Hello Gentle Reader
His pen name may mean “Don’t Speak,” but Mo Yan the twenty twelve Nobel Laureate in Literature has decided to speak out against the dismissal of his Nobel accolade. The greatest criticism from journalists, fellow Laureates (Herta Müller), writers (Salman Rushdie), and fellow Chinese artist and writer Ai Weiwei and Liao Yiwu, have all been unanimous in Mo Yan’s Nobel. Even I have been less than kind – and maintain my criticism, and will continue to abstain from his work. Throughout his interview with the German newspaper, “Der Spiegel,” Mo Yan had made it continuously clear that he is not a political writer. However he has been state honoured by the Chinese government, with the honorary title of Deputy President of China’s Writers Association. One of the largest issues, that Mo Yan has been attacked about, is his refusal to discuss the wish for freedom of the imprisoned political activist and Peace Laureate, of Liu Xiaobo. When pressed again for his comments and thoughts Mo Yan had refused to answer. Many immediately were left with the impression of not a Chinese political Messiah, but of a Chinese controlled patsy (as Salman Rushdie had called him) in which he spoke out of turn, much to the Wests and democratic worlds applause; and was reprimanded for it. Though he compliments Gunter Grass, for dealing with the political turmoil of the twentieth century, he himself has avoided in political commentating. Stating he is not a political writer.
That is where Mo Yan is wrong though. As a contemporary Chinese writer, there is no middle. You are either support the Communist government or you are a dissident writer opposed to the government. Though it is a unfair generalization, of China and Chinese writers literary merit, put alongside their political convictions; though a English writer or a French writers political stances would not be so equally scrutinized; it would be the same for a Israeli writer or Syrian writer. This same scrutiny is applied to other Chinese writers such as the Misty Poet Bei Dao, or fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature Gao Xingjian.
If one wanted to use Mo Yan’s literary talents as, game for the criticism than, then one should look at such articles like “The New York Review of Books,” article “Why We Should Criticize Mo Yan,” by Perry Link; or “The Kenyon Review,” article “The Diseased Language of Mo Yan,” by Anna Sun; or look to Doctor Wolfgang Kubin’s interview, in which he discusses Mo Yan’s work.
From “The New York Review of Books,” – Perry Link, finds fault in Mo Yan’s way of presenting twentieth century history by satire, as a way of avoiding, the actual issue presented by history. Perry Link calls this “daft satire,” in which Mo Yan lessens the blow; or avoids it entirely, by relieving the catastrophe with humour – and very low brow humour at that. From the article:
“I noted that when he arrives at catastrophic episodes like the Great Leap famine, he deflects attention by resorting to what I call “daft hilarity”—shooting sheep sperm into rabbits or forcing someone to eat a turnip carved to be a “fake donkey dick”—while making no mention of starvation that cost 30 million or more lives.”
Mister Link further, points out that Mo Yan furthers the political indoctrination, of the young and uneducated of China; by avoiding such issues. Their education, is state controlled and when it comes to events in history that may shake the unwavering belief and ideological support of the one party system – again using the Great Leap famine as an example; they are to be blatantly ignored or denied – or at the very least recognized as historical fact, but important details changed.
“How does “daft hilarity” affect them [the actual readers]? I hope Laughlin will agree with me that Mo Yan’s actual readers are numerous, mostly young, and not very well schooled in Chinese history. To reach the level of what Laughlin sees as Mo Yan’s ideal “intended reader,” a young Chinese must leap a number of intellectual hurdles that Communist Party education has put in place: first, that there was no famine, because the story is only a slander invented by foreigners; second, that if there really was a famine, it was “three years of difficulty” caused by bad weather; third, that if the famine indeed was man-made, it still wasn’t Mao-made, because Mao was great; fourth, that if it was Mao-made, people died only of starvation, not beatings, burnings-alive (called “the human torch”), or brain-splatterings with shovels (called “opening the flower”), as Yang Jisheng’s book Tombstone documents.”
Doctor Wolfgang Kubin himself points out that Mo Yan writes a very sensationalist writing style. Not something that is modern or contemporary in the least. It is usually a “Saga,” – rural setting and takes place over generations. It is easier to read; especially the uneducated, and is a popular entertainment model.
“The Kenyon Review,” certainly agrees with the above statement. Mo Yan maybe compared to Faulkner or Gabriel Garcia Marquez; but where they differentiate, for sure is that Mo Yan lacks a unified aesthetic conviction. “The Kenyon Review,” goes on to say the following:
“The discontent lies in Mo Yan’s language. Open any page, and one is treated to a jumble of words that juxtaposes rural vernacular, clichéd socialist rhetoric, and literary affectation. It is broken, profane, appalling, and artificial; it is shockingly banal. The language of Mo Yan is repetitive, predictable, coarse, and mostly devoid of aesthetic value. The English translations of Mo Yan’s novels, especially by the excellent Howard Goldblatt, are in fact superior to the original in their aesthetic unity and sureness.”
