among many other books.
Twenty Thirteen is coming soon; and here is hoping for a great New Year.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
Merry Christmas!
Hello Gentle Reader
and a Merry Christmas! May this Christmas Season, come to a gripping and family oriented conclusion!
All the Best and Well Wishes
M. Mary
and a Merry Christmas! May this Christmas Season, come to a gripping and family oriented conclusion!
All the Best and Well Wishes
M. Mary
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Antipodes
Hello Gentle Reader
“The Short Story Review,” a review of six stories from six different collections, from six different authors from all over the world, at first started off shaky, then it had matured, and now it is declining. There is a phrase that people will always say when they discuss their failed dreams, or their failure in life, or their failure to obtain a goal – “life happens.” Such is the case with “The Short Story Review.” My work schedule has increased, and allowed a little less time for reading, of both novels and short stories, at the same rate. However the stories being read currently will continue to be being read, though after the collection is done, it will not be replaced. Short story collections will be reviewed on the blog as a whole, but one story from one collection of six different authors from different walks of life, and being individually reviewed amongst another’s work will not be reviewed. The collections will be read and reviewed as a unified whole. As we approach the last stories of “Little Misunderstanding of No Importance,” and “Waves,” they will not be replaced. They will fall out of circulation. The other works from that point on will also either follow in that suit or it will be reviewed as a unified whole. Short stories are a great art form. They are small and brief. They allow for fleeting moments of feeling. Some of the greatest writers of all time have made their reputation on short stories. One of the greatest classic Russian writers alongside Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy is Anton Chekhov, who excelled and specialized in short stories. Another great contemporary author who was even on “The Short Story Review,” with her collection “Too Much Happiness,” and is coming out with another collection in the Autumn titled “Dear Life,” and is the only author to have had the exception made to have had her collection “The Beggar Maid,” allowed on the Booker Prize Shortlist; and just happens to be her only nomination for the prize. However she did win the Man Booker International Prize, in two thousand and nine. It is the one and only author Alice Munro. Cynthia Ozick had loving called her “our Chekhov.” Other great writers throughout history have excelled in the short story form. Yasunari Kawabata one of my favourite authors had shown how the shortest form of a story can have the same amount of emotional impact of a novel on the reader. His novel’s also take the appearance as his career matured and continued to develop further into ‘palm-of-the hand stories,’ only connected to each like a string of pearls. With his stories Yasunari Kawabata was able to pin point the emotion; the scene; the character; the image; the theme and then together paint a minimalist painting of startling realization. At times the distinction between prose and poetry with Kawabata’s work would cloud and swirl together like ink in water. Some of the greatest works of fiction are the short story. Their ability to be read quickly and digested easily makes them perfect, for short periods of reading. Like waiting for the bus on a crisp autumn morning. Or a winter evening warm and cozy waiting for the company to come and join you for the festivities. Perhaps a spring afternoon when the ground is soft to walk upon, the grasp a little crunchy and the tree’s beginning to bud, the smell of fresh dirt, and fresh air while walking to work. Maybe just one of those lazy summer days, when one just want to read something and mull it over. Short stories are not the novels poor cousin. Short stories have and maintain their own merit on their own. When Naguib Mahfouz was attacked and damaged, he did not give up writing. He continued to write, though the damage to the nerves in his right hand had been permanent and he could only write for short periods of time. However in those short periods of time he crafted his work on the most essential level. In the end he created some amazing compressed poetic vignettes. With it Naguib Mahfouz wrote about his dreams. With it he wrote about the ethereal pieces of life, like looking at ones reflection on the glittering Nile River. The people who had come and gone in his life. People who brought joy and others who brought ennui with them like a pestilent disease. Even Charles Baudelaire, a poet primarily; wrote some poetic prose titled “Paris Spleen,” where discussed the philosophical workings of his life, and what he saw of life around him. In it he chose the poetic mechanics with the longer bits of prose, creating hybrid prose poems. In the nineteen eighties, Raymond Carver, Amy Temple, Anne Beatie had continued the tradition of the stories in what was called an American renaissance. They wrote about the poor and the working class. Something Charles Buckowski the Dirty Old Man of American letters had started years earlier with his own work and his attempts at poetry and finished with his novels and short stories, and newspaper columns. The short story is by far, a long ways away from the novels poor relative. Maybe not as popular but it can stand on its own two feet, and it can stand on its own merit as well.
Ignacio Padilla is one of Mexico famous contemporary authors. Though not as famous as his contemporary Roberto Bolano who in the beginning of the twenty first century started a stir of a literary must have, with students and anyone who read literature that was worthwhile; much like Stieg Larsson had done as well, with his ‘Millennium Trilogy.’ After a failure at being a poet and picking up being a prose writer when he started to have a family realising early on that one could not support his family on his attempts at poetry nor could he raise children in some bohemian life. However Roberto Bolano never truly did distance himself from poetry with his work. “The Savage Detectives,” a book that I could not get into after two attempts at reading, is about a group of poets. These poets call themselves the ‘visceral realists.’
