A Year in Review

Hello Gentle Reader

Once again Gentle Reader, here we are. Another year has come to an end. What a year it was. We we’re forced to say goodbye to some great talents – Nobel Laureates Seamus Heaney and then Doris Lessing; the outspoken Scotish writer and science fiction author, Ian Banks, had also perished due to cancer; as well as possible Nobel Laureate Chinua Achebe, also perished. However, we were also awakened to see some great new authors, showcase their talents; in the case of this year’s Booker Prize winner Eleanor Catton. “The Luminaires,” is the longest novel to even win the Booker Prize; and Catton is the youngest recipient to date, to receive the prize. There was some rather tragic news in regards to the Booker Prize as well. Two-thousand and fourteen open the award up to American authors. The criticism of this controversial decision, has died down, but coming years prize, will be under heavy scrutiny; as the judges will be under the pressure to present a fair or at the very least a balanced, longlist and shortlist, showcasing the talents of all qualified countries.

In regards to the personal taste in the books read – some yet to be posted on this blog; it was certainly a exciting year; with the enjoyable pleasure of Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” which was an interesting and fragmented novel, and a real pleasure to read. There was also the enjoyment of reading “Mondo and Other Stories,” a volume of stories by Nobel Laureate in Literature J.M.G Le Clezio that I still come back to, time and time again for a poetically beautiful and adventurous read, that leaves one with a feeling of nostalgia. I became acquainted with László Krasznahorkai, with his first novel “Satantango.” Krasznahorkai showcased his emerging talents that would become clearer in his later works, but also showed his sense of humour. “The Twin,” was also a novel that stands out in its immense pleasure that it was to read, and its understated premise: a novel about a Dutch farm, and an unhappy farmer. However appearances are deceiving; and it certainly proved that point. Then came, the slim and beautiful short novel “Touch,” by the Palestine author Adania Shibli. The novel itself was enjoyable for its lyrical prose, and its impressionistic writing. It certainly goes to show that a slim and slender novel often has more impact than that of a larger novel. Mikhail Shishkin finally had his overdue debut, with his novel “Maidenhair,” a sprawling and often confusing narrative, but it also showed the authors capability of dealing with large and engrossing obsessions, as themes on the human condition. There was “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy a barque piece of work, by one of the greatest prose stylists of the twentieth century by a Cuban writer, who was a perquisite to the eventual Latin American Boom. This list could not be completed without mentioning “Zigzag through the Bitter Orange Tree’s,” by the Greek writer Ersi Sotiropoulos. It’s a novel about four people; who are interconnected through each other, the only slightly. It’s a novel that is filled with Sotiropoulos’s constant disregard for the traditional narrative structure of a beginning or an end. It showcases the author’s lyrical prose and poetic flare without being ornament or decorating the prose with purple dashes of exaggeration.

Other books that have been read and reviews will be posted in the New Year, will be that of Lithuanian author Giedra Radvilavičiūtė and her book of essay like stories “Those Whom I Would Like To Meet Again.” Tõnu Õnnepalu a poet and prose writers novel “Border State,” was a great read, and will most likely be read again, for the sheer enjoyment of its language.

One of the biggest news makers for this year was the announcement that Alice Munro became a Nobel Laureate in Literature. The citation was simple and straightforward: “Master of the contemporary short story.” Even Rob Ford – Toronto’s own proud alcoholic and crack smoking mayor could not overshadow Alice Munro’s achievement.

That’s it for a year in review. The details can only be hinted. The major events, spoken of in one quick breath. Yet it still was a great and amazing year, for literature. Two-thousand and fourteen certainly can deliver, and continue the flare.

Happy New Year Gentle Reader

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

House of Day, House of Night

Hello Gentle Reader

Antonia Lloyd-Jones is an industrious translator. In two-thousand and twelve alone, she had published, seven Polish translations. In two-thousand and eight Lloyd-Jones had won, the Found in Translation Award. Again now in two-thousand and thirteen, Lloyd-Jones finds herself winning the award. With one exception. This award is usually handed out on the basis of a single work. This time Lloyd-Jones won the award, for her seven translations, done in the previous year. Anyone who has read Polish translations will most likely have seen the work of Antonia-Lloyd-Jones. From Paweł Huelle to Olga Tokarczuk; Lloyd-Jones has brought their works to the attention of English readers.

The worst part about reading is the ending. The dreaded final page. After which it’s all over. What has been written and said, now says: au revoir! (Because French language and literature go together like cheese and wine – French cheese and wine, naturally) – The ending breaks the writer, or exemplifies the writer. It tortures the reader with questions and queries; or it leaves the reader wondering if there is much use in going forward. Endings are usually far more acceptable in shorter works. Shorter works often have ambiguous and opaque endings. That leaves the reader, falling or flying in the softness of the air. Large novels, that finally reach the end, will stir two reactions. The slamming of the novel down; followed by the proclamation: “that’s it!” Upon which the book cannot find itself, in a home on the bookshelf, but rather find itself, collecting dust in a used and second hand bookstore, with a discounted price tag attached to it. A milder reaction of this one is: “Well at least that is finished.” The second reaction is that of melancholic pathos. It’s that bittersweet pill to swallow – the realization that it is all over. The story has been paced evenly. The characters were quickly renewed. Nothing was stale. There was a constant brain challenge. Then it’s over. The last page is flipped. It’s all over. This is why it took me so long to read “House of Day, House of Night.” It was the constant, attempt at thwarting the inevitable ending.

“House of Day, House of Night,” came after “Primeval and Other Times,” but was published in English before “Primeval and Other Times.” Part of the literary series “Writing From a Unbound Europe.” It introduced Olga Tokarczuk’s unique “episodic consciousness,” writing style, to English language readers. Both “House of Day, House of Night,” share numerous similarities. Both are made up short narratives, and stories, that evolve, mutate and connect with each other in a larger scheme, and whole. Both works, display the tragedies of human existence, the frailties of the individual against history. Yet both are also comical, in their depiction of the mundane, and the ever occurring irony, that pertains to day to day existence. Both are wise, and often focus on the esoteric. Yet where they differentiate, is that “Primeval and Other Times,” had a set of characters, which evolved and mutated, and died within the narrative. Their stories however lived on within the next generation, and their own tales. “Primeval and Other Times,” sought out to tell the history of the small village of Primeval. “House of Day, House of Night,” takes on these themes, but in a different way. Were “Primeval and Other Times,” is told from a wistful omnipresent narrator. A narrator who was objective, and all seeing. This narrator is a grand historian recording the myopic world of Primeval; and seeing its own miniscule events, reflecting the larger events around it, and entering it. “House of Day, House of Night,” has moments where the third person narrator returns. With the utmost natural ease. As if the third person is Tokarczuk’s, more natural writing perspective. For the most part, the novel is a first person account of life in Nowa Ruda. A small town in south-western Poland, bordering the Czech Republic. It once housed Germans, who called the town Neurode; but was later renamed the Polish Nowa Ruda.

The history behind Polish Nowa Ruda and the German Neurode, is hinted at. Though it’s not delved into; via an in-depth process. Nowa Ruda, became a Polish settlement, after the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. The new “Soviet,” Poles, found themselves, forced from their traditional homes, in the east – which had created Belorussia and Lithuania; and settled in the old German homes of Neurode. The Germans expelled, the Poles found themselves, in their new home – aptly renamed to a Polish name Nowa Ruda. The said Germans were expelled from their homes, and sought new homes in Germany, often made treks back; in this novel. Some come back to see their beloved homeland before they die – and in some cases, to die.

Our narrator is a strange, almost new age creature. Constantly on the search for esoteric patterns in life. From dreams, to the stars. She remembers the first encounters of people that are important to her. She can recall each of their details. She’s almost faux pas, mystical it appears. As if somehow the new age, beliefs of the narrator, are paramount, and often seen as earthly wholesome, wisdom. It actually bothered me. How the Tokcarzuk discussed divination methods. Methods via, ash or blood; tea leaves; or throwing knives, and reading their scattered blades. It became bothersome. Like a scratch just beneath the skin. Still Tokcarzuk makes up, for this flaw with her more, primary and delightful character portraits; and subjective observations. The way the narrator is both intrigued and baffled by her neighbour the wigmaker Marta. She also recounts and documents the stories, and the history of the world around her. How the Polish inhabitants have a shortcut that crosses into Czech territory. How the Czech and Poles comical, scenario of finding a dead, on the border, and move it to the others side. She recounts the life of a saint – and her biographer.

What is most special of Tokcarzuk’s writing so far, is that she can write about the most myopic, the most mundane; and banal. And still make it fascinating. She embellishes it with folktales, personal histories, myths, and magic. Dreams mix with reality. Reality mixes with wishes. Past and present, waltz on a clocks cog. Tokcarzuk has captured the absurdities of our lives, and the comical singing blade of irony, that cuts through it all, through and through. Just like the bank’s coffee ritual.

“At about ten the daily coffee – drink ritual began, announced by the clatter of aluminum tea-spoons and the sound of glasses striking softly against saucers – the usual office chimes. The precious ground coffee brought from home in jam jars was shared equally between the glasses, and formed a thick brown skin on the surface, briefly holding up the torrents of sugar. The smell of coffee filled the bank to the ceiling, and the farmers queuing for service kick themselves for having into the sacred coffee hour.”

Some of the interesting things that Tokcarzuk has done are repeat some success with “Primeval and Other Times.” She uses character portraits, to offer interesting twists into the story. Like Marek Marek, the handsome but violent drunk who discovers he has a bird that lives inside of him. His attempts at suicide are much like his life: unsuccessful – until he finds success with his life. Then there is the man who receives thoughts and messages from a newly discovered planet. So he builds himself a helmet made of ash wood. There he finds his thoughts free from the planetary influence. The novel also incorporates some interesting (if a bit deadly) recipes. Antonia Lloyd-Jones, herself writes, that this book should come with a warning: “Do not try these recipes.”