In the end, Mo Yan makes no apologies. He dismisses the criticism, and says if one wants to know his politics they only need to read his books. The writer also went on to continue, to justify his actions specifically, hand copying part of Mao’s speech. He further reiterates that he criticizes everyone, including the ruling party; though he states he does it on the sly. This may or may not be true. In the end Mo Yan did not clear the air. If anything he blatantly stuck to his previous manner of speaking – or rather not speaking. Not revealing anything, and repeating continuously over and over what has already been stated. In a sense, pseudonym is well picked. Even when Mo Yan does speak, it is coarse and without meaning or real context. It’s a jumble of repetitive statements, rehearsed and ready for staging.
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
Thursday, 28 February 2013
Thursday, 21 February 2013
In Literary News
Hello Gentle Reader
(I)
It is the twenty first century. Consumerism and technology has driven itself to newer and stronger heights in the advent of the popularization of the internet, and its revolutionary way of looking at the mail order business. At the same time, as much as this may seem to be great for the consumer – and it really is; bigger businesses are suffering. What does that mean than for smaller businesses than? Independent book sellers, already competing against large book store chains like Indigo-Chapters with its addition of Coles, or that of Barnes & Noble, and now the Amazon franchise which has repeatedly had to verify its claim as a business and its validation as competition, against other large name book sellers; who (like Indigo-Chapters) have denounced Amazon; for its interruption of the company in its nationwide monopoly of book selling. Three independent book sellers in America have filed a class action law suit against Amazon and the “Big Six,” publishers (Random House, Penguin, Hachette, Simon & Schuster, Harper Collins, and Macmillan), for contract deals that “unreasonably restrain trade and commerce in the market for ebooks.” Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, Posman Books and Fiction Addiction; independent book sellers, are taking the charge against the publishers and Amazon, for what they see as the destruction of not only their livelihood but the whole concept of book culture, of independent book sellers, and has/is leading to a lack of choice for consumers, and has damaged their sales.
This however is just the latest battle, of the book and ebook trade. Earlier, five of the Big Six publishers and Apple, faced accusations and a law suit of price fixing, and monopolisation. Many sympathize with the independent book stores, and their law suit against big business, that have many fearing that it will eventually out right destroy their livelihoods, the culture, and the trade of books but also the consumers right to choose where they get the book from; many feel that the law suit, may not do anything. Yet it is the principle, of the law suit that carries most of the weight.
(II)
The two time Booker Winning author (the first English writer to do so and first female) has found herself in a bit of hot water, in regards to a lecture she had made. In the “Royal Bodies Lecture,” Hilary Mantel the author of the trilogy of historical English Tudor novels; has made her opinion known that the Duchess of Cambridge Princess Kate, was doomed to follow the footsteps of predecessors Anne Boleyn, Marie Antoinette, and Princess Diana. Each of these women suffered untimely deaths. The last being, the most potential for a bomb shell eruption – considering The Duchess is married and is carrying the child of the son of the late Princess Diana. This has put both Mantel on the hot seat, for her comments, but also “The London Review of Books,” which has made it quite clear that it authors should be encouraged to deal with front page issues. However many are attacking “The London Review of Books,” because it itself, is hiding its true self behind, academic pretensions; where as of late it has blanketed attacks, in literary musings and discussions on historical value, in which it is just a better tabloid magazine, disguised. – For More information please see “The Guardian,” Books Blog.
(III)
That is all that I was able to scrounge up Gentle Reader. Lately Gentle Reader, I thought the blog needed a break from all the book reviews. Though of course in the Literary World, nothing much has happened. At least nothing truly worth noting – of that is also my own humble opinion. However some more books, that I ordered have come in Gentle Reader. Some more Archipelago Books, by such authors like Pierre Michon, Elisabeth Rynell; to other books like “Woman As Lovers,” by Elfriede Jelinek – once one has a taste of some truly provocative prose, there is a feeling that one just can’t let go or get enough of; to “Zig Zag Through the Bitter Orange Trees,” by Ersi Sotiropoulos – which I have been meaning to get for quite some time. And of course as a special treat I did go out and buy two of the “Best European Fiction,” anthologies – twenty thirteen and twenty twelve respectively. So there are a few books to be read; and a few surprises not mentioned.
Though in the long run, February has one more blog to be posted on it. So there are hopeful moments where 2013 starts off on a bigger and better note; even though two months have already passed, and in a few months – or two; spring will upon us. The evenings will be less dank and dark with the bluish grey twilights or the indigo dusk. Soon the evenings will be lighter. A faint sheet of pink linen will be stretched across the sky before darkness of the cool damp spring nights will encompass the earth.