Much like the ‘visceral realists,’ of Roberto Bolano’s “The Savage Detectives,” Ignacio Padilla belonged to the Crack Movement of Mexico. Much like the Latin American Boom that had happened earlier with authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez of Columbia (Nobel Laureate in Literature) Mario Vargas Llosa of Peru (Nobel Laureate) and Carlos Fuentes of Mexico, where these authors wrote in a style called Magical Realism, and placed all of South America (including the Caribbean and Latin America/Central America) on the Literary Map. Now their predecessors look back at the grand masters and see them as what they are: out dated, in a new world, where the political map and the world has increasingly changed. A new movement was formed called McOndo, which celebrated the high and the low of the culture. It wrote about the urbanite, of these countries. It wrote about the drugs, violence, the very existence of day to day life of the country. It did not celebrate or glorify the rural Macondo as the other authors of previous generations had done. Instead it had celebrated the day to life, as a place of uncertainties, and of unique individuals. Of high technology and an invasion of their life and culture. Where taco bell, and McDonalds were common place on the streets, as well as corrupt police officers, drug peddlers, and a corpse possibly lying around the corner in the dumpster.
However the Crack Generation is still slightly different, in its own right. They applaud the masters of the Latin American Boom, but rather than write about the countries they live in now, they wish to escape them. They want to run. It is like growing up in a small town, and thinking of the bright lights of the city. The different coloured tubes of the fluorescent bulbs of the clubs. The drinks, the night life, the day life – the very world stops and every day is as exciting as the next, not necessarily falling into the same routine and morally back water and common place small town where nothing happens – as is supposed. It is in these respects that the authors of this new generation of writers wish to run away from their countries. They recognize and respect and are grateful for what the authors before them have; but they want to carve out their own identity. They say thank-you for putting us on the map. Now let us make new roads in that map, and prove to the world we are not just some, one trick pony. However the old masters do not look down on this. Carlos Fuentes has even praised the Crack Generation and McOndo, as the ‘junior boom.’ While others criticize the movement as not being true to their roots or to their countries and states. It is in this case that the authors of these new movements are fighting against the imitations of Magical Realism that their successors have written about. They are fighting against authors like Isabel Allende who have turned Magical Realism and Literature into simply a formula. With the perversion of the Latin American boom these authors are taking Literature into a new direction.
The stories of Ignacio Padilla are complex and elegantly written. They are short as a story should be, but allow for enough depth into the work itself to be appreciated. I would not say these stories are gold though. They have a lot of glitter to them, and a lot of weight and they are great introductions to the author but they at times felt like I was reading a postmodern version of Robertson Crusoe. The one that should be noted here is that these stories don’t really have characters. Yes there are people, that populate these stories, but they are shadows of the characters. Reduced to out focused shapes, who have long since forgotten and then found all of a sudden. Kind of like reading about a historical figure in a book. One truly does not grasp the weight of Franz Ferdinand’s character from a history text book. One could compare Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophies of Absurdism and Existentialism, but they have no real grasp of the two men themselves. They have only grasped the thoughts of the men, and their ideas. This is the main problem of “Antipodes,” by Ignacio Padilla; the human story is placed aside. Yes they sound intriguing: a Scottish engineer imagines rebuilding the city of Edinburgh in the middle of the Gobi Desert, a medical scientist finds a plague journal in the Amazon jungle (with deadly results), a cross-dresser dying of tuberculosis tries to scale Mount Everest or a British colonel in charge of the railway in Rhodesia is determined to get the trains running on schedule. If he fails, he'll shoot himself in the smoking room of the Hotel Prince Albert. But the human story is sat in the backseat for a philosophical debate and thoughts on the human races very small part in the world and the universe. How nature’s great power can destroy everyone. How the local natives can tear an individual limb by limb. No one’s immunity to disease. Not one person immortal to the fact of death. It is this that hinders Ignacio Padilla considerably but also it is his greatest strength. Insightful and philosophical at times, as well as increasingly tedious led to it becoming quite a fault at times. In the end they were more glitter then gold, because they missed the human aspect. However they were also interesting pieces of fiction as well. Well-crafted and well written. A worthy introduction. It was also a nice change of scenery from Latin America.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
“The Short Story Review,” a review of six stories from six different collections, from six different authors from all over the world, at first started off shaky, then it had matured, and now it is declining. There is a phrase that people will always say when they discuss their failed dreams, or their failure in life, or their failure to obtain a goal – “life happens.” Such is the case with “The Short Story Review.” My work schedule has increased, and allowed a little less time for reading, of both novels and short stories, at the same rate. However the stories being read currently will continue to be being read, though after the collection is done, it will not be replaced. Short story collections will be reviewed on the blog as a whole, but one story from one collection of six different authors from different walks of life, and being individually reviewed amongst another’s work will not be reviewed. The collections will be read and reviewed as a unified whole. As we approach the last stories of “Little Misunderstanding of No Importance,” and “Waves,” they will not be replaced. They will fall out of circulation. The other works from that point on will also either follow in that suit or it will be reviewed as a unified whole. Short stories are a great art form. They are small and brief. They allow for fleeting moments of feeling. Some of the greatest writers of all time have made their reputation on short stories. One of the greatest classic Russian writers alongside Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy is Anton Chekhov, who excelled and specialized in short stories. Another great contemporary author who was even on “The Short Story Review,” with her collection “Too Much Happiness,” and is coming out with