Tokcarzuk has created a wonderful novel. A novel that relies on poetic fragmentation; to allow her narrative, too move with ease, through the lives and homes of the inhabitants (historical and other wise) of Nowa Ruda. She mixes lush descriptions with poetic semantics:

“Anyone who has ever seen the mountains in late autumn, when the last frost-glazed leaves still hang on the trees, when the earth is warmer than the sky and is slowly wasting away breath the first snows, when its strong bones are starting to protrude from the under the withered grass, when the darkness starts to seep from the washed out mornings of the horizon, when sounds finally become sharp and hang in the frost air like knives – he who has seen all this has witnessed the death of the world. But I would say the world is always dying, day after day, though for some reason only in late autumn is the entire mystery of that death laid bare.”

Tokcarzuk achieves once again a sense of artistic purity. Though it does not entirely match “Primeval and Other Times,” it still stands on its own weight and achievement. Though it seems a bit messy somewhat at times, it is still a good novel. It shows Tokcarzuk’s preoccupations; but it’s less contained and structured, and often seems to mosey along into tangents at times, that only later can come to mean something. Still a fascinating novel, something unique and different.

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

P.S. Hello Gentle Reader, I am still experiencing some technical malfunctions with the computer, but the problem is getting fixed – with the end of the Christmas Season, normalcy should take place, once again, and life will flow in a quiet nature again. Again my apologies for the inconvenience and hope that all of you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.

Technical Difficulties

Hello Gentle Reader

Due to technical difficulties, with the computer, there may be a prolonged absence, of reviews and other such material from this blog; until the problem is rectified. However, I do promise to be diligent and quick in the response to this unwarranted and unexpected malfunction of my computer, and its terminal access to you Gentle Reader.

In the meantime: Have a Merry Christmas my Dear Gentle Reader!

And if I do not have the issue, resolved, by the New Year. I wish you the best celebrations in welcoming in the New Year, and hope the coming New Year will be as wonderful as it has the previous one!

Again Gentle Reader, I would like to apologise for this inconvenience, and disruption of this blogs routine. However, it should be fixed in due time; and everything will be back on track.

Just to reiterate, though, Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy 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

The Detour

Hello Gentle Reader

Emily Dickinson is the epitome of the poet. A reclusive and hermetic creature, who appears to survive on writing. Writing became the existential exercise of bringing conscious meaning to life. Besides that, the facts of Dickinson’s life are minimal. There is only one authenticated portrait of the poetess. Dickinson is one of America’s most beloved poets. Though she published very little in her life time – and what was published, was often edited and revised, to fit into the poetic tradition of the time. It was not until the nineteen-fifties with the publication of “Complete Poems,” by the publisher Thomas H Johnson, that Dickinson’s poems were published in their manuscript form. Furthermore, Dickinson had published most of her poems, anonymously. The few that she had ever published during her life time. Less than a dozen of her eighteen hundred poems had been published. The poetess style is, known for its unusual syntax and extensive use of dashes; as well as unconventional capitalization, and a use of half rhymes. As an individual, she is known – even in her time as an eccentric. She had a love of gardening. Gardens and flowers often populate her poems. Some of her poems were often sent to her correspondence with, posies. One of the legendary facts of Dickinson; was her hermetic and reclusive behaviour. She only left the homestead when absolutely necessary. She communicated with visitors, from the other side of doors, never face to face. She was rarely seen; and when she was, she was always dressed in white. Still, despite her seclusion and retirement from an immediate public life; she was known for her prolific socialisation via correspondence. It was with letters that Dickinson was able, to be expressive and socially active. When visitors did visit the homestead, she was known to leave or send posies and poems to the guests. Despite her seclusion, she was not intolerant of other people or social tendencies.

Dear Emily Dickinson was more renowned in her life time as a gardener, more than she was a poet. Most likely because her poetic, interests, were not common knowledge. Her classical Victorian education, included botany; and Dickinson and her sister, often tended the garden on the homestead. The garden of the Dickinson homestead was admired and revered locally – in its time. Unfortunately, the garden has not survived. Furthermore Emily did not leave any, list of plants that were in the garden; or any notebook of the garden layout or plans. However she did have a herbarium, which contained four hundred and twenty four pressed flowers.

Emily Dickinson is very important to the novel: “The Detour,” also published as “Ten White Geese.” The main character takes the name ‘Emilie,’ – and is an Emily Dickinson scholar, and professor of translation studies at a university within the Netherlands. Dickinson also makes repeated visits within the novel, with lines of her verse, populating it. This often gives the novel a poetic flare. The fact that the main character, is a Dickinson scholar, and is often reminded of lines of her verse, gives the main character an often interesting characterization. One line of verse that stood out for me was, from the poem “These Are the Days When Birds Come Back,” and the lines:

“These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.”

The line: “a blue and gold mistake,” is a striking image, mixed with the mild weather of Wales, in which ‘Emilie,’ finds herself. The way Bakker provided the line, in comparison to the November was poignant. Bakker’s prose is cool. It’s minimal and it is detached. It moves not by action, but by its own pace, which is based around daily activities; that along with the constant, threat of an underlying menace.

Bakker’s previous and debut novel “The Twin,” won the IMAPAC Literary Dublin Award; the most lucrative prize for a single piece of fiction (novel). The two novels share common similarities with style, Bakker’s trademark; cool and unadorned prose. Yet his sense of detail is precise. It is with these details that Bakker can create the most interesting tale. Bakker’s acute sense of environment and its relation to its characters is also a key component of both novels. With “The Twin,” the farm is both home, and hell. A constant reminder of poor memories, a troubled past, and a failed future, and depleted present. Helmers life abruptly ended, with the death of his twin, Henk. Helmer is then forced to abandon his own future, to take up the one destined for Henk. The Welsh countryside, in “The Detour,” achieves the same purpose. Wales becomes a strange and foreign land. A place populated by elusive living badgers and dead badgers. It’s scarcely populated. With many local residents, remarking that in the future all that will remain are badgers. That along with a stone circle, grazing sheep, and strange if somewhat incompetent residents, give the impression that Emilie is truly in a foreign land. Daily life is also paramount of these novels. Neither one of the novels, are filled with magical quests, or anything out of the ordinary. Both novels are filled with daily meditations and transactions. Strangely enough Bakker is able to; imbue these chores with a sense of rhythm. The novels begin to be pulled along by this rhythmic repetition of images and actions. Putting wood on the fire, cooking supper, walking, exploring, feeding the geese. All of these begin to carry their own weight. They eventually begin to hint at larger pictures.

“The Detour,” is not a novel that one reads, and is done with. This alone makes it difficult to review. It appears that any shred of information let lose, or given prematurely will upstart the delicate balance that Bakker has strived to achieve. This novel is far more opaque, then “The Twin,” was. It’s ethereal and compact. It leaves a lot unsaid, a lot of red herrings, and questions unanswered. Bakker gives hints to what is going on, but that is about, all that Bakker gives in regards to this novel. You do not know what is killing the geese, other than presumed fox or badger. The relationship between Rhys Jones and his estranged son Bradwen is not entirely clear. Neither is their reason for their estrangement. Then there is of course, ‘Emilie,’ fleeing her, husband and the Netherlands, after an abrupt end to an affair. This leaves her husband unsure about the relationship between himself and his wife; and his own strange relationship that forms, after he tries to set her office on fire, after learning about the affair and her abrupt disappearance. Then of course comes the, menace that lurks behind every page of the novel. What is wrong with ‘Emilie,’? She pops pain killers as if they were candy; and smells things, that rationally are not produced within the environment. After seeing two badgers – quiet shy and lumbering animals; fight, and retreat back into the bush; she smells coconut in the air. Then the fact that, her husband realises something medically is wrong with ‘Emilie;’ though their doctor is not sharing the information. Though it is safe to presume, that whatever it is, is terminal. This explains ‘Emilie’s,’ inability to pay much mind to time itself. Openly disregarding its presence entirely.

The novel thrives off this menacing atmosphere. The atmosphere gripes the reader, the daily transactions move the narrator, and the strand relationships of the characters, keep the drama intact. No matter how quiet it is. It is no wonder why it won the “The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.” It’s a quiet novel. A novel that thrives on its desolate landscape that is strikingly beautiful, and ridden with despair. The characters hold more to themselves then they do share. Their relationships strained or their contact and knowledge of each other, minimal to non-existent. The judges themselves were won over by its themes of exile, infidelity, and isolation – seen through misted windows; making sure that not all secrets are entirely shared. It moves swiftly. It does not waste a word. Everything is carefully chosen. The words are precise and the imagery lush and spare. The book itself lingers. It lingers in the mind like unswept corners and dusty chinks of the house. They are there. They are out of sight. Yet their existence is there. That existence alone is what lingers in the mind. Such is what “The Detour,” is like. A mistaken turn, that leads one down a foreign and beautiful, desolate world.

“The Detour,” is a striking novel. A novel of mundane oddities. Geese that go missing. A dead former owner whose scent fills the house. Strange residences, who know more then they let on. To compare “The Detour,” and “The Twin,” is unable to do either justice. Bakker has delivered a novel that is readable, mysterious and extremely opaque. It’ll take some re-reading to understand, and see the hints and the hints that are missed the first time around, in order to fully understand the novel. It’s a quiet read; but not entirely straightforward. Incredibly atmospheric; and rather interesting. Bakker delivered what he offered in “The Twin,” in a repackaged novel, which is a bit more eccentric, in its literary tastes.

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

Dear Life

( My Dearest Gentle Reader: Due to some unforeseen circumstances -- in regards to personal illness, I was unable to post these past few weeks. I greatly apologize, and plan on getting back to the usual routine. In honour of Alice Munro's Nobel Lecture I post this review of her latest and possibly last short story collection: "Dear Life." )

Hello Gentle Reader

The title of the new Nobel Laureate in Literature, Alice Munro’s, latest and possibly last collection, brings to mind, two thoughts: an exasperated burst of resentment of one’s own life of regret. On the other hand, the title brings to mind, a formal letter one would write to their own life – a letter that one may write, and tuck away for years, only to come back to it, later and look back on it. When Alice Munro was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature, there was no sarcastic “who?” or complaint, that the Swedish Academy is Eurocentric. With Alice Munro, the Swedish Academy had awarded the prize to a Canadian – the first time the accolade, was given to a Canadian writer; but also a woman. However, to say that Alice Munro achieved the accolade, solely because she was a Canadian and a woman would be patronizing. Mrs. Alice Munro won the award on her own merit. Alice’s career spans six decades; and is comprised completely of short stories. A form often looked down upon. It is often seen as the poor cousin or compatriot of the novel; which is something that more serious authors write. However Alice Munro has shown the capacity for the short story to reflect on the human condition. The only difference between the short story and novel is length. Alice’s stories share the same breadth, as the novel. The only difference is that they are paired down, and stripped of unessential ornamentation, and get to the point in the most essential details. What is not necessary is implied. Along with Chekhov, Munro has shown her ability to reflect, and understand the human condition. Focusing her stories on epiphany moments, Munro shows the extraordinary in the mundane lives of people, trapped in small backwater communities, of south eastern Ontario. These people do their best to navigate their lives. Their lives are riddled with mistakes, missed opportunities and regrets. Yet their lives are theirs alone; and for that, they are left to navigate them alone.