For now though 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
(I)
It is the twenty first century. Consumerism and technology has driven itself to newer and stronger heights in the advent of the popularization of the internet, and its revolutionary way of looking at the mail order business. At the same time, as much as this may seem to be great for the consumer – and it really is; bigger businesses are suffering. What does that mean than for smaller businesses than? Independent book sellers, already competing against large book store chains like Indigo-Chapters with its addition of Coles, or that of Barnes & Noble, and now the Amazon franchise which has repeatedly had to verify its claim as a business and its validation as competition, against other large name book sellers; who (like Indigo-Chapters) have denounced Amazon; for its interruption of the company in its nationwide monopoly of book selling. Three independent book sellers in America have filed a class action law suit against Amazon and the “Big Six,” publishers (Random House, Penguin, Hachette, Simon & Schuster, Harper Collins, and Macmillan), for contract deals that “unreasonably restrain trade and commerce in the market for ebooks.” Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, Posman Books and Fiction Addiction; independent book sellers, are taking the charge against the publishers and Amazon, for what they see as the destruction of not only their livelihood but the whole concept of book culture, of independent book sellers, and has/is leading to a lack of choice for consumers, and has damaged their sales.
This however is just the latest battle, of the book and ebook trade. Earlier, five of the Big Six publishers and Apple, faced accusations and a law suit of price fixing, and monopolisation. Many sympathize with the independent book stores, and their law suit against big business, that have many fearing that it will eventually out right destroy their livelihoods, the culture, and the trade of books but also the consumers right to choose where they get the book from; many feel that the law suit, may not do anything. Yet it is the principle, of the law suit that carries most of the weight.
(II)
The two time Booker Winning author (the first English writer to do so and first female) has found herself in a bit of hot water, in regards to a lecture she had made. In the “Royal Bodies Lecture,” Hilary Mantel the author of the trilogy of historical English Tudor novels; has made her opinion known that the Duchess of Cambridge Princess Kate, was doomed to follow the footsteps of predecessors Anne Boleyn, Marie Antoinette, and Princess Diana. Each of these women suffered untimely deaths. The last being, the most potential for a bomb shell eruption – considering The Duchess is married and is carrying the child of the son of the late Princess Diana. This has put both Mantel on the hot seat, for her comments, but also “The London Review of Books,” which has made it quite clear that it authors should be encouraged to deal with front page issues. However many are attacking “The London Review of Books,” because it itself, is hiding its true self behind, academic pretensions; where as of late it has blanketed attacks, in literary musings and discussions on historical value, in which it is just a better tabloid magazine, disguised. – For More information please see “The Guardian,” Books Blog.
(III)
That is all that I was able to scrounge up Gentle Reader. Lately Gentle Reader, I thought the blog needed a break from all the book reviews. Though of course in the Literary World, nothing much has happened. At least nothing truly worth noting – of that is also my own humble opinion. However some more books, that I ordered have come in Gentle Reader. Some more Archipelago Books, by such authors like Pierre Michon, Elisabeth Rynell; to other books like “Woman As Lovers,” by Elfriede Jelinek – once one has a taste of some truly provocative prose, there is a feeling that one just can’t let go or get enough of; to “Zig Zag Through the Bitter Orange Trees,” by Ersi Sotiropoulos – which I have been meaning to get for quite some time. And of course as a special treat I did go out and buy two of the “Best European Fiction,” anthologies – twenty thirteen and twenty twelve respectively. So there are a few books to be read; and a few surprises not mentioned.
Though in the long run, February has one more blog to be posted on it. So there are hopeful moments where 2013 starts off on a bigger and better note; even though two months have already passed, and in a few months – or two; spring will upon us. The evenings will be less dank and dark with the bluish grey twilights or the indigo dusk. Soon the evenings will be lighter. A faint sheet of pink linen will be stretched across the sky before darkness of the cool damp spring nights will encompass the earth.
For now though 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
Thursday, 14 February 2013
Mondo and Other Stories
Hello Gentle Reader
Jean Marie Gustav Le Clezio must be one of the most interesting authors, which have gained notoriety from the Nobel Prize for Literature. Along with such other names like Herta Müller, Kenzaburo Oe, Tomas Transtromer, Wisława Szymborska – in all their Nobel accolades, owe to some degree the Nobel Prize for Literature for their further renowned reputation as a world class author. Though, in many ways Tomas Transtromer and Wisława Szymborska would have had that recognition regardless of the formality of the Nobel. In the case of Herta Müller and Kenzaburo Oe, however the Nobel accolade, allowed for a larger audience to become aware of their works. Both authors have turned personal experiences of tragedy into new ways of expressing the human condition; Herta Müller through political oppression and censorship; and Kenzaburo Oe, expresses mankind’s continual outlook for freedom in a universe and world that has, at times already set out an ambiguous and lenient fate to obstruct the path. Both authors write about the enduring and resilient human soul; and yet both are well aware of its tendency and open possibility that it may break. Be it they are writing about the landscape of the disposed, or a fathers personal struggle and existential choices with a son who is brain damaged, and which act of cruelty is the merciful one; both repetitively take the task of writing of the condition of the true test of endurance of the human will to be free. This is where Jean Mari Gustav Le Clezio fits in; for his characters and novels deal with the individual attempt to escape the, confides of modern day life and realities, and seek freedom.