another collection in the Autumn titled “Dear Life,” and is the only author to have had the exception made to have had her collection “The Beggar Maid,” allowed on the Booker Prize Shortlist; and just happens to be her only nomination for the prize. However she did win the Man Booker International Prize, in two thousand and nine. It is the one and only author Alice Munro. Cynthia Ozick had loving called her “our Chekhov.” Other great writers throughout history have excelled in the short story form. Yasunari Kawabata one of my favourite authors had shown how the shortest form of a story can have the same amount of emotional impact of a novel on the reader. His novel’s also take the appearance as his career matured and continued to develop further into ‘palm-of-the hand stories,’ only connected to each like a string of pearls. With his stories Yasunari Kawabata was able to pin point the emotion; the scene; the character; the image; the theme and then together paint a minimalist painting of startling realization. At times the distinction between prose and poetry with Kawabata’s work would cloud and swirl together like ink in water. Some of the greatest works of fiction are the short story. Their ability to be read quickly and digested easily makes them perfect, for short periods of reading. Like waiting for the bus on a crisp autumn morning. Or a winter evening warm and cozy waiting for the company to come and join you for the festivities. Perhaps a spring afternoon when the ground is soft to walk upon, the grasp a little crunchy and the tree’s beginning to bud, the smell of fresh dirt, and fresh air while walking to work. Maybe just one of those lazy summer days, when one just want to read something and mull it over. Short stories are not the novels poor cousin. Short stories have and maintain their own merit on their own. When Naguib Mahfouz was attacked and damaged, he did not give up writing. He continued to write, though the damage to the nerves in his right hand had been permanent and he could only write for short periods of time. However in those short periods of time he crafted his work on the most essential level. In the end he created some amazing compressed poetic vignettes. With it Naguib Mahfouz wrote about his dreams. With it he wrote about the ethereal pieces of life, like looking at ones reflection on the glittering Nile River. The people who had come and gone in his life. People who brought joy and others who brought ennui with them like a pestilent disease. Even Charles Baudelaire, a poet primarily; wrote some poetic prose titled “Paris Spleen,” where discussed the philosophical workings of his life, and what he saw of life around him. In it he chose the poetic mechanics with the longer bits of prose, creating hybrid prose poems. In the nineteen eighties, Raymond Carver, Amy Temple, Anne Beatie had continued the tradition of the stories in what was called an American renaissance. They wrote about the poor and the working class. Something Charles Buckowski the Dirty Old Man of American letters had started years earlier with his own work and his attempts at poetry and finished with his novels and short stories, and newspaper columns. The short story is by far, a long ways away from the novels poor relative. Maybe not as popular but it can stand on its own two feet, and it can stand on its own merit as well.
Ignacio Padilla is one of Mexico famous contemporary authors. Though not as famous as his contemporary Roberto Bolano who in the beginning of the twenty first century started a stir of a literary must have, with students and anyone who read literature that was worthwhile; much like Stieg Larsson had done as well, with his ‘Millennium Trilogy.’ After a failure at being a poet and picking up being a prose writer when he started to have a family realising early on that one could not support his family on his attempts at poetry nor could he raise children in some bohemian life. However Roberto Bolano never truly did distance himself from poetry with his work. “The Savage Detectives,” a book that I could not get into after two attempts at reading, is about a group of poets. These poets call themselves the ‘visceral realists.’
Much like the ‘visceral realists,’ of Roberto Bolano’s “The Savage Detectives,” Ignacio Padilla belonged to the Crack Movement of Mexico. Much like the Latin American Boom that had happened earlier with authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez of Columbia (Nobel Laureate in Literature) Mario Vargas Llosa of Peru (Nobel Laureate) and Carlos Fuentes of Mexico, where these authors wrote in a style called Magical Realism, and placed all of South America (including the Caribbean and Latin America/Central America) on the Literary Map. Now their predecessors look back at the grand masters and see them as what they are: out dated, in a new world, where the political map and the world has increasingly changed. A new movement was formed called McOndo, which celebrated the high and the low of the culture. It wrote about the urbanite, of these countries. It wrote about the drugs, violence, the very existence of day to day life of the country. It did not celebrate or glorify the rural Macondo as the other authors of previous generations had done. Instead it had celebrated the day to life, as a place of uncertainties, and of unique individuals. Of high technology and an invasion of their life and culture. Where taco bell, and McDonalds were common place on the streets, as well as corrupt police officers, drug peddlers, and a corpse possibly lying around the corner in the dumpster.
However the Crack Generation is still slightly different, in its own right. They applaud the masters of the Latin American Boom, but rather than write about the countries they live in now, they wish to escape them. They want to run. It is like growing up in a small town, and thinking of the bright lights of the city. The different coloured tubes of the fluorescent bulbs of the clubs. The drinks, the night life, the day life – the very world stops and every day is as exciting as the next, not necessarily falling into the same routine and morally back water and common place small town where nothing happens – as is supposed. It is in these respects that the authors of this new generation of writers wish to run away from their countries. They recognize and respect and are grateful for what the authors before them have; but they want to carve out their own identity. They say thank-you for putting us on the map. Now let us make new roads in that map, and prove to the world we are not just some, one trick pony. However the old masters do not look down on this. Carlos Fuentes has even praised the Crack Generation and McOndo, as the ‘junior boom.’ While others criticize the movement as not being true to their roots or to their countries and states. It is in this case that the authors of these new movements are fighting against the imitations of Magical Realism that their successors have written about. They are fighting against authors like Isabel Allende who have turned Magical Realism and Literature into simply a formula. With the perversion of the Latin American boom these authors are taking Literature into a new direction.