The stories in the collection “Dear Life,” are the stories of women. The stories of men revolve around women. This is not a slight on Alice Munro’s part. She herself empathises with the lives of girls and women, as that is the life she herself has lived. One often writes about what they know. However do not expect to find Alice Munro in the romance section of some bookstore. She’s not a sentimental author. She does not gush or idealise the world her characters inhabit. She does not write of passion. Sex and love, happens like a daily occurrence; much like peeling potatoes or chopping carrots. Romance and sex, is simply the trajectory of the lives of the characters. However Alice Munro is not interested in romance or sex as intimate communication. Munro is far more interested in human companionship. Infidelity and heartbreak happens. But they happen like breaking a dish. It’s an unfortunate occurrence, which one just quickly picks up the large pieces, before sweeping up the shards and fragments.

The stories of “Dear Life,” are pared down. Many critics have praised Alice Munro’s past work, for their long, detailed naturalist style. The work of “Dear Life,” is far more expressionist in their style. Backstories are sketched, if necessary – leaving a lot for the reader to ponder and theorize. The stories are also built with abrupt departures, reversals, and moments of poor judgement and coincidence. Like Greta whose lapse in judgement allowed her to leave her daughter sleeping alone in train carriage, while she slipped off for tryst with a stranger. The outcome makes our stomachs slightly lurch, and our minds believe that such actions have consequences. Yet despite the pared down, style of these stories; as readers, each of us gets quite comfortable with our strange and shadowy travelers. They sit next to us on the train; or the bus. These people sit on the bus stop bench with us. We walk away from them in the morning. We stand behind them at the till in the evening. They quietly read their newspaper, or their book. Perhaps they play Sudoku. They mind themselves; as we keep to ourselves. Still their ordinary; if a bit banal lives, are just as extraordinary as any other. Theirs stories of past family indiscretions. How a child born out of wedlock, was given to an aunt, or distant relative to be raised; and be ignorant and unaware of its origins. Secret youthful engagements; when we thought we could love not another; only to be turned down at the last minute. These are our secrets. They are the secrets of fellow passengers, and our own. Each of us keeps to ourselves, out of politeness and a secret desire to be invisible. In these regards, we become shadows, faceless and transparent. When our stops arrive, each of us gets up. Our eyes are downcast as each of us get off at the designated stop. Yet one amongst us – Alice Munro; see’s the secrets of our lives, and turns them into her stories. That is why Alice Munro stories are cherished and loved by so many. She writes of the mundane and the banal; but also the secrets that tie each of us together. Hidden transgressions, which we would rather, not reveal even to ourselves. This is what makes Alice Munro a finely tuned story teller. She can write about the ordinary; but make it appealing and interesting; and on the flip side; she can make the extraordinary tame; putting it in its place, amongst the cutlery, the dishes or the inherited china.

Though Munro often could be seen as reusing her material continuously – and therefore would be called a master of variations on the same theme; it does appear to work for her. Each story holds the weight of the sliver of a life we are observing. At the same time, the story, tell us of the different paths and variations the story could have gone. Just like how Greta’s husband Peter and his mother “Too Reach Japan,” escape Soviet Occupied Czechoslovakia. Though Greta cannot remember the name of the mountains that Peter was carried over, it shows the ambiguity of life itself, and how decisions birth or destroy our futures:

‘“I’ve read stories like that,” Greta said, when Peter first told her about this. She explained how in the stories the baby would start to cry and invariably had to be smothered or strangled so that the noise did not endanger the whole illegal party.”

Though Peter states he never heard such stories, and cannot believe his mother would do such an act; it goes to prove that if such stories did exist, the act itself, would have meant children like Peter would not have survived; and therefore would not go on to marry Greta. Greta then would have found another – or perhaps she would not have married at all. What would come of their daughter Katy then? It is these unanswered questions these variations, these bends and forks in the roads that Munro thrives on.

“Amundsen,” is one of my personal favourites. The title itself, made me think of some small community or village in the Netherlands. Curiously enough it also brought to mind Knut Hamsun to mind as well. Still both thoughts were completely irrelevant, and based solely on the title. However the description that Alice gives, to match this strange world, that our heroine is about to enter, shows the brutality of the weather of the countryside; as well as World War II haunting behind the story itself.

“Then there was silence, the air like ice. Brittle-looking birch trees with black marks on their white bark, and some kind of small untidy evergreens rolled up like sleepy bears. The frozen lake not level but mounded along the shore, as if the waves had turned to ice in the act of falling.”

“Leaving Maverley,” is one such story that Alice Munro has a male characters story orbit around a woman. It is a story of a police officer, who cares for his ailing wife – and becomes obsessed with a religiously obsessed young woman; who in tragic circumstances goes missing in a blizzard. This woman becomes the man’s obsession. By happenstance or extraordinary circumstances, when our police officer, now working as a janitor in a hospital he once again encounters the lost blizzard bible clutching girl. Once again Munro focuses on companionship between men and women that appear to transcend time itself. That being said, Munro is not an author who makes her punches bold and aware. The drama of these stories creeps up and slips by. Munro is a poet of the understatement, and completely, makes sure nothing appears campy or over the top. Everything comes and falls down, and settles; like snow in place.

The last four pieces of this work are perhaps the most enlightening and interesting. As Alice points out to us in the short forward:

“The final four works in this book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last—and the closest—things I have to say about my own life.”

These following reflections, at the end of this book, are revelatory but at the same time inhabit a land in fiction, not entirely truthful, and not entirely fictitious. They are reflections, from memory that through process, went through the imagination – though not explicitly so. In the one memory fragment “Dear Life,” we see the protestant moral code of conduct take center stage. Alice, our reflective narrator, informs us, of how she went to another school – after war had been declared on Germany, and the old school house, where she was tormented, and threatened with being beaten up, and her lunch stolen. There she meets Diane; someone who would have become a friend. When Alice’s mother finds out where her daughter was, she honks the horn to summon her from the house. When Diane’s grandmother waves, Alice’s does not return the gesture. It is revealed that yes Diane’s mother was dead. But she was a prostitute; a crime that most likely haunted Diane through her more aware years. Alice’s mother in turn – much like all the others; we presume, shuns this house, and the daughter. They wish to keep their own children away from something tainted – or what they think is tainted, by immoral behaviour. Yet there are other more odd and gothic descriptions within “Dear Life,” the fragment. Such as the deranged and poor mad Mrs. Netterfield; who in some form or another always haunted Alice, ever since she spooked her own mother.

The fragments are some of Alice’s most tender writing, carefully constructed, and reflected upon. Their memories, are almost poetic, and their first person narration, offer that slight empathetic feeling of one’s ability to comprehend the world in which Alice has come from, and how much has changed since then.

In the beginning of Alice’s career, her work was often feared because it was ‘rough,’ for a women writer. The language was often seen as violent for the time; and even vulgar. That perception has changed a lot. As the years rolled on, Alice came be to seen more as a writer of lives lived, but lives filled with regrets and guilt. These were the lives, much like our own, full of naturalist storytelling and acute psychological realism; all written in a simple and clear way. As the age old prudishness has died down and died away, Alice’s stories showed themselves for being gentle in their depiction of sad and hardened lives, and the resilient nature of the people that live them. In person she is proper, quiet and much like her stories understated. It is this humility and modesty – and even shyness that makes, Munro a fascinating author, as well as person. When the Nobel was announced there was a collective sigh of relief of finally, and great cheers of excitement and happiness. The award will bring her attention to newer readers, who will travel down the back gravel roads of Huron County Ontario; sit in country stations waiting for the train or tram to come – and it may never come. They will see old farmsteads falling down; barns crumbling away; after such hard work had been put into it. Empty fields and bitter snowstorms. This is the world Alice inhabits; as well as her characters. They come from genteel poverty or lower middle class at best. Their communities are stifled with protestant morality. It’s a provincial and unique world all her own; and in those same regards, Alice Munro has brought them to the attention of the world.

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

Doris Lessing Passes Away

Hello Gentle Reader

Doris Lessing is best known for her novel “The Golden Notebook.” A novel that’s impact on the women’s liberation movement is still discussed. However Ms. Lessing herself had called the novel an albatross. As it was adopted and waved around by feminists, as an icon of what it means to be a woman. The novel itself dealt with many subjects that at the time were considered taboo. Subjects like menstrual cycles, orgasms, and other parts of the female body, that many would find unflattering or to frank to discuss. Doris Lessing however, lived an exciting life; one that can be traced in her novels. Born in Persia, her family and she eventually moved to Rhodesia (now Iran and Zimbabwe). Lessing’s childhood was marked and overshadowed by The Great War (World War I) something that Lessing herself had dealt with in her last published novel “Alfred & Emily.” Throughout her life Lessing saw histories lack of compassion. She witnessed World War II, and in her younger ideal days was a member of the communist party. Something that Lessing scoffed at in her later years. Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature in two-thousand and seven. Her reaction to the award was seen by many as classic Lessing: scathing, sarcastic and brutally honest. However Lessing was happy that she won the Nobel, though she was confused by it at the same time. She had heard in the nineteen-sixties – the years that Lessing writing career was cemented; that the Swedish Academy did not like her. When she received the prize, she was confused in the sudden change in the Academy attitude towards her. Lessing to date has been the oldest Laureate in Literature, when announced she was eighty-eight years old – she has no passed away at ninety-four years old.