There is something about these works (some more so than others) that resonated with my inner core and being. A piece of them, struck a chord, or the right note in my memory; that something resonates, a part of me reminisces, a fragment is dug up from the past. From another time, that is so far. A place where the summers were longer and never ending; when the winters were bitter and cold, but still had warm hearths in every home; where hearts were the homes of the body. Now the world has taken on such a stranger appearance. Ashen and gray; deprived of hope and life. Chained and shackled. Why were we in such a rush to grow up? School a prison of childhood (and legal obligation) had simply been replaced by another. Who is to blame for the direction my life has taken? Where have all my childhood friends gone?
Reading these stories transports one back to the days when life was simpler. It transports one back to a time when life didn’t need to make sense; when rationality was put on hold for flights of fantasy. Dreamscapes were explored, on a plane that mirrored that of reality. When flowers became more than just flowers. When childish acts of violence, were ingrained a sense of territorial breach and defense; chivalry, protecting that code of honor – there was never a sense of immorality to them; violence was not something that either one had a penchant for. It was common ground. It came easily; and without a second thought – it was applauded by our peers and punishable by our parents. In each of us raged a beast.
All old people lament however, the lack of enjoyment that the present youth will enjoy. Today’s parents are not finding themselves in a middle ground. On one side there are the tiger moms and other over achieving parents. Taking a strict stance modeled after the highly completive culture of Japan and China; it grooms and prepares children for roles that will find them in a high placed job, which pays well; therefore they would be able to take care of their parents; as they were groomed for similar success. Their children are planned for a musical instrument courses; learning a second language, and of course there is always a need for sport and competiveness; not to mention that there also comes the educational requirements. Those high grades, come at hard work and constant studying. To be the best, one must out do their fellow students. Then comes the other extreme parent. They want to be their child’s friend. They do not bother to teach their children proper etiquette or table manners. Their children become wildings at best. They run uncontrolled, scream and become impenitent and are impertinent. They become problems, which others look at with such disgust. Which people must remind themselves that it is not their fault that they are that way; it is the parents fault. They are allowed to be rotten; as if it is expected of them. In my time, parents raised their children to have responsibility but also to have freedom. Chores were an expectation; and freedom to run free (with limitations) never caused anyone any problems. Exploration was a pastime – and one didn’t have to travel far to find something new and exciting. On a personal note, I grew up in a small town. For me traversing the fields, and finding a cow bone, was like finding gold.
Maybe that is why these stories may (or may not) resonate with someone. They are elegies; and end in fault and failure in some way or another – but they traverse the landscape of ambient atmospheres and dreamscapes. Crossing the thin lines between innocence and wisdom. Which is why these stories (apart from their visual and beautifully descriptive language) will please and bring adults and children (older children to young adults) to this collection alike; for its ability to resonate with both age groups. The language used in these stories are poetic, and sensual, but by no means are they cryptic. The images, the semiotics are all lush and beautiful. It is a universal language. An experience that in many ways almost anyone can empathize with.
“The vast blue, the vast light, the wind, the sound of the waves, violent or gentle, and the sea resembled a huge beast swaying its head whipping the air with its tail.”
“Lullaby,” for example is told from the perspective of a young girl. She escapes the confides of her school and decides that she will run free, and be free. She is from Iran, where her father (we are left to presume) still resides. Her mother is absent; not necessarily physically (though she does not appear in the story, she is mentioned) but one is left to assume she is a busy woman or absent emotionally form her daughter. Regardless Lullaby is able to enjoy life, freely. She goes off exploring, the seaside town.
She discovers a house which is called XAPIΣMA. It’s abandoned, and left alone and decrepit. Its walls are covered in graffiti and obscene massages. Yet it is here, in this isolated and lonely house, with the beautiful name, that Lullaby finds peace and transcendence in her new surroundings and nature.
“Lullaby was like a cloud, a vapor; she mingled with whatever surrounded her. She was like the scent of pine trees. Warmed by the sun on the hills, like the scent of the grass that smelt of honey. She was like the spindrift of the waves where quicksilver rainbow shines. She was the wind, the cold breath that comes from the sea, the bushes. She was the salt, the salt that shines like frost on the old stones, or the salt of the sea, the heavy acrid salt of undersea ravines.”