The stories of Ignacio Padilla are complex and elegantly written. They are short as a story should be, but allow for enough depth into the work itself to be appreciated. I would not say these stories are gold though. They have a lot of glitter to them, and a lot of weight and they are great introductions to the author but they at times felt like I was reading a postmodern version of Robertson Crusoe. The one that should be noted here is that these stories don’t really have characters. Yes there are people, that populate these stories, but they are shadows of the characters. Reduced to out focused shapes, who have long since forgotten and then found all of a sudden. Kind of like reading about a historical figure in a book. One truly does not grasp the weight of Franz Ferdinand’s character from a history text book. One could compare Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophies of Absurdism and Existentialism, but they have no real grasp of the two men themselves. They have only grasped the thoughts of the men, and their ideas. This is the main problem of “Antipodes,” by Ignacio Padilla; the human story is placed aside. Yes they sound intriguing: a Scottish engineer imagines rebuilding the city of Edinburgh in the middle of the Gobi Desert, a medical scientist finds a plague journal in the Amazon jungle (with deadly results), a cross-dresser dying of tuberculosis tries to scale Mount Everest or a British colonel in charge of the railway in Rhodesia is determined to get the trains running on schedule. If he fails, he'll shoot himself in the smoking room of the Hotel Prince Albert. But the human story is sat in the backseat for a philosophical debate and thoughts on the human races very small part in the world and the universe. How nature’s great power can destroy everyone. How the local natives can tear an individual limb by limb. No one’s immunity to disease. Not one person immortal to the fact of death. It is this that hinders Ignacio Padilla considerably but also it is his greatest strength. Insightful and philosophical at times, as well as increasingly tedious led to it becoming quite a fault at times. In the end they were more glitter then gold, because they missed the human aspect. However they were also interesting pieces of fiction as well. Well-crafted and well written. A worthy introduction. It was also a nice change of scenery from Latin America.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Mo Yan: The Road to Stockholm
Hello Gentle Reader
It is official; the Chinese author Mo Yan, has given his Nobel Lecture and has received the prize and the diploma (with medal) from the Swedish King. However up to this point the political feeling of the prize, and the feeling that China, has stopped its low grumbling and whining and poor me attitude in regards to again not having a Chinese award been given to a ‘true,’ – or better yet; Politically Tolerable, Laureate. After Liu Xiaobo’s imprisonment and receiving in two-thousand and ten the Nobel Peace Prize, it was clear that China did not sit well with the decision. Leading up to the award in two thousand and ten was quite tense, as many felt China’s cold attitude towards the inevitable as just as appetizers for what they would certainly announce officially.
The road to Stockholm for Mo Yan has been less than kind in its criticism of the author; who many feel is a light way of agricultural pop literature, at best.
As Doctor Wolfgang Kubin, professor of Sinology points out in an interview:
“He writes sensational works. His style dates back to the late 18th century. As a member of the Chinese Communist Party he only criticizes aspects of the system but not the system itself.”
-- Doctor Wolfgang Kubin further points out that, Mo Yan lacks a modern style of writing (as my authors do these days) because there is no readership for it.
“People want sensational works, "sagas" that tell stories that cover 30 to 40 years, about a grandfather, a father, the grandchildren.”
That is just criticism of his literary work. Politically Mo Yan has been under fire the most. In October, when news came of his achievement at winning the award, many applauded it, and asked about the jailed Laureate Liu Xiaobo, and Mo Yan had made it clear that he had wished for the fellow author’s release. In Stockholm during an interview, with the Press, Mo Yan refused to answer the question and further extrapolate on his earlier comments in October when he had made it clear that he would like to see Liu Xiaobo’s release; stating that he had made the comment already, and would sooner drop it. Don’t speak, apparently is more than just a pen name.
The final blow though came in the same interview when Mo Yan had stated that censorship is necessary. Surely Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and nine, must surely be feeling like saying: I told you so; in regards to the criticism and comment she made when she stated that Mo Yan: “Celebrates censorship.”
Mo Yan compared the act of censorship (he quickly pointed censorship of rumours and unprovoked attacks), to the necessity of security checks at an airport. In his lecture Mo Yan addressed the criticism head on stating that it was what others thought of him, not what he truly is: a Chinese Government Pawn – or as some other people have put it in less milder terms a Political Prostitute, unable to recognize their own affiliations in the mirror.
The balancing act Mo Yan has, been forced to dance, along his way to getting the award, has polarized and divided many people, from critics to human rights activists, to the general reading public. Though throughout it all, there has been a feeling of the Chinese government been Mo Yan’s shadow – from escorting the author to Stockholm Sweden, to the unprecedented feeling that any mention of Liu Xiaobo or other politically inappropriate comments, were prepared for in advance and Mo Yan was told what to say if they were to appear.
What came to be a final blow in the nail in Mo Yan's coffin, and in the respect that many had or would have had for the author, was his political stance, in regards to a position, that Mo Yan refused to sigh in regards to the immediate release of Liu Xiaobo from prison. Such a backwards Public Relations move, that most certainly is political motived, Mo Yan loses his credibility and further alienates himself as a Patsy of the Chinese Government.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*
M. Mary
Links to all References:
http://www.latimes.com/features/books/jacketcopy/la-et-jc-bummer-nobel-prizewinner-mo-yan-defends-censorship-20121206,0,3452308.story
http://www.demdigest.net/blog/2012/11/does-mo-yan-really-deserve-the-nobel-prize/
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/06/mo-yan-nobel-literature-p_n_2250956.html?utm_hp_ref=book
http://www.voanews.com/content/chinese-nobel-writer-mo-yan-takes-on-critics/1561057.html
http://sg.news.yahoo.com/nobel-laureate-mo-yan-takes-swipe-critics-lecture-194313495.html
http://www.dw.de/interview-mo-yan-bores-me-to-death/a-16301782
It is official; the Chinese author Mo Yan, has given his Nobel Lecture and has received the prize and the diploma (with medal) from the Swedish King. However up to this point the political feeling of the prize, and the feeling that China, has stopped its low grumbling and whining and poor me attitude in regards to again not having a Chinese award been given to a ‘true,’ – or better yet; Politically Tolerable, Laureate. After Liu Xiaobo’s imprisonment and receiving in two-thousand and ten the Nobel Peace Prize, it was clear that China did not sit well with the decision. Leading up to the award in two thousand and ten was quite tense, as many felt China’s cold attitude towards the inevitable as just as appetizers for what they would certainly announce officially.