Rest in Peace Doris Lessing, and may your work continue to thrive and expand with new readers. She is the last great writer of the twentieth century. One that experienced firsthand, the collapse of the empires, saw the tragedies of a second world war, and whose childhood was marked by the first. Lessing saw the rise of communism; the fall of communism; women’s freedom movement, and the civil rights movement. Throughout it all Lessing has been a chronicler of her time.

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

Scotiabank Giller Prize

Hello Gentle Reader

It appears, and feels like it has been a long time my Dear Gentle Reader. Due to technical difficulties and a hectic week, I was unable to post anything last week. A few days ago, the Scotiabank Giller Prize, had announced its winner. The tulip receiver was Lynn Coady, whose short story collection "Hellgoing." This particular recognition for the short story, has critics and journalists and bloggers wondering, has two-thousand and thirteen been the start of a new renaissance of the short story? First there was the announcement and applause that Alice Munro had received the Nobel Prize for Literature. The short story – the poor cousin of the novel; had been pushed into the limelight. However there have been doubts, about the prescient thought, about, literary prizes having foresight. Generally speaking they speak of past fashions at best. The Nobel in particular is awarded on merit of a life time body of work; not on the fashionable ins and outs, of the literary world. Coady herself had expressed shock, at being awarded the prize. She herself had described herself, as a novelist who occasionally writes short stories. So with this in mind, one can say that the short story stands on its own grounds, as a separate literary form. However, it has come a long way from being simple practise for writing a novel.

Congratulations are in order for Lynn Coady.

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 Blue Fox

Hello Gentle Reader

Iceland is one of the most diverse countries, environmentally wise. It is a country of ice and of fire. Glaciers, ice fields, volcanoes, and geysers, as well as lava fields – and of course the famous hot springs; speckle this amazing country. Geothermal power is the main resource, of power and electricity. Yet this country is known as a brutal place. It is a place known for its barren and bleak winter – where Norse Viking settlers called home. Iceland has a rich and deep history; as well as some of the greatest works of ancient literature in the world. The Icelandic Saga’s are famous, for their continual relevance in contemporary Iceland; and how well preserved they have become over the years. Iceland has one Nobel Laureate in Literature to its name Halldór Laxness. Yet one of the most interesting facts of Iceland is that it has retained its ancient and archaic language throughout the years. It is said to be one of the most difficult languages to learn in the world. Still hearing an Icelandic person speak in English their accent sounds truly, beautiful. Rough like a stone covered in frost; and it has a certain musical beauty in the quality. That and it seems when Icelandic people speak English they choose their words with utmost care, to provide the greatest weight to what it is they are saying. This may come from the fact that ninety-three percent of country of Iceland, read at least one book a year; while forty percent read more than five a year. Even though less than half a million people reportedly live on the island country, an approximate annual 2.5 million books are sold within a year. Even with the financial struggles, book sales did not plummet. One of the most culturally interesting events is that, since the nineteen-fifties, it has become a tradition to exchange books at Christmas. Today an Icelandic person will find at least one book under their tree. This event is called “The Book Flood before Christmas.” Another interesting fact about Iceland is that their love of reading and writing has exploded in the dawn of the internet. Almost every Icelander has a blog. I have also read that the average Icelander will publish at least one book in their life time. Iceland also publishes five books for every thousand Icelander. Literacy and literature is something that Iceland celebrates.

Sigurjón Birgir Sigurdsson also known as: Sjon; is an Icelandic poet, lyricist and novelist. Sjon himself considers himself to be a novelist who occasionally dabbles in poetry. Yet with his fiction, it can be seen that Sjon, takes elements of poetry and places them in prose concepts. Often creating intensely lyrical and poetic imagery:

“In the halls of heaven it was not dark enough for the Aura Borealis sisters to begin their lively dance of veils. With enchanting play of colours they flitted light and quick about the great stage of the heavens, in fluttering golden dresses, their tumbling pearl necklaces scattering here and there in their wild caperings. This spectacle is at its brightest shortly after sunset.”

[ . . . ]

“Then the curtain falls; night takes over.”

One maybe more acquainted with Sjon more than they realize. Sjon has co-written Icelandic singer Björk’s lyrics. These include songs like “Virus,” “Bachelorette,” “Jóga,” and “Wanderlust,” among others. Sjon was nominated for an Academy Award with Lars Von Trier, for the song “I’ve Seen It All,” – from the film “Dancer in The Dark.” Yet coming to Sjon’s fiction is a better acquaintance to the author and writer, and his own talents. Sjon’s poetry is known for being surrealistic or fantastic (as in fantasy) that often places a high demand on the reader. His poems have been compared to dark, twisted fantastical forests. The words appear unrelated, and not truly sure of their own place within in the poem – often appearing to act in a random order. Yet the persistent reader and patient reader will come to see the pulsating nature of each line, as well as the humours possibilities of these unrelated images. One of the most interesting aspects of Sjon is that his first book of poetry was published when he was sixteen years old.

The prose of this small but epic novel is something quite interesting. The first section is, best compared to flashes of brilliant poetic fiction. They’re quick vignettes. At times only a sentence long. This first section depicts in a few days’ time, a hunters quest to kill a blue fox:

“There was a daughter of Reynard on the move.”

This line struck me, because of its allusion to the trickster figure Reynard the red fox. It’s a great summarization and comparison of the blue vixen on the run from the hunter.

The first part of this novel was rather difficult. I am not a hunter. I don’t like the idea of killing an animal for sport – as is why someone fox hunts in my opinion. Trophy hunting is not a sport. To kill or be more correct; to hunt for survival and or food it is different; but to kill for a pelt, or a head – a trophy; it is not something that on a personal basis that I agree with. Yet Sjon takes this hunter on a transformative quest. Yet getting over the hunting aspect of the first part of this novel, one begins to see some of the most surrealist imagery that is often compared to the fantastical; and has earned this slim novel, comparisons to a fable:

“He praised the Snow Queen and Jack Frost for the shelter they had given him on this fair path of ground; from this vantage point he sees far and wide over the white frozen waste.”

The second part of this novel is about the herbalist Fridrick, and his charge Abba. Which one begins to sense a bit of modernity and contemporary, reality within this novel – from the twisted time frame; to the sense that there is something that appears to transcend the time frame in which Sjon presents to the reader. Yet Fridrik and Abba’s story is a lot different than, the first part. The second part of this novel opens with the following description:

“The streams trickle under their glazing of ice, dreaming of spring, when they’ll swell to a life threatening force. Smoke curls up from the mounds of snow here and there on the mountainside—these are their homes [. . .]

“Everything here is a uniform blue, apart from the glitter of the tops. It is winter in the Dale.”

This subdued cinematic imagery of this place – “the Dale,” – what came to mind, was Tolkien’s Hobbits. Of course the exception is, the people have burrowed in snow, stone and mountain, surrounded by ice and a bleakly cruel landscape. Whereas Tolkien’s little Hobbits, live in hills and meadows, within soft earthen wombs, surrounded by green pastures and flowers. Yet still the image of smoke bellowing out of the mountains, from chimney’s invaded by snow, brought to mind a village of frost bitten trolls.

Yet Fridrik and Abba’s story is moving. This is when one comes to understand exactly what time period we are stuck in; and only have since began to come to terms with specialised care for the people who suffer from the affliction that Abba herself suffers from. Abba suffers from Down Syndrome. She survived the midwifery obligation to kill the child, before it can wail. Yet one begins to wonder, if letting the child to survive was the worst possible thing that the parents could have done. For Abba’s life has been less than kind. She was found shackled on an abandoned ship. There she was held captive in an outhouse; where Fridrik finds her. There his own humanity is awakened. Fridrik himself had been living Denmark, studying at the University of Copenhagen; the plan to be a pharmacist; and eating lotuses. He only returned to Iceland to tend to his parents estate after their deaths. After the discovery of Abba; Fridrik, takes her on as his charge.

The last quarter of the novel is than a beautiful tying in of these aspects of the novel. It doesn’t feel neatly finished though. It comes down to a realization. Each one is bound to each other. From an act of inhumanity; to an act of kindness – all three of them share a bond that ties them together – that creates something of a legend but also a fairy tale. There is no doubt or wonder in my mind why Sjon won The Nordic Council Prize for this novel, back in two-thousand and five. It’s slim, but powerful. With opaque imagery, that flows like melted water, and then crystalizes in a sudden flash freeze; creates opaque imagery that combines poetry and prose, to create an epic novel in just over a hundred pages long. This novel is strong, and it’s pulled along by its language, but also by it is sense of mystery and fairy tale like qualities. It is one of those books that one would have to read and re-read over and over again, to understand and gain a better comprehension of the novel. One cannot review the highly atmospheric, feel of this title. Of the glacier land in which all the characters inhabit. Yet it is something of a truly amazing piece of work. With sparse, plot and an understanding of words, Sjon has created a masterpiece. Where some writers would take six hundred to eight hundred to a thousand pages, to make the point clear, Sjon allows the point to hover throughout the text, adding mystery and delight throughout. Re-reading this book, I think the reader, will see the tracks in the snow they left the first time; and will come back and take continual different routes, in an ever expansive odyssey to understand the novel, and how it is able to succeed.

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

P.S. Gentle Reader, Happy Halloween!

Purge

Hello Gentle Reader

For a while now I have been pushing Sofi Okansen to the side. The marketing of the English translation for her novel “Purge,” has been compared to that of Stieg Larsson, in that it is a Nordic crime novel. If one looks at the author Sofi Okansen, they would think she would be an author who would fit right into the crime genre. With her dark lipstick, black hair, mixed with dreads, and at times fetishistic dress – Sofi Okansen’s comparison to a rock star is not made lightly – at the same time one can understand how English language publishers may see her as crime writer. Though as Okansen has pointed out in an interview:

“I'm not a genre writer. The explosion of crime writing in Scandinavia is an interesting phenomenon, but I have to say that most of the popular Scandinavian crime authors are not Finnish. They are mostly Swedish.”