This is where people come and say that the prose often comes close to the bordering overtly spiritual goals. Becoming as a hindrance, new age ridden – like something Enya would sing about. Yet it works. Upon first reading, I was not under that impression in the least bit. I found the poetics of the language alone, a feat that few authors ever achieve throughout their life time. The ecstasy of reading such a passage is an invigorating experience. The spiritual pursuits (if any) were not apparent to me. What I did find though, was that the story did come to take on a feeling that it was aimed at both high and low reading types. Children and adults – literary or not. This was the first point that I began to realize that these stories were meant to be interchangeable for adults and children. At first there was a feeling of slight betrayal. How could I be conned so easily into buying a book of stories for children – but then after thinking about the resonance that the collection was able to bring forth in me, it was for both children and adults, so that one can be entertained, and another can remember and look back with fondness on a time that was simpler. Full of failures. Full of difficulties. A time that was more complicated, than any time could possibly. Of contradicting emotional extremes. Yet there was something about them, which was beautiful. Much like Mondo, these stories connect us to our younger generations and to our past selves. The different stages of ourselves, from our life, come to meld and melt into each other. Like salt dissolving in water.
Flights of fantasy are not uncommon.
“She moves slowly when the clouds are upon her, not to frighten them. The local people don't really know how to talk to clouds. They make too much noise, they wave their arms, and the clouds stay high in the sky.”
But they are placed against at times philosophical poetically posed questions and statements, that often lead one to understand how they fit into the world around us.
“Old Bahati and the school teacher, Jasper, told Little Cross: white is the colour of snow, the colour of salt, of clouds and of the north wind. It is the colour of bones and teeth, too. Snow is cold and melts in your hand, and the wind is cold and no one can grasp it. Salt burns your lips, bones are dead, and teeth are like stones in your mouth. But that is because white is the colour of emptiness, for there is nothing after white, nothing that remains.”
“Mountain of the Living God,” is the most apparent tale of spirituality and religious themes. To a fault, somewhat, of course. But there was something about it. A emphatic link was made. My body had got warm from the core of my solar plexus and radiated throughout my body. The lush descriptions and the passage into adult hood that overcomes the protagonist in the end was evocative and thrilling high point of the story.
“Jon had never seen a stream like this one, it was limpid, the colour of the sky, gliding slowly as it wound its way through the green moss. Jon went closer, slowly, feeling the soil with the tips of his toes. So as not to sink into a bog. He knelt by the edge of the stream.”
Stories of passages into adulthood. Stories of exploration, and self-discovery; of growing up and of failing and learning. Attempts at escaping the confides of society and being free. The stories, are whimsical and poetically evocative.
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
Jean Marie Gustav Le Clezio must be one of the most interesting authors, which have gained notoriety from the Nobel Prize for Literature. Along with such other names like Herta Müller, Kenzaburo Oe, Tomas Transtromer, Wisława Szymborska – in all their Nobel accolades, owe to some degree the Nobel Prize for Literature for their further renowned reputation as a world class author. Though, in many ways Tomas Transtromer and Wisława Szymborska would have had that recognition regardless of the formality of the Nobel. In the case of Herta Müller and Kenzaburo Oe, however the Nobel accolade, allowed for a larger audience to become aware of their works. Both authors have turned personal experiences of tragedy into new ways of expressing the human condition; Herta Müller through political oppression and censorship; and Kenzaburo Oe, expresses mankind’s continual outlook for freedom in a universe and world that has, at times already set out an ambiguous and lenient fate to obstruct the path. Both authors write about the enduring and resilient human soul; and yet both are well aware of its tendency and open possibility that it may break. Be it they are writing about the landscape of the disposed, or a fathers personal struggle and existential choices with a son who is brain damaged, and which act of cruelty is the merciful one; both repetitively take the task of writing of the condition of the true test of endurance of the human will to be free. This is where Jean Mari Gustav Le Clezio fits in; for his characters and novels deal with the individual attempt to escape the, confides of modern day life and realities, and seek freedom.
There is something about these works (some more so than others) that resonated with my inner core and being. A piece of them, struck a chord, or the right note in my memory; that something resonates, a part of me reminisces, a fragment is dug up from the past. From another time, that is so far. A place where the summers were longer and never ending; when the winters were bitter and cold, but still had warm hearths in every home; where hearts were the homes of the body. Now the world has taken on such a stranger appearance. Ashen and gray; deprived of hope and life. Chained and shackled. Why were we in such a rush to grow up? School a prison of childhood (and legal obligation) had simply been replaced by another. Who is to blame for the direction my life has taken? Where have all my childhood friends gone?