The road to Stockholm for Mo Yan has been less than kind in its criticism of the author; who many feel is a light way of agricultural pop literature, at best.
As Doctor Wolfgang Kubin, professor of Sinology points out in an interview:
“He writes sensational works. His style dates back to the late 18th century. As a member of the Chinese Communist Party he only criticizes aspects of the system but not the system itself.”
-- Doctor Wolfgang Kubin further points out that, Mo Yan lacks a modern style of writing (as my authors do these days) because there is no readership for it.
“People want sensational works, "sagas" that tell stories that cover 30 to 40 years, about a grandfather, a father, the grandchildren.”
That is just criticism of his literary work. Politically Mo Yan has been under fire the most. In October, when news came of his achievement at winning the award, many applauded it, and asked about the jailed Laureate Liu Xiaobo, and Mo Yan had made it clear that he had wished for the fellow author’s release. In Stockholm during an interview, with the Press, Mo Yan refused to answer the question and further extrapolate on his earlier comments in October when he had made it clear that he would like to see Liu Xiaobo’s release; stating that he had made the comment already, and would sooner drop it. Don’t speak, apparently is more than just a pen name.
The final blow though came in the same interview when Mo Yan had stated that censorship is necessary. Surely Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and nine, must surely be feeling like saying: I told you so; in regards to the criticism and comment she made when she stated that Mo Yan: “Celebrates censorship.”
Mo Yan compared the act of censorship (he quickly pointed censorship of rumours and unprovoked attacks), to the necessity of security checks at an airport. In his lecture Mo Yan addressed the criticism head on stating that it was what others thought of him, not what he truly is: a Chinese Government Pawn – or as some other people have put it in less milder terms a Political Prostitute, unable to recognize their own affiliations in the mirror.
The balancing act Mo Yan has, been forced to dance, along his way to getting the award, has polarized and divided many people, from critics to human rights activists, to the general reading public. Though throughout it all, there has been a feeling of the Chinese government been Mo Yan’s shadow – from escorting the author to Stockholm Sweden, to the unprecedented feeling that any mention of Liu Xiaobo or other politically inappropriate comments, were prepared for in advance and Mo Yan was told what to say if they were to appear.
What came to be a final blow in the nail in Mo Yan's coffin, and in the respect that many had or would have had for the author, was his political stance, in regards to a position, that Mo Yan refused to sigh in regards to the immediate release of Liu Xiaobo from prison. Such a backwards Public Relations move, that most certainly is political motived, Mo Yan loses his credibility and further alienates himself as a Patsy of the Chinese Government.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*
M. Mary
Links to all References:
http://www.latimes.com/features/books/jacketcopy/la-et-jc-bummer-nobel-prizewinner-mo-yan-defends-censorship-20121206,0,3452308.story
http://www.demdigest.net/blog/2012/11/does-mo-yan-really-deserve-the-nobel-prize/
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/06/mo-yan-nobel-literature-p_n_2250956.html?utm_hp_ref=book
http://www.voanews.com/content/chinese-nobel-writer-mo-yan-takes-on-critics/1561057.html
http://sg.news.yahoo.com/nobel-laureate-mo-yan-takes-swipe-critics-lecture-194313495.html
http://www.dw.de/interview-mo-yan-bores-me-to-death/a-16301782
Thursday, 6 December 2012
In Red
Hello Gentle Reader
There are fictional towns and worlds in literature that one cannot help but feel that they are real towns, countries, or worlds and that they are real places fictionalized and immortalized in their new literary adaptions. One such place – and possibly the most famous example; is that of Macondo. The Nobel Laureate in Literature Gabriel Garcia Marquez, made this fictional town famous in his famous novel “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” which is a landmark in Latin and South American as well as Caribbean literature, for its depiction of the southern hemisphere of the America’s as a place of absurd logic and realities that were painted in magical symbols and metaphors that manifest themselves into the everyday. Macondo begins its germination as a small settlement, completely abandoned and cut off from the outside world. Eventually however as revealed in Marquez’s novella “Leaf Storm,” it thrives with the creation of a Banana plantation. However when one reaches their highest point the only way to head is down. Eventually the now thriving world of Macondo would fall. The Banana plantation which ceases operation and a gigantic windstorm that erases it from the map.
Macondo is interesting in its cultural context, and also with its ability to resonate with the identity of all Latin and South American people. The illogical and painfully human(ly) absurd situations that befall the southern hemispheres America’s, are often summed up by many Latin American citizens, by calling their hometowns and countries Macondo; for the situations that their countries go through, the bizarrely barbaric or the disturbingly unreal, can only be summarized by such a word when one comes to understand that magical realism was born out of some of the most primordial concepts of mankind and the societal and social themes of the individual versus the collective whole. Ghosts who haunt the hallways in constant search of pleasing their now past ending to their task; a rainfall that never stops for years on end; a ghost ship that makes sail at the stroke of midnight; a beautiful woman who is taken to heaven because of her serene beauty – these are the horrifying and beautiful symbols that come to posse the realities of an exotic world.