This is very true. Sofi Okansen’s writing is very socially aware, and politically intrigued; but it also (in the case of “Purge,”) historically set. Can genre writers – in this case, crime writers – do all that? Yes; yes they can – but what is separating, Sofi Okansen from crime writers, and crime writing; is that a crime writers main focus is on solving the crime or around the action around the crime. The focus is the crime. Crime fiction can be set historically. It can deal with social issues and political problems; but it is always set around the context of the crime. In Ms. Okansen’s case, the crimes that are committed within this novel are not the base of the book. The crimes committed, are merely reactionary. Reactionary to the fall of the Soviet Union – and other socialists satellite states; as well as reactionary the small and personal circumstances that impede on one’s life. In these regards Sofi Okansen is not a crime writer. In these regards, I was struck by how a lot of the action can come across as mundane, and normal, but how quick everything changes. There’s a real sense that one does not truly comprehend the historical action that is surrounding the novel. There are no large invasions. German and Soviet troops march in, and make themselves comfortable. Yet daily life goes on as usual. Canning needs to be done. Jams and preserves are made. Bread is baking in the oven.

These scenes and mundane actions, which happened within the kitchen of the home of: Aliide and Ingel; reminded me of some of my most, fondest moments of childhood. Autumn is my favourite season. The cool nights and crisp mornings. The clearness of the air. The sky seems higher, the far flung distances, become more acute, as the haze of summer dissipates. I find autumn and winter to be the most celebratory seasons in western culture. There is the celebration of the harvest. Bonfires alight. Beer is shared. Pumpkins are carved. Stories and memories are relived. Tricks and treats go hand in hand. One of my favourite memories though was the picking of the garden. All spring and summer long my/our mother (if we weren’t quick – my siblings and I) had us help her pick weeds and tending to her garden. If one was unfortunate enough, they would be out there helping pick and pull. Yet in those moments and time spent out there – as much as we hated it; we began to understand the difference between a weed and a ‘plant.’ As gardeners say: “not all flowers are friendly.” We learned what sow thistle was; and how much it hurt. How it scraped our little ankles and our calves. Yet there were ambiguous weeds as well. Baldr’s Brow (also known as scentless chamomile) we thought they were daisies, and tenderly loved them. There were toadflaxes; which resembled snapdragons. Those herbal dragons, of foliage and petals. We used to imagine that their leaves and petals unfolded. Revealing themselves as a small reptilian dragon; who had grown accustom to drinking nectar and pollen in nocturnal surroundings. Then there were creeping bellflowers. Those beautiful drooping bells of purple. Such a beauty to behold. Yet apparently we learned these purple beauties were aggressive, invaders. Yet how could something so beautiful be a weed? It did have a crown of rotten lion’s teeth like the dandelion. Yet still it was something to be picked and pulled. Some weeds though, had use. Like dill weed. Clover as well; though it was never used when I was younger, it was mulched up and cut up on the lawn. Yet it was autumn that was the best time of the year. Every night we would have to go out and cover the tomatoes with old blankets. The blankets protected the tomatoes from the early frost. By early October or mid to late September, long after the other vegetables had been dug out and harvested, the tomatoes needed to be picked. We would do our best to put off harvesting them to soon, to make sure they got a good size. But as the threat of a premature snow, became more apparent, we would have to deal with what we had on the vines. Large and small; green and yellow and red as well as orange; were all picked and put in the cardboard boxes. The acid scent of the tomatoes mixed with the aged and dusty smell of the box, with the sweet scent of fading summer earth. The other vegetables had already been salvaged. They too were ripening in the basement. Some had already been canned. So began the canning season. It was my favourite part of autumn. I remember the cooling days and the overcast sky. My mother began canning. The smell of vinegar and salt becomes a lingering scent in the house. The kitchen window fogs up. Carrots are pickled. Cucumbers are pickled. Yet with cucumbers the strangest metamorphosis happens. A cucumber is like a vegetable butterfly. Where it was a crisp cucumber, it becomes a soft salty pickle. A pickled carrot remains a carrot. A cucumber does not remain the same. Mother also canned more than just vegetables. People would drop by with fruit from other places. We ate what we could. The rest were canned. There were cans of cherries and peaches, preserved. One year my mother dried apricots. Yet it is the canning of the vegetables that I remember more closely then everything else. The green beans, the homemade salsa, the pickled beets. They lined the cupboards and the shelves. It’s a fond memory. This is why reading the canning that Aliide and Ingel do, is something that I fondly remember of this book.

There are a few reasons why I had wanted to Sofi Okansen. I wanted to a read a Finnish author’s book. The country and their literature is grotesquely overlooked. The Finnish authors that I could find: Rosa Liksom “Dark Paradise,” a series of short stories; Anita Konkka “A Fool’s Paradise,” a novel – Anita Konkka has also written a short story for the anthology “The Best European Fiction,” in two thousand and eleven. Both Rosa and Anita Konkka’s sole fiction, was out of stock, everywhere I could think of looking. Yet other than these two authors, Finland was seriously lacking any representation from the English language. Then there was Sofi Okansen. A Finnish author, who has written about Communist Estonia. With that in mind, I could now also read about Estonia. Yet still reading a book by an Estonian author is also on my list of books, from countries I want to read from. In these regards though Sofi Okansen would, allow me in a sense to kill two birds with one stone; if only on the most superficial levels.

Sofi Okansen is a well revered novelist and playwright. “Purge,” initially started out as a play. Okansen has been the first woman to win both of the prestigious literary prizes of Finland: the “Finlandia,” and the “Runeberg.” Yet Sofi Okansen’s success did not stop there with her novel “Purge,” it also went on to win the Nordic Council Prize for Literature in two-thousand and ten, being the first Finnish woman to do so; as well, I believe; as being the youngest author to win the prize. Most recently Sofi Okansen has won the Swedish Academy Nordic Prize in two-thousand and thirteen. She is the first Finnish woman to achieve that accolade again.

Upon beginning “Purge,” I wasn’t sure what I would be greeted with. The title itself comes from the Stalinist eras, purge of residents from the socialists satellite states; being forced into labour camps. The most famous testimonials of this have been published as “The Gulag Archipelago,” by Nobel Laureate in Literature Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. More contemporary novels and works that deal with this is fellow Laureate Herta Müller’s most recent novel “The Hunger Angel.” “Purge,” can now be considered an equal testament – though the Gulags and the forced labour camps of Stalin’s regime are not dealt with directly, like the other two novels. “Purge,” deals more with betrayal, family secrets, the moral and ethical collapse that has swept through Eastern Europe since the fall of the Iron Curtain, and the hushed secrets that are still no quite spoken yet within the former Iron Curtain and Soviet Union.

The Novel, concerns the lives of two women. Aliide Truu, and Zara. That being said the novels main focus is on Aliide Truu – as the novel runs its course through sixty years. Sofi Okansen had begun writing the play, with an older woman as a main character in mind. Simply because older woman, and older characters in general; do not always get large parts. Aliide in the present time: is a woman who lives in a small village. Surviving by growing vegetables, and canning. She has practical knowledge of herbs. This archaic knowledge is how she has survived through the years. For as Aliide points out:

“[. . . ] they might as well all come – Mafia thugs, soldiers – Reds and Whites – Russians, Germans, Estonians . . . Aliide would survive. She always had.”

The price of this survival though is a deep subject of the novel. Secrets are a tool of the trade in survival; especially under a tyrannical regime. Yet this survival has a deep price. Betrayal between family members happened with heavy hearted consent. The sibling rivalry between, Ingel and Aliide have always been hinted at. Ingel was the dutiful prodigious house wife and daughter. She knew how to make jams, she knew how to make marigold salve, preserve the year’s harvest, she knew how to milk the cow, make and hem clothes, and repair. She knew how to do it all – and do it better than Aliide. Aliide would forever be in the shadow of her sister. It is when Ingel marries; Aliide’s secret desire and love; Hans Pekk – that there is a feeling that the last nail has been nailed into the coffin. It is Hans Pekk that puts both Ingel and Aliide into danger. Both women are constantly harassed by the secret police, because of Hans’s affiliation and assistance with the German ‘liberators.’ Both women suffer greatly, at the shame and the humiliation:

“The only thing left alive was the shame.”

Yet the greatest betrayal is when Aliide converts to the communist cause of Estonia, and marries a party member. This act of survival becomes the greatest act of betrayal between the two. Yet in the present day Aliide suffers for this past ‘betrayal,’ of her home country. As another former communist laments:

“We were all just following orders. We were good people. And now all of a sudden we're bad.”

This is why Aliide is harassed by the neighbourhood boys; who cowardly throw rocks at her house; and vandalise it. Yet for Aliide – she would always survive. She had survived through communism; interrogations, espionage, betrayal and the deceptions she herself handed out. Then in the present enters the catalyst Zara. The young woman, who in the wake of the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the collapse of the socialist satellite states; began to understand the possibilities of a better life and of more money,. Yet with the opening up of Eastern Europe, and democracy welcomed in with shaky and open arms – the fall in its place, opened up a cascade of corruption to flow into newer areas. Zara is a victim of this new and corrupted world. With Zara Sofi Okansen turns her eye towards social issues, and problems that are affecting the world today, especially former Soviet States, where those in power, quickly grabbed money and possessions, and others went in questionable dealings.

The novel brings to mind if people can be judged and even found guilty upon their actions they do, based upon the fact that, they themselves are just: following orders. Yet for Aliide who had been tormented by the communists in the beginning, had found escape with a party official.

With a subdued and laconic tone, that hums and vibrates with tension Sofi Okansen has created a novel that is taut with tension. Shame and secrets, prevail in this novel. We lock up our pasts. Burry them in the garden. We are tormented for them. We can our aggression and our hatred into the fruits and vegetables. We hide our shame in secrets rooms, and within attics. All of this is presented in this novel. The only flaw really is the ending. It felt too quick – too rushed. Yet every author seems to make that mistake in some way or another; at some time or another. Yet Okansen has created a very desperate and grey world. A world that is beyond repair; new dictatorships have risen. Lucrative and illegal businesses are abound. The former Soviet Union is still young. It has picked itself up in some cases. Others continue to struggle. Some are just coming to terms with the horrors of the past. Understanding that no one could be trusted. Realizing that parents watched each other; spied on their children; children spied on their parents, their friends. Teachers constantly monitored their students. Students reported the activities of their teachers. It was a world lead by fear and paranoia. In this novel Sofi Okansen makes it apparent. There is also a clear cycle of retribution that continually, circles around and around. Those who were exiled come back and take back their homes. Those who were the communists find themselves truly a lone; meek and powerless. While a generation finds itself lost in a shifting and changing world, answering for their parents crimes.