Reading these stories transports one back to the days when life was simpler. It transports one back to a time when life didn’t need to make sense; when rationality was put on hold for flights of fantasy. Dreamscapes were explored, on a plane that mirrored that of reality. When flowers became more than just flowers. When childish acts of violence, were ingrained a sense of territorial breach and defense; chivalry, protecting that code of honor – there was never a sense of immorality to them; violence was not something that either one had a penchant for. It was common ground. It came easily; and without a second thought – it was applauded by our peers and punishable by our parents. In each of us raged a beast.
All old people lament however, the lack of enjoyment that the present youth will enjoy. Today’s parents are not finding themselves in a middle ground. On one side there are the tiger moms and other over achieving parents. Taking a strict stance modeled after the highly completive culture of Japan and China; it grooms and prepares children for roles that will find them in a high placed job, which pays well; therefore they would be able to take care of their parents; as they were groomed for similar success. Their children are planned for a musical instrument courses; learning a second language, and of course there is always a need for sport and competiveness; not to mention that there also comes the educational requirements. Those high grades, come at hard work and constant studying. To be the best, one must out do their fellow students. Then comes the other extreme parent. They want to be their child’s friend. They do not bother to teach their children proper etiquette or table manners. Their children become wildings at best. They run uncontrolled, scream and become impenitent and are impertinent. They become problems, which others look at with such disgust. Which people must remind themselves that it is not their fault that they are that way; it is the parents fault. They are allowed to be rotten; as if it is expected of them. In my time, parents raised their children to have responsibility but also to have freedom. Chores were an expectation; and freedom to run free (with limitations) never caused anyone any problems. Exploration was a pastime – and one didn’t have to travel far to find something new and exciting. On a personal note, I grew up in a small town. For me traversing the fields, and finding a cow bone, was like finding gold.
Maybe that is why these stories may (or may not) resonate with someone. They are elegies; and end in fault and failure in some way or another – but they traverse the landscape of ambient atmospheres and dreamscapes. Crossing the thin lines between innocence and wisdom. Which is why these stories (apart from their visual and beautifully descriptive language) will please and bring adults and children (older children to young adults) to this collection alike; for its ability to resonate with both age groups. The language used in these stories are poetic, and sensual, but by no means are they cryptic. The images, the semiotics are all lush and beautiful. It is a universal language. An experience that in many ways almost anyone can empathize with.
“The vast blue, the vast light, the wind, the sound of the waves, violent or gentle, and the sea resembled a huge beast swaying its head whipping the air with its tail.”
“Lullaby,” for example is told from the perspective of a young girl. She escapes the confides of her school and decides that she will run free, and be free. She is from Iran, where her father (we are left to presume) still resides. Her mother is absent; not necessarily physically (though she does not appear in the story, she is mentioned) but one is left to assume she is a busy woman or absent emotionally form her daughter. Regardless Lullaby is able to enjoy life, freely. She goes off exploring, the seaside town.
She discovers a house which is called XAPIΣMA. It’s abandoned, and left alone and decrepit. Its walls are covered in graffiti and obscene massages. Yet it is here, in this isolated and lonely house, with the beautiful name, that Lullaby finds peace and transcendence in her new surroundings and nature.
“Lullaby was like a cloud, a vapor; she mingled with whatever surrounded her. She was like the scent of pine trees. Warmed by the sun on the hills, like the scent of the grass that smelt of honey. She was like the spindrift of the waves where quicksilver rainbow shines. She was the wind, the cold breath that comes from the sea, the bushes. She was the salt, the salt that shines like frost on the old stones, or the salt of the sea, the heavy acrid salt of undersea ravines.”
This is where people come and say that the prose often comes close to the bordering overtly spiritual goals. Becoming as a hindrance, new age ridden – like something Enya would sing about. Yet it works. Upon first reading, I was not under that impression in the least bit. I found the poetics of the language alone, a feat that few authors ever achieve throughout their life time. The ecstasy of reading such a passage is an invigorating experience. The spiritual pursuits (if any) were not apparent to me. What I did find though, was that the story did come to take on a feeling that it was aimed at both high and low reading types. Children and adults – literary or not. This was the first point that I began to realize that these stories were meant to be interchangeable for adults and children. At first there was a feeling of slight betrayal. How could I be conned so easily into buying a book of stories for children – but then after thinking about the resonance that the collection was able to bring forth in me, it was for both children and adults, so that one can be entertained, and another can remember and look back with fondness on a time that was simpler. Full of failures. Full of difficulties. A time that was more complicated, than any time could possibly. Of contradicting emotional extremes. Yet there was something about them, which was beautiful. Much like Mondo, these stories connect us to our younger generations and to our past selves. The different stages of ourselves, from our life, come to meld and melt into each other. Like salt dissolving in water.
Flights of fantasy are not uncommon.