Yet there are some writers who do not hide the hometown by covering it up in a fictional name. Instead they are real places, and there exotic landscape, flora and fauna is brought to life, by the inhabitants of the streets. Every nook, every chick, dark alleyway – they are all brought into the light by the author’s devotion to the city; their love for the quirks and the bizarre. The love of the sounds of the streets: the clicking heels of woman’s high shoes; the chatter of conversations in the café, the starting of an engine, the quick pacing walk of the people, the sound of the wheels of strollers, running over the cobblestone streets. Authors like Orhan Pamuk, are able to bring the life of the unique city – in this case Istanbul; to the forefront of a literary place, where mannequins of the everyday Turkish person are hidden in basements; or to a pharmacists son who plays with chemicals in the day and writes poetry of death in the evening; it is a place where the stories of the inhabitants take front stage.
“Whoever has been everywhere and seen everything, last of should play a visit to Stitchings. Simply take a seat in a sleigh and before, being overcome by sleep, speed across a plan that’s as empty as a blank sheet of paper, boundless as life. Sooner or later this someone – perhaps it is a traveling salesman with a valise full of samples – will see great mounds of snow stretching along streets to the far corners of the earth, toward empty, icy expanses. He’ll see a pillar made of icicles, their snowy caps lost in the dark of a empty sky. He’ll draw into his lungs air as sharp as a razor that it casts cuts feeling away from breath. He’ll come to appreciate the benefits of a climate forever unencumbered by restless springtime breezes, by the intolerance of summer swelter, or the misty sorrows of autumn. He’ll take a liking to frost, which conserves feelings and capital, protecting both from the corruption of decay.”
While heading to work this morning, in the hours when the sun in these wintery hours, is still fresh and new. In the west, it the sky was blue, but only for so far. Perhaps just before the horizon there, there were clouds that required a second glance, because the first glance led one to believe there were mountains. In the east the clouds were still darker, but the new day sun was just behind them, and the light edged its way around the dark clouds. Allowing for a contrast of the blue-grey dark clouds against the abstract haloing yellow light of the new day sun. It was on this particular morning that one can see the contrast of winter. Its brutal nature is in starch contrast to the beauty it also possesses. The farmers’ fields though blanketed in snow, obstinately poked up from the white blankets. The way the frost sits on the branches of the trees; like frozen caterpillars, squared and rhombus shaped. Then when the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, they quickly vanish and melt – as if they were fairies caught by the human eye. Quickly they deplete away, only to resurface in the night and to be seen in the morning. When the surface of the world is covered in the white, opaque crystals of the snow it becomes a landscape deserted and deprived of life. The cow stand out in the snow, their hooves raking at the ground, trying to uncover the grass hidden underneath. They take this simple existence as all they know. The farmer feeds them. The winter will end eventually. Caving season is just around the corner. There is a clearness of winter that cannot be seen in spring with its moist and wet perspective; summer is to intolerable with its scorching heat, blurring and waving clear perception; autumn is clouded by the falling leaves, the moisture in the air, that freezes in the night at times, causes the quickness of the rotting smell of the sweet sorrow of autumnal decay to become more a lament for the summer. Winter is the only season that allows for the crystal clear perception, to see the world naked and bare.
Archipelago Books and Magdalena Tulli are fortunate to have each other. Archipelago Books have translated and published all of Magdalena’s novels. Which is a rare case for most translated author’s, who would usually go through numerous translators, which would vary the quality of their work. Second a translated author’s complete oeuvre would usually not be seen in translation; just look at such authors like Nobel Laureate in Literature Kenzaburo Oe’s work which is not translated into English without a long lapse from its original Japanese published date. Orhan Pamuk, another Nobel Laureate in Literature does not have his debut and most traditional novel translated into English – as it would tarnish his postmodern sensibilities and images. Herta Müller has only six books of a varied career that expands from novels to poems to essays; has been published into English. In this case that all of Magdalena Tulli’s novels are translated and published in English, and all by the same translator; allows for a complete assessment of the authors work.
That being said I haven’t read “Dreams and Stones,” or “Moving Parts,” or “Flaw.” That being said I have read “In Red,” which gives a great introduction to the author. Right away one can see the poetic style like the following line:
“Felek Chura’s sailing ships did what they were supposed to: they settled on the ocean beds. Their decks became overgrown with sea anemones and urchins. The bulging eyes of an octopus peered from the portholes of the bridge, seaweed sprouted in the hole.”
In this Magdalena Tulli is able to present her prose in the obscurity of poetic lyricism, that relies heavily on images and langue, but also moves the narrative forward, in a prose like style, allowing for some hybrid fiction between poetry and prose. For some a unholy literary matrimony – in my opinion Magdanela accomplishes what Shakespeare attempted in his plays and takes his theories and places them into the novel format, and excels at telling a beautiful if at times obscure story.
From my understanding “In Red,” Magdalena’s second novel is perhaps best described as her most conventional novel – if it has at least it has individual characters, and act on their free will, and a setting that stays put. However that does not change the fact that Magdalena uses language and detail so precisely to convey the world or to be more precisely the town of Stitching’s. From characters – like the poor broken hearted woman who does not die, but her heart stops beating, and is forced to live out the rest of her days locked away in a room, reading French romance novels. This is where one truly learns that salt is the essence of tears. To the industrial war and rebuilding of the town after the first World War in a unprecedented spring – to the return of a brutally naked and frigid winter as the Second World War enters in full swing.