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 Booker Prize Winner of 2013

Hello Gentle Reader

The winner of this, years Booker Prize, is the New Zealand author Eleanor Catton. She is the youngest author to win this prize, at the age of twenty-eight; and her winning novel “The Luminaries,” is the longest book to be awarded. Her Victorian murder mystery, set around the astrological calendar, in the era of the New Zealand gold rush, had left a deep enough impression on the judges to be awarded over veteran authors. This, years Booker Prize, has been acknowledged as one of the most diverse in recent memory, and praised for it.

Congratulations are in order to Eleanor Catton, for making Booker Prize history with one book.

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 Nobel Prize in Literature 2013

Hello Gentle Reader

The 2013 Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded to the Canadian author Alice Munro. 

"Master of the contemporary short story,"

Congratulations to Alice Munro, for winning the Nobel Prize in Literature!

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


M. Mary

The Last Hurrah

Hello Gentle Reader

It is the last day, the last day of theories. The Nobel Prize for Literature, will be announced tomorrow; October 10 2013, at 1:00pm Central European Time.

At the beginning of the year, there was a lack of speculation. In fact, Ladbrokes went back to the usual suspects, of who should win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Once again the perennial favourite, Haruki Murakami was at the forefront. Behind, Murakami, came the industriously prolific American author Joyce Carol Oats. After which came the usual suspects. The Syrian poet Adunis; the Hungarian door stop writer, Peter Nadas, South Korean zen poet Ko Un. However, early on this year, it was though probable that a women writer would win this year. Women writers have been, overlooked at times; and are grossly, unrepresented in the Nobel Prize for Literature, canon.

Who could be possible women candidates? I thought of course of the Greek short story writer, poet, and novelist Ersi Sotiropoulos. Then, another thought of another Greek writer, who is only a poet: Kiki Dimoula. Both authoress would offer, an interesting perspective as Nobel Laureates in Literature, with the crisis in Greece; and seeing that both previous Greek writers were poets, a prose writer would shake up that tradition; but also a Greek writer had not been awarded since nineteen-seventy nine. Neither one of these authors appeared on the Ladbrokes list. Much to my disappointment. Still I have hopes for both in the coming futures.

Many speculated in the beginning North African writer, feminist, and film maker Assia Djebar, to be a heated contender, along with Italian novelist, short story writer, and playwright Dacia Maraini. Both authors were hot contenders, in their speculation, earlier this season.

However in the past few days, speculation has increased, and intensified. Belarusian, non-fiction writer, and journalist Svetlana Alexievich, whose most famous book “Voices from Chernobyl: The Oral History of a Nuclear Disaster,” has skipped, ran, and jumped down the betting list. Belarus does not have a Nobel Laureate in Literature; and Alexievich represents, a literary model, that is generally an outsider in the Nobel. Many of the authors write memories, and essays, along with their novels or poems; very few have exclusively written in the journalist/non-fiction format – with the exception of the most recent Laureate Elias Canetti. Horace Engdahl the former Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, had once stated that the authors W.G. Sebald, Jacques Derrida, and Ryszard Kapuściński were all good and noteworthy potential laureates, if it wasn’t for their untimely deaths. Kapuściński was a famous and noteworthy non-fiction writer, and journalist. Speculation holds Svetlana Alexievich in those same regards.

The next talked about author, this year is Jon Fosse. The Norwegian playwright’s, catapult from farther speculation or just mentions, to a serious contender, briefly shut down Ladbrokes, to recalculate and reconfigure. Fosse’s is primarily known as a playwright; a northern Beckett or Brecht. His plays focus on the inability of individuals to communicate, as well as isolation, and alienation. His works is existential and suspenseful. The works are absurd, chilling, and revered and performed throughout the world. Fosse however has also written poetry and prose.


The final author, who has been the buzz, is Alice Munro. Alice Munro is a unique author has she writes primarily short stories. She has not written a novel. Though “The Beggar Maid,” also known as “Who Do You Think You Are?” was considered a novel in stories, and was even nominated for the Booker Prize in Nineteen-eighty. Throughout the Nobel Prize for Literature’s history, there has not been an author awarded the prize for short fiction alone. The closest to this definition would be the first Russian author to receive the prize Ivan Bunin, in nineteen-thirty three. Bunin however also wrote novels, and they were often some of his most renowned works. Alice Munro herself would be the first Nobel Laureate, to be recognized for her achievements, primarily in the short story form. She would also be the first Canadian author to win the Nobel Prize for Literature.

There you have it Gentle Reader. The last round up. The last bit of speculation. In a few hours, the Nobel Prize for Literature will be awarded. For now only the Swedish Academy knows, who will win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Personally, I am looking for redemption, from last year’s mistake. I am also looking for a bit of a surprise. But who is not looking for a surprise when it comes to the Nobel.

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 German Book Prize Winner

Hello Gentle Reader

Terézia Mora’s novel “Das Ungeheuer,” translated as “The Monster,” or “Monster,” has won this year’s German Book Prize. The novel tells the story of a husband distraught over his wife’s recent suicide. After her death, he discovers from her journals, her abject loneliness, despair, and battles with illness and depression. What follows is a spiritual road novel, of Darius Kopp, to find a home for his wife’s ashes, and a place where his despair belongs.

Congratulations to Terézia Mora on wining the German Book Prize! May we look forward to her translation into English.

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

A Look at the German Book Prize Shortlist – A Video

Hello Gentle Reader

Here is: deutschewelleenglish: arts.21; video looking at the shortlist of this year’s German Book Prize.

“The stories this year gloomy; from melancholy, to insanity; death and rumination. The dark depths of the soul are illuminated.”

The following link will take you to the video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7_wqjYKEpo

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

European Union Prize for Literature 2013

Hello Gentle Reader

I had been so busy at work, that I failed, to notice the European Prize for Literature, had been awarded, a week ago. Twelve authors, hailing from Belgium; to the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, to Finland and to Slovenia. The following list is the winners, and a brief blurb, about the author and the winning novel.

Isabelle Wéry – Belgium – Wéry is a playwright, theatrical actress and director for the theatre. She is also an accomplished prose writer. Her debut in the novel format was, “Monsieur René,” a fictional and imaginary biography of the Belgian actor René Hainaux. This year’s winner is “Marilyn Deboned.” This is a novel of romantic encounters. It’s a novel, written in the three acts. About the main character Marilyn. The first act, takes place between ages six and eight – coming to terms with the fact that she is an independent creature. The second act as a young adult. The third act comes in the form of the here and now. It’s a novel of duos and ‘romantic undertakings,’ and the desire to know why we go through them – and why everything from human, to animals and plants – follows this same romantic law.

Faruk Šehić – Bosnia Herzegovina/Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia – Faruk Šehić comes from the interesting part of South-Eastern Europe. Before the outbreak of the Bosnian War, the author had studied veterinarian medicine. However, after the start of the Bosnian war, Šehić, volunteered with the Bosnian army and became a lieutenant. After the war, the author studied literature – and has gone to become a writer. Šehić’s novel “The Book of Una,” is about the experience of the Bosnian war, and its effect on one man, trying to overcome the personal tragedy of the incident. Yet it is also a book about childhood along the river, and about the city Una.

Emilios Solomou – Cyprus – is not a new prose writer, in Cyprus. His novel “An Axe In Your Hands,” had won the Cyprus State Prize for Literature. His second novel “Like a Sparrow, Quickly You Passed,” has been translated into Bulgarian. His stories have been published in many literary magazines and published in Bulgarian and English. His winning novel “The Diary of Infidelity,” is a novel of excavation of personal memories. The novel chronicles Yiorgos Doukarelis, remembrance of his past and three women in it. He remembers the archaeological find that changed his life; the affair and the divorce of his first wife, and marriage of his second one, and the sudden disappearance of his second wife. This novel connects Yiorgos Doukarelis to the far flung past, by his excavation and find; but also his own personal past, and his strained present.

Kristian Bang Foss – Denmark – Foss at first studied mathematics and physics; however he later graduated from the Danish Writers Academy. Foss’s debut “The Window of the Fish,” was praised for its everyday pursuits and mundane actions; that by linguistic ingenuity transcends the banal. His next novel “The Storm of 99,” is full of black humour, depicts the vipers pit of an everyday work environment; the slanderous games the absurd events that take place within. “Death Drives an Audi,” is his wining book. It’s a road novel. A tour of Europe. But it’s about the situations that are beyond our control. A look into hopelessness and still finding an optimistic glimmer. It is also a race against time and death.

Meelis Friedenthal – Estonia – Friedenthal is known as a speculative fiction writer. His first novel “Golden Age,” won third place in a national, novel competition. It discussed how, history shapes our identities. “The Bees,” is his winning novel. It tells the story Laurentius Hylas, a student in the seventeenth century. As Hylas enters the city of Tartu is known as the city of muses, but all Hylas see’s, is starving people. What follows is the melancholic prone Laurentius Hylas, falls further into a black pit, into a dreamlike disease, where reality and hallucination coexist. It’s a novel, which offers a difficult view of reality. One, about a melancholic
Philosophy student and his questions about reality, and his disease, and the philosophical treatises that permit him to wonder if the real is the unreal.

Katri Lipson – Finland – Lipson studied as medicine, in Sweden, and has practiced as a doctor both in Sweden and Finland, as well as Africa. However, Lipson has always been a writer. She has written everything from poetry, to short stories, even fairy tales. She debuted as a novelist with “Cosmonaut,” and was nominated for the prestigious Finlandia Prize; and it went onto win the Helsingin Sanomat Debut Book. Her winning novel “The Ice-Cream Man,” is a playful novel about inventive reality and its place within reality – and the possibility of that fictional reality taking over. The novel is about a film crew, and director, who decide to make a film with a lack of script. The actors themselves therefore must create and invent characters and stories. What is presented is a fictional reality that borders, and threatens to take compete with the real reality. Lipson shows that life and reality are made up of historical events, which mix with the present. That history is made up of stories, and details of all the lives around it.