“She moves slowly when the clouds are upon her, not to frighten them. The local people don't really know how to talk to clouds. They make too much noise, they wave their arms, and the clouds stay high in the sky.”
But they are placed against at times philosophical poetically posed questions and statements, that often lead one to understand how they fit into the world around us.
“Old Bahati and the school teacher, Jasper, told Little Cross: white is the colour of snow, the colour of salt, of clouds and of the north wind. It is the colour of bones and teeth, too. Snow is cold and melts in your hand, and the wind is cold and no one can grasp it. Salt burns your lips, bones are dead, and teeth are like stones in your mouth. But that is because white is the colour of emptiness, for there is nothing after white, nothing that remains.”
“Mountain of the Living God,” is the most apparent tale of spirituality and religious themes. To a fault, somewhat, of course. But there was something about it. A emphatic link was made. My body had got warm from the core of my solar plexus and radiated throughout my body. The lush descriptions and the passage into adult hood that overcomes the protagonist in the end was evocative and thrilling high point of the story.
“Jon had never seen a stream like this one, it was limpid, the colour of the sky, gliding slowly as it wound its way through the green moss. Jon went closer, slowly, feeling the soil with the tips of his toes. So as not to sink into a bog. He knelt by the edge of the stream.”
Stories of passages into adulthood. Stories of exploration, and self-discovery; of growing up and of failing and learning. Attempts at escaping the confides of society and being free. The stories, are whimsical and poetically evocative.
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
Thursday, 7 February 2013
An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter
Hello Gentle Reader
As one gets older, there is this incomprehensible urge to view and admire the landscape; from viewing the backyard (or garden), to the park or even to looking at scenes and photographs of the natural landscapes of the world, via the internet. Cesar Aira’s novel follows or at least at the beginning traces the life of the German landscape painter Johann Maritz Rugendas. The very beginning of this novel has the wording and appearance of a non-fiction piece of work (something that is echoed throughout the novel, along with philosophical discussion, meditation on art and fantasy):
“Western art can boast few documentary painters of true distinction. Of those who lives and work we know in detail, the finest was Rugendas, who two visits to Argentina. The second, in 1847, gave him an opportunity to record the landscapes and physical types of the Rio de la Plata [the Plata River] – in such abundance that an estimated two hundred paintings remained in the hands of local collectors – and to refuse his friends and admirer Humboldt, or rather a simplistic interpretation of Humboldt’s theory, according to which painter’s talent should have been exercised solely in the more topographically and botanically exuberant regions of the New World.”
So begins a novel that in itself is a recordation of the experience of Rugendas; but by no means is documenting Rugendas life. His back story may be filled in, with recounts of his family’s tradition from being a clock maker to, evolution into painters:
“It was Johann Moritz’s great-grandfather, Georg Philip Rugendas (1666-1742) who founded the dynasty of painters. And he did so as a result of losing his right hand as a young man. The mutilation rendered him unfit for the family trade of clock-making, in which he had been trained since childhood. He had to learn to use his left hand, and to manipulate pencil and brush. He specialized in the depiction of battles, with excellent results, due to the preternatural precision of his draughtsmanship, which was due in turn to his training as a clockmaker and the use of his left hand, which, not being his spontaneous choice, obliged him to work with methodical deliberation. An exquisite contrast between the petrified intricacy of the form and the violent turmoil of the subject matter made him unique.”
Rather Rugendas as the painter and his life; which is weaved and knitted throughout this novel, becomes more of a vehicle or the eyes or filters that the reader views the world through. It is not a report that recounts Rugendas life. It is not some fictional biography that finds some mystical or hidden meaning in the life of Rugendas that can enlighten the reader. It is a meditation on art but also at times it felt like a love letter to Argentina from César Aira from an outsider’s perspective. An outsider who with Alexander von Humboldt’s theory:
“An all-embracing scholar, perhaps the last of his kind: his aim was to apprehend the world in its totality; and the way to do this, he believed, in conformity with a long tradition, was through vision.”
Is able to depict: “the mysterious emptiness to be found on the endless plains at a point equidistant from the horizons. Only there, he thought, would he be able to discover the other side of his art[. . .]”
Getting past the first bit of this dwarfish but well imagined and miniaturized novel, one experiences some great language and lush descriptions. As well as the German’s Rugendas and Krause (his friend, fellow compatriot as well as companion on his journey to Argentina) wonder and awe at the New World. His paintings and documentations (which would eventually be taken over by photographs) show an exotic world. One free of the polite society of Europe. A world that is run by unseen anarchic forces, mysticism alien culture. A place free of the constraints of enlightened Europe.