Repetition is however one of Magdalena Tulli’s greatest uses in talent, alongside her seamless and flawless poetic movements. She knows how to change certain aspects to allow for a new use of prose, with nostalgic and ghostly remnants of something already said. Allowing for a circular feeling of always cycling round and round – just like water on the edges of a drain.
“Anyone who makes it to Stitching’s appreciates its promising misty greyness and the moist warm breeze it in which desires flourish handsomely. A wide of furnished rooms with all modern conveniences, and homemade meals available just around the corner, cheap and filling. Daybreaks and sunsets at fixed times. A moderate climate, flowers throughout the year. Its well worth making the long steam boat journey, putting up with sea sickness, till the port of stitching comes into view with crowded flying various flags. Or for the4 same number of days tattling along in a train, dozing from tedium, rocking to the rhythmic flatter of wheels. The visitor – for instance a traveling salesman with a valise bursting at the seams, as if instead of a few samples he had stuffed it with all of his possessions – can choose to come by land or by sea, restricted only by the properties as of the place from which he sets out. But his choice of route determines the fate that awaits him upon his arrival.”
Cryptic, poetic, symbolic – just a few words that could describe Magdalena Tulli’s prose. Something which is self-reflective on itself; and continually recycling and changing. Much like a crystal; always presenting a different perspective to a already discussed subject. Yet like the essence of tears, the essence of the work itself is storytelling itself. Something in a moment of pure metafictional moment, that borderlines essay conclusion Magdalena Tulli breaks out of the novel format to reveal her authorial voice, in more than just a third person omnipresent narrator.
“Stories are not subject to anyone’s will, for they have their own; it’s unbreakable, like a steel spring conceal in the depths of a mechanical instrument, which sooner or later will unwind fully, and the cylinder will play in melody to the end.”
A thoroughly enjoyable piece of work, and I look forward to reading more of the authors books.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*
M. Mary
There are fictional towns and worlds in literature that one cannot help but feel that they are real towns, countries, or worlds and that they are real places fictionalized and immortalized in their new literary adaptions. One such place – and possibly the most famous example; is that of Macondo. The Nobel Laureate in Literature Gabriel Garcia Marquez, made this fictional town famous in his famous novel “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” which is a landmark in Latin and South American as well as Caribbean literature, for its depiction of the southern hemisphere of the America’s as a place of absurd logic and realities that were painted in magical symbols and metaphors that manifest themselves into the everyday. Macondo begins its germination as a small settlement, completely abandoned and cut off from the outside world. Eventually however as revealed in Marquez’s novella “Leaf Storm,” it thrives with the creation of a Banana plantation. However when one reaches their highest point the only way to head is down. Eventually the now thriving world of Macondo would fall. The Banana plantation which ceases operation and a gigantic windstorm that erases it from the map.
Macondo is interesting in its cultural context, and also with its ability to resonate with the identity of all Latin and South American people. The illogical and painfully human(ly) absurd situations that befall the southern hemispheres America’s, are often summed up by many Latin American citizens, by calling their hometowns and countries Macondo; for the situations that their countries go through, the bizarrely barbaric or the disturbingly unreal, can only be summarized by such a word when one comes to understand that magical realism was born out of some of the most primordial concepts of mankind and the societal and social themes of the individual versus the collective whole. Ghosts who haunt the hallways in constant search of pleasing their now past ending to their task; a rainfall that never stops for years on end; a ghost ship that makes sail at the stroke of midnight; a beautiful woman who is taken to heaven because of her serene beauty – these are the horrifying and beautiful symbols that come to posse the realities of an exotic world.
Yet there are some writers who do not hide the hometown by covering it up in a fictional name. Instead they are real places, and there exotic landscape, flora and fauna is brought to life, by the inhabitants of the streets. Every nook, every chick, dark alleyway – they are all brought into the light by the author’s devotion to the city; their love for the quirks and the bizarre. The love of the sounds of the streets: the clicking heels of woman’s high shoes; the chatter of conversations in the café, the starting of an engine, the quick pacing walk of the people, the sound of the wheels of strollers, running over the cobblestone streets. Authors like Orhan Pamuk, are able to bring the life of the unique city – in this case Istanbul; to the forefront of a literary place, where mannequins of the everyday Turkish person are hidden in basements; or to a pharmacists son who plays with chemicals in the day and writes poetry of death in the evening; it is a place where the stories of the inhabitants take front stage.
“Whoever has been everywhere and seen everything, last of should play a visit to Stitchings. Simply take a seat in a sleigh and before, being overcome by sleep, speed across a plan that’s as empty as a blank sheet of paper, boundless as life. Sooner or later this someone – perhaps it is a traveling salesman with a valise full of samples – will see great mounds of snow stretching along streets to the far corners of the earth, toward empty, icy expanses. He’ll see a pillar made of icicles, their snowy caps lost in the dark of a empty sky. He’ll draw into his lungs air as sharp as a razor that it casts cuts feeling away from breath. He’ll come to appreciate the benefits of a climate forever unencumbered by restless springtime breezes, by the intolerance of summer swelter, or the misty sorrows of autumn. He’ll take a liking to frost, which conserves feelings and capital, protecting both from the corruption of decay.”