Marica Bodrožić – Germany – Bodrožić, moved from the former Yugoslavia, at the age of ten. She learned German, and has used her ‘second mother tongue,’ as her literary language. Her debut novel “A Cherrywood Table,” has won this year’s prize. In Germany it has been praised of its poetic evocations of memory and remembrance. Bodrožić deals with the civil war of the former Yugoslavia. The novel traces the main characters memory, of childhood, the escape to Paris to study philosophy; but it also discusses the loss of her homeland. Around the cherry wood table, inherited from her grandmother, the personal and the political of the twentieth century, intertwine, as the past and the present share a dialogue, around the cherry wood table; where memories are spread out.

Tullio Forgiarini – Luxembourg – Forgiarini’s father was Italian, while his mother was Luxembourgian; this explains his odd last name. He writes in French, and is inspired by the dark crime and noir novels; which have tinted his novels and stories with a black gloss. “Amok. A Luxembourg love story,” is written in seventeen short chapters. It tells the story of an adolescent youth on the search for love, recognition, and a place within the contemporary and forever changing society. It’s a novel that is crude with poetic economy of words. It depicts the lives one rarely sees in the media. The reader is thrust into an unmanageable reality, and the escape attempts the protagonist, creates in order to escape. It’s a harsh book that is socially conscious, of a divided and marginalized society.

Lidija Dimkovska – Republic of Macedonia – Dimkovska is known to English readers of poetry, by her poetry collection “\pH Neutral History,” a poetry collection, of spitfire linguistic showmanship, that pins readers down, like insects on a pin. Her first novel “Hidden Camera,” won the Writers’ Union of Macedonia award, it was also shortlisted for the Utrinski Vesnik award for the year. Her next foray into prose is “Backup Life,” and it has won this year’s European Union Prize for Literature. Dimkovska recounts the life of Srebra and Zlata (a play on the words silver and gold), and their quest for individuality – but they are Siamese twins; conjoined at the head. From nineteen-eighty four until two-thousand and twelve, the story is narrated. The girls play fortune telling. They talk of who they’ll marry, how many children they’ll have, and which city they will live in. Then the former Yugoslavia split, and the joint regions and republics. What comes’ after is darkness, guilt, death, and funerals marriage, and separation. A historical and political allegory in some regards, but also personal and poetic.

Ioana Pârvulescu – Romania – Pârvulescu has won the award for her novel “Life Begins on Friday.” It’s a story set a hundred years ago. Yet in its core, it reverberates with our own hearts, and our times, as the human conditions, most basic principles are forever untouched by time. The story follows the various characters through the last thirteen days, of eighteen-ninety-seven. The discovery of an unconscious boy, in the outskirts of Bucharest, leads to speculation of how he got there, and is the centre of the web. Yet the most important character of this novel is Bucharest itself. It’s a novel of an almost forgotten time, and often romanticised time as well. Yet, with this novel it solidifies the fact that the past lives on into the present.

Gabriela Babnik – Slovenia – Babnik has published two novels prior to “Dry Season.” Her debut was “Cotton Skin,” and received the Best Debut Novel by the Union of Slovenian Publishers. Her next novel “In The Tall Grass,” was shortlisted for the Kresnik Award. “Dry Season,” has won Babnik this year’s award. “Dry Season,” is set in Africa, a place that holds a special interest with Babnik. The story itself is the unusual love affair of Anna, a sixty two year old designer from Central Europe; and Ismael, a street twenty seven year old African, who has been raised on the streets, in which he was routinely abused. What connects these two is a loneliness of the flesh; a tragic childhood and the dry season – the time in which neither nature, nor love can hope to flourish. Anna comes to realize the difference between herself and Ismael is not, by the colour of their skin; but by her belonging to a western culture. The very one in which she had abandoned. It’s a novel fused with magical realism, and true political realities of Africa.

Cristian Crusat – Spain – The final author comes from Spain. Crusat teaches Spanish language and literature abroad. His essays on translation and comparative literature have been published in periodicals all over Spain and in Latin America. “Brief theory of travel and the desert,” is a collection of six stories. Set around the world. The stories showcase, characters searching, and exploring the plausibility and possibility of an epiphany or a revelation. It may never come or comes and is never noticed. Yet the characters isolated in a concrete modern desert – of hotels, parkades, roads. Then accidents and incidents of the most mundane, or ordinary happen, that reveal the characters true isolation and slow death of immobility.

There you have it Gentle Reader. The European Prize for Literature twenty-thirteen’s winners. Novels that trace the divides both culturally, geographically, and historically. The personal is at the backdrop of the historical. The political mingles with the personal tragedies. Playful novels, about fictional realities and dreams, that compete with the physical reality in dominance of perspective.

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

Two of Tabucchi’s

( I ) — “The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,”

When Antonio Tabucchi passed away, in March of two-thousand and twelve; the literary world was devastated by the loss of a giant of world literature. Italy itself was forced to say farewell and thank-you to their greatest living writer; who had taken up the mantel of Italo Calvino. Yet to say that Tabucchi and Calvino were similar in every aspect would be misleading. Where Italo Calvino was generally seen as apolitical – after his youthful ideology years, in which he belonged to the communist party; Tabucchi was engaged in the social and political sphere. One of Tabucchi’s most well-known books “Pereira Declares,” (or “Pereira Maintains,”), which discusses the awakening of an overweight journalist to the difficulties and arbitrary inhumanity of Salazar’s, Portuguese dictatorship. This is just one example of Tabucchi’s politically engaged work. “Pereira Declares,” was often used as a symbol of resistance, against the Italian president and convicted fraudster, Silvio Berlusconi and his subsequent government. Further separation came from Tabucchi’s love of Portugal, after his discovery of the poet Fernando Pessoa. Tabucchi even wrote a book in Portuguese, to celebrate his admiration of Pessoa, and love for Portugal.

“The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,” was the first book to be published in English translation, after Tabucchi’s death. It was published by the amazing Archipelago Books. It’s a small square pocket book. It fits naturally in the hands. It’s a small book of stories. Tabucchi himself had called them: “drifting splinters, survivors of some whole that never was.”

The titular story “The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,” is the first sweet taste of the beautiful splinters that Tabucchi, divulges. It’s a gentle tale; a wistful charismatic fable. That portrays an Italian monk in a monastery, in the poignantly warm and time of dusk, collecting onions. While fulfilling his duty, this monk – who will become the greatest fifteenth century painter; encounters a large bird. A large bird with different coloured feathers: orche, yellow, deep blue and emerald. Reminiscent of the prismatic kingfisher. Other such birds, visit. While the monk is sleeping in his cell, a dragonfly visits him. He commands the monk to paint his visitors.

In this same vein, Tabucchi has done what the monk has. He has taken dream like impressions and solidified them with ink, and words. Other splinters and fragments of stories are letters. Emotional betrays and subtle details all mixed in with flights of fancy and fantasy. Calypso writes to Odysseus. There is the prince of Portugal, whose deep seated love becomes an adequate form of revenge. Mademoiselle Lenormand also makes an appearance. The famed fortune teller, of the Napoleonic Era. The mystic herself, offers a monologue on the perpetual dusk of her own shadow world. A place that she best describes as a dream, in which you are well aware is a dream. Where truth is all that more pure; and reality is so much sharper. This short monologue had to have been one of my favourites.

All the brief sketches, in this small book, are vignettes and simply written short reflections. The only one that best be described as a short is the titular “The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico.” Still these lactescent stories, offer a glimpse into the authors own preoccupations, with identity, mystery, history and other personal obsessions. These fragments. Memories of dreams. Impressions and nostalgic laments. Each of them carries a small weight to their punches. Yet their depth surpasses the superficial minimalism of their surface.

( II ) — “The Woman of Porto Pim,”

I once saw a picture of the Azores Archipelago. I saw a verdant hill, populated by few trees, surrounded by the ocean and the mist. In the background was Mount Pico. A shark tooth of a mountain. It appears to rise out of the sea; pushing through the mist and haze of the ocean and obstinately jab its peak right towards the heavens. I never knew about the Azores, until I started reading “The Woman of Porto Pim.” Still, we never gave much thought, to the Falkland Islands until the short Falkland war was started and resolved. Much like “The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,” – “The Woman of Porto Pim,” is a small pocket book of stories, its small, and fits comfortably into the hands of any reader. “The Woman of Porto Pim,” is best described as being inspired by Tabucchi’s travels within the Azores Archipelago. These small volcanic islands under the stewardship of Portugal – Tabucchi’s inspirational and adopted home.

Despite this romantic title, “The Woman of Porto Pim,” is not about women – as it is about whales and whaling. I remember reading a children’s version of “Moby Dick,” when I was younger. A shocking moralistic fable of a book; about mans’ ever intense quest for revenge; and how revenge consumes all. At the time, from my faded orange tinted sepia photographs of memory; I can’t say that I was entirely shocked by the desire to get revenge for loosing ones leg. Yet now that I am older, I can now understand the quest for the death of the white whale, was nothing shy of a tale of our inhumanity, and personal vendettas; and the adequate consequences that are sure to be fall all of us. The only reason that I bought “The Woman of Porto Pim,” was because Antonio Tabucchi himself had written it. Without his name attached to the book, I would have seriously reconsidered, not buying this book. If only because it dealt with whaling. What Tabucchi has done though is created quite a neat and fascinating book of stories, which traverse between travel diary, and fiction.

At first these stories appear like puddles. Without thinking twice; gumboots and all – we find ourselves jumping into a pothole of a sea. What lies hidden beneath the casually small and short surface is a world we never thought about looking at twice. Take for instance the titular story of this collection. It’s about a mysterious woman, who lives beneath her means in a hut. Then comes along the naïve sailor. He sings her a song to get her attention. With this story Tabucchi writes some of his most gorgeous prose:

“The moon was coming up in a veil of red, a summer moon. I felt a great longing, the water lapped around me, everything was so intense and so unattainable, and I remembered when I was a child, how at night I used to call the eels from the rocks: then an idea came to me, I couldn’t resist, and I began to sing that song. I sang it very softly, like a lament, or a supplication, with a hand held to my voice.”