While traveling across the Pampas for Buenos Aires, it is revealed that Rugendas hopes to witness an earthquake and an Indian raid. However both are unpredictable, and the likeness of witnessing either was small and sat next to impossible. One of the greatest moments was when Rugendas and Krause think that they have reached the Pampas. How could it be possible to get even flatter? Though once San Luis is reached the true expansive nature of the word flat is seen. Locusts destroyed and tore apart the green colour of nature as is their brutal nature. The horses dehydrated and exhausted, and the mules perpetually cantankerous; that allow one to see the savagery viciousness of the land. The painters could not decide what to do; and so Rugendas suggested splitting up. Krause however had reservations about the idea; but Rugendas could not or rather would not take no for answers and quickly sped off on his panic and nerve wracked horse. As he cleared the mountain, Rugendas’s horse was frightened further by a thunderstorm. This is the climactic scene which brutally maims Rugendas described in vivid detail.
To be struck by lightning is the feeling of a quick flash; but in that quick flash time is disrupted. Where it once flows in a continual flowing river, when the electric current flows through the body it severs and divides the spliced and braided molecules of the river of time. It splinters off into small streams, while the energizing current of electricity courses through the body. In that electrifying shock of a flash, moments become life times. So is this novella.
It is a flash. A snap of the fingers novella. One of two that the author César Aira writes yearly. The author is known for his productivity, at the most he writes three novels yearly; but usually keeps a steady supply of writing two novellas a year. The late Chilean author Roberto Bolaño expressed great admiration for César Aira, even warmly comparing him to the Spanish author Enrique Vila-Matas.
With atmospheric prose and very evocative; and brilliant descriptive language there is a justifiable need to concur with Mister Bolaño on this consensus of the authors talent and his truly literary outstanding originality. It is truly one of the most wonderful novella’s that personally I have read, as well as a novella that truly shows the novella’s capability as a literary art form separate from both the short story and the novel.
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
As one gets older, there is this incomprehensible urge to view and admire the landscape; from viewing the backyard (or garden), to the park or even to looking at scenes and photographs of the natural landscapes of the world, via the internet. Cesar Aira’s novel follows or at least at the beginning traces the life of the German landscape painter Johann Maritz Rugendas. The very beginning of this novel has the wording and appearance of a non-fiction piece of work (something that is echoed throughout the novel, along with philosophical discussion, meditation on art and fantasy):
“Western art can boast few documentary painters of true distinction. Of those who lives and work we know in detail, the finest was Rugendas, who two visits to Argentina. The second, in 1847, gave him an opportunity to record the landscapes and physical types of the Rio de la Plata [the Plata River] – in such abundance that an estimated two hundred paintings remained in the hands of local collectors – and to refuse his friends and admirer Humboldt, or rather a simplistic interpretation of Humboldt’s theory, according to which painter’s talent should have been exercised solely in the more topographically and botanically exuberant regions of the New World.”
So begins a novel that in itself is a recordation of the experience of Rugendas; but by no means is documenting Rugendas life. His back story may be filled in, with recounts of his family’s tradition from being a clock maker to, evolution into painters:
“It was Johann Moritz’s great-grandfather, Georg Philip Rugendas (1666-1742) who founded the dynasty of painters. And he did so as a result of losing his right hand as a young man. The mutilation rendered him unfit for the family trade of clock-making, in which he had been trained since childhood. He had to learn to use his left hand, and to manipulate pencil and brush. He specialized in the depiction of battles, with excellent results, due to the preternatural precision of his draughtsmanship, which was due in turn to his training as a clockmaker and the use of his left hand, which, not being his spontaneous choice, obliged him to work with methodical deliberation. An exquisite contrast between the petrified intricacy of the form and the violent turmoil of the subject matter made him unique.”
Rather Rugendas as the painter and his life; which is weaved and knitted throughout this novel, becomes more of a vehicle or the eyes or filters that the reader views the world through. It is not a report that recounts Rugendas life. It is not some fictional biography that finds some mystical or hidden meaning in the life of Rugendas that can enlighten the reader. It is a meditation on art but also at times it felt like a love letter to Argentina from César Aira from an outsider’s perspective. An outsider who with Alexander von Humboldt’s theory:
“An all-embracing scholar, perhaps the last of his kind: his aim was to apprehend the world in its totality; and the way to do this, he believed, in conformity with a long tradition, was through vision.”
Is able to depict: “the mysterious emptiness to be found on the endless plains at a point equidistant from the horizons. Only there, he thought, would he be able to discover the other side of his art[. . .]”
Getting past the first bit of this dwarfish but well imagined and miniaturized novel, one experiences some great language and lush descriptions. As well as the German’s Rugendas and Krause (his friend, fellow compatriot as well as companion on his journey to Argentina) wonder and awe at the New World. His paintings and documentations (which would eventually be taken over by photographs) show an exotic world. One free of the polite society of Europe. A world that