While heading to work this morning, in the hours when the sun in these wintery hours, is still fresh and new. In the west, it the sky was blue, but only for so far. Perhaps just before the horizon there, there were clouds that required a second glance, because the first glance led one to believe there were mountains. In the east the clouds were still darker, but the new day sun was just behind them, and the light edged its way around the dark clouds. Allowing for a contrast of the blue-grey dark clouds against the abstract haloing yellow light of the new day sun. It was on this particular morning that one can see the contrast of winter. Its brutal nature is in starch contrast to the beauty it also possesses. The farmers’ fields though blanketed in snow, obstinately poked up from the white blankets. The way the frost sits on the branches of the trees; like frozen caterpillars, squared and rhombus shaped. Then when the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, they quickly vanish and melt – as if they were fairies caught by the human eye. Quickly they deplete away, only to resurface in the night and to be seen in the morning. When the surface of the world is covered in the white, opaque crystals of the snow it becomes a landscape deserted and deprived of life. The cow stand out in the snow, their hooves raking at the ground, trying to uncover the grass hidden underneath. They take this simple existence as all they know. The farmer feeds them. The winter will end eventually. Caving season is just around the corner. There is a clearness of winter that cannot be seen in spring with its moist and wet perspective; summer is to intolerable with its scorching heat, blurring and waving clear perception; autumn is clouded by the falling leaves, the moisture in the air, that freezes in the night at times, causes the quickness of the rotting smell of the sweet sorrow of autumnal decay to become more a lament for the summer. Winter is the only season that allows for the crystal clear perception, to see the world naked and bare.
Archipelago Books and Magdalena Tulli are fortunate to have each other. Archipelago Books have translated and published all of Magdalena’s novels. Which is a rare case for most translated author’s, who would usually go through numerous translators, which would vary the quality of their work. Second a translated author’s complete oeuvre would usually not be seen in translation; just look at such authors like Nobel Laureate in Literature Kenzaburo Oe’s work which is not translated into English without a long lapse from its original Japanese published date. Orhan Pamuk, another Nobel Laureate in Literature does not have his debut and most traditional novel translated into English – as it would tarnish his postmodern sensibilities and images. Herta Müller has only six books of a varied career that expands from novels to poems to essays; has been published into English. In this case that all of Magdalena Tulli’s novels are translated and published in English, and all by the same translator; allows for a complete assessment of the authors work.
That being said I haven’t read “Dreams and Stones,” or “Moving Parts,” or “Flaw.” That being said I have read “In Red,” which gives a great introduction to the author. Right away one can see the poetic style like the following line:
“Felek Chura’s sailing ships did what they were supposed to: they settled on the ocean beds. Their decks became overgrown with sea anemones and urchins. The bulging eyes of an octopus peered from the portholes of the bridge, seaweed sprouted in the hole.”
In this Magdalena Tulli is able to present her prose in the obscurity of poetic lyricism, that relies heavily on images and langue, but also moves the narrative forward, in a prose like style, allowing for some hybrid fiction between poetry and prose. For some a unholy literary matrimony – in my opinion Magdanela accomplishes what Shakespeare attempted in his plays and takes his theories and places them into the novel format, and excels at telling a beautiful if at times obscure story.
From my understanding “In Red,” Magdalena’s second novel is perhaps best described as her most conventional novel – if it has at least it has individual characters, and act on their free will, and a setting that stays put. However that does not change the fact that Magdalena uses language and detail so precisely to convey the world or to be more precisely the town of Stitching’s. From characters – like the poor broken hearted woman who does not die, but her heart stops beating, and is forced to live out the rest of her days locked away in a room, reading French romance novels. This is where one truly learns that salt is the essence of tears. To the industrial war and rebuilding of the town after the first World War in a unprecedented spring – to the return of a brutally naked and frigid winter as the Second World War enters in full swing.
Repetition is however one of Magdalena Tulli’s greatest uses in talent, alongside her seamless and flawless poetic movements. She knows how to change certain aspects to allow for a new use of prose, with nostalgic and ghostly remnants of something already said. Allowing for a circular feeling of always cycling round and round – just like water on the edges of a drain.
“Anyone who makes it to Stitching’s appreciates its promising misty greyness and the moist warm breeze it in which desires flourish handsomely. A wide of furnished rooms with all modern conveniences, and homemade meals available just around the corner, cheap and filling. Daybreaks and sunsets at fixed times. A moderate climate, flowers throughout the year. Its well worth making the long steam boat journey, putting up with sea sickness, till the port of stitching comes into view with crowded flying various flags. Or for the4 same number of days tattling along in a train, dozing from tedium, rocking to the rhythmic flatter of wheels. The visitor – for instance a traveling salesman with a valise bursting at the seams, as if instead of a few samples he had stuffed it with all of his possessions – can choose to come by land or by sea, restricted only by the properties as of the place from which he sets out. But his choice of route determines the fate that awaits him upon his arrival.”
Cryptic, poetic, symbolic – just a few words that could describe Magdalena Tulli’s prose. Something which is self-reflective on itself; and continually recycling and changing. Much like a crystal; always presenting a different perspective to a already discussed subject. Yet like the essence of tears, the essence of the work itself is storytelling itself. Something in a moment of pure metafictional moment, that borderlines essay conclusion Magdalena Tulli breaks out of the novel format to reveal her authorial voice, in more than just a third person omnipresent narrator.
“Stories are not subject to anyone’s will, for they have their own; it’s unbreakable, like a steel spring conceal in the depths of a mechanical instrument, which sooner or later will unwind fully, and the cylinder will play in melody to the end.”
A thoroughly enjoyable piece of work, and I look forward to reading more of the authors books.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*
M. Mary
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