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
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M. Mary