One can picture the eels crawling out between the crags of the rocks. Called out like children, to the pied piper. The way the warm water cradles, someone, like the amniotic fluid of the womb. What comes from this man’s song; is much like the eels. A varied experience of: wonder, betrayal and violence. Though of course with every fragment that Tabucchi has written, one is left absent minded, and drifting about on the waters. Constantly mulling over what we have just read, and what it pertains to what is left unsaid and unanswered. We constantly look for the certainties, of the world. The salt sea water; the gentle southern breeze. The way sailors praise the new land or the old land, the way they feel the warmth of the home; find salvation in the rum bottle. So do we. We try to find answers in their now still sails. Their forgotten songs that only the eels remember. We rub our hands on the deadwood barnacle, covered shipwrecks. We cradle the forgotten mermaid. We hold her scarred salted face to our chest. We tell her we will love no other. Just divulge your history. We scour the empty rum bottles, littering the beach; smashed up on the rocks. Yet still we circle the unknown, and the uncertainty. Just as we grasp at the reflection of the moon in the water – we never truly hold it; and so is the same with Tabucchi’s fragments and reflections. We scoop up the reflections. We listen to the ripples. Yet it is still what has already been stated before. This is what makes Tabucchi such a wonderful writer. He never tells. He never condescends by feeling that all answers must handed over. We are left to read the text, mull it over, and spin our own inclusive theories.

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

Booker Prize ‘Doomed,’?

Hello Gentle Reader

I had stated in my announcement of the Booker Prize shortlist for this year that “after the Booker Prize crisis of two-thousand and eleven, it would appear that the award is back on track.” However new revelations, have revealed that my comments were premature. The crisis of two-thousand and eleven, was a mere appetizer to the current, shocking news. Whereas the former Booker Prize controversy, arose when the judges had chosen readability over literary merit; and the subsequent public relations meltdown, where that years chair of judges (Stella Rimington) compared, the critics to the former KGB. It was a rather disappointing, year for the Booker Prize. Before that though there was the Man Booker International Prize, controversy. Which began with, one Chairman – Jonathan Taylor; had gone on to state that the Booker Prize, had reached a more global status, then that of the Nobel; which he called “Political at best.” Then there was the Man Booker International Prize, going to the absent figure of Philip Roth. Earlier John le Carre, requested his name be removed from the shortlist. Then Carmen Callil, abdicated her seat from the judging panel after the award was given to Philip Roth. This all happened, before the usual Booker Prize, had started its own controversy. It was a grand head on collision. The kind of collision, and wreck, one cannot turn away from; yet watches with absent glee and restrained horror; and a steady supply of disbelief. That being said, you can’t help but roast marshmallows, over the flames, and eat popcorn, watching the mess continue to unfold. Yet two years later, the shortlist has been praised for its variety, and its integrity for taking in all factors; from gender, to nationality to literary merit.

Now a new controversy has been set a flame. The Booker Prize, which has been exclusively, awarded to a novel from the UK, Commonwealth countries, as well as Ireland and Zimbabwe; is now opening its doors, to any, English language publication (as long as it has been published in the UK). In other words, the prize is now open to include American authors. This has people dived straight down the middle. Some claim that the Booker Prize can now truly live up to its horn tooting “most important literary award in English-Speaking world.” Others however call it a complete and utter mistake; that has doomed the integrity of the Booker Prize.

It is hard not to see the future of the Booker Prize being dominated by American literature. Not by America’s literary taste, but simply because America has a vast quantity, of books published, and would flex that economic-super power muscle; dominating the newly revised prize. Just look at previous awards: The former Orange Prize, now Women’s Prize for Fiction, the winners has been dominated by American authors. The Man Booker Prize international has been awarded twice in a row to American authors. This is not, The Russian Booker Prize, or the German Book Prize, or the Man Asian Literary Prize, nor is it the Camões Prize, or Miguel de Cervantes Prize, or the Akutagawa Prize. This is the Booker Prize. The very prize, that has taken the place of the Commonwealth Writers Prize. Yet now it might as well be called the Pulitzer Version 2.0.

The Booker Prize is a crowded horse race as it is. Now it is far more crowded, the possibility of the judges reading, all nominated novels is now, certainly impossible. Now what it comes down to, is what novels are going to be overlooked, by the sheer quantity of the novels, and prize going to well established writers. The fact is, this ‘makeover,’ comes over, on attempt at showing that English speaking countries, are a bit more international, then they are given credit for. It’s an attempt rivalling other prizes; and being a bit more international. Still the feeling is, that the Booker is losing its own credibility. It’s now just become a glorified game of literary bingo, if you win you win, hip hip hurray. Though it’s too early to see how this new format, will change the prize itself, it does leave one feeling a bit on the uneasy side. As if this is just an attempt, at more favourable marketing, in a changing globalised world.

The entire, change however, comes in an interesting time, as the literary world is shifting. Publishers are leery of publishing. Writers are self-publishing – for free; if it’s popular with the reading public, then it’ll be considered to be published by an actual publisher. Literary merit is on the decline. Libraries are shutting down. Google’s prospect of claiming copy-right of out of print books. In fact the ‘profession,’ of writer may as be called a thankless hobby at best. Prizes like The Booker Prize, and other awards, are trying to stay afloat. One can only wait and see if the National Book Award and Pulitzer Prize, will take the same route – if they take the same route.

For further reading:

http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2013/sep/18/booker-prize-us-writers-end

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2013/sep/18/man-booker-prize-allow-us-american-entries

http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/jun/30/booker-prize-international-embarrassment

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 German Book Prize Shortlist

Hello Gentle Reader

As well as the Booker Prize Shortlist being announced so have the six finalists of the German Book Prize. Three men and three women. The prize’s previous contenders include Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller for her novel “Atemschaukel,” – published in English as “The Hunger Angel,” and “Everything I Posses I carry With Me,” or “Everything I won I carry With me.” Austrian writer, Clemens J Setz for his novels “Indigo (Translated as “Indigo,”) and “Die Frequenzen,” Translated as “The Frequencies.” Stephan Thome for “Fliehkräfte,” or “Centrifugal Forces,” and “Grenzgang,” translated as “Border Walk.” Austrian Marlene Streeruwitz for her novel “Die Schmerzmacherin,” translated as “The Huntress,” or “The Painmaker.”

Previous winners include:

Eugen Ruge – “In Zeiten des abnehmenden Lichts,” translated as “In Times of Fading Light.”
Kathrin Schmidt – “Du stirbst nicht,” translated as “You’re Not Going to Die.”
Melinda Nadj Abonji – “Tauben fliegen auf,” translated as “Falcons without Falconers,”
Ursula Krechel – Landgericht Translated as “Regional Court,” or “Court of Justice.”

This year’s shortlisted authors are as follows; along with a slight blurb about author and their respective novel. Each author is in the running for the most prestigious German language literary award.

Mirko Bonné – “Nie mehr Nacht,” translated as “Never Again Night.”

According to the German Book Prize website, only serious literary readers will recognize Mirko Bonné’s name. Bonné, the forty-eight year old author; writes about a man, who takes a trip to the French coast, with his nephew. The character is sent by a magazine to do a report on the bridges of Normandy, which was a decisive victory for the allies. Yet the main character flees the tragic death of his sister – one who he shared a relationship beyond, the confides of platonic sibling love. In this novel Bonné writes about the personal and historical.

Reinhard Jirgl – “Nichts von euch auf Erden," translated as “Nothing of You on Earth.”

Life on mars, may not be a pipe dream or science fiction concept after all. With an independent Dutch company, looking to put people on Mars to start a colony, it would appear space colonization maybe in our futures. Reinhard Jirgl writes about our desire for conquest – over the odds, over the elements, the environment and ourselves. In this dystopian novel, Jirgl writes about, a drugged populace left on earth; others enslaved on Mars in an underground city run by higher and more influential and wealthy people. The goal? To make Mars an inhabitable space. Jirgl writes a novel that forces us to look into the mirror and question everything.

Clemens Meyer – “Im Stein,” translated as “In Stone.”

The Austrian writer Meyer is often called the Enfant Terrible of Austrian Literature. Meyer’s is literature that breaks free from constraints. He creates a collage of inner monologues, and dreams, detailed descriptions, and a vast overload of information. In his novel “In Stone,” Meyer writes about the shadowy and morally incompetent world of prostitution and pimps. What he creates, is a novel that is ripe and full novel about love and romantic endearment.

Terézia Mora – “Das Ungeheuer,” translated as “The Monster.”

Terézia Mora is a Hungarian writer, whose literary language is German. She is one of this year’s favourites to win. Mora writes about, the personal tragedy of Darius Kopp an IT specialist, whose wife has committed suicide, after he loses his job. What Kopp discovers via his wife’s diary a world of loneliness, and humiliation, along with volatile affairs. Kopp travels to Hungary (where his wife grew up) and seeks answers and dredges up memories.

Marion Poschmann – “Die Sonnenposition,” translated as “The Position of the Sun,”

Marion Poschmann, was primarily a poet. According to the German Book Prize website, it shows with this novel. It’s a slim down refined language, with an economy of precise words. The book turns on the axis of a rundown castle. Its populated by a group of bizarre characters. With bold free association of language and imagery, Marion Poschmann shows the poets affinity with language in a novelistic form.

Monika Zeiner – “Die Ordnung der Sterne über Como,” Translated as “The Order of the Stars above Como,”

Monika Zeiner has written a six hundred page debut. It concerns itself with the intricate romantic triangle of three people living in an apartment. Monika Zeiner has a PhD in medieval poetry and is a singer in an Italian swing band. Her language is melodic; as is the speech that melds with the music that hangs over the novel. (Again according to the German Book Prize website). A novel of youth and lightheartedness.

There you have it Gentle Reader, The German Book Prize shortlist. From the personal to the historical. Poets turning to prose; and different ways of using language. The writers contemplate our potentially doomed futures, and our scared and tragic pasts. It’s a fascinating and diverse shortlist. It’ll be exciting who wins.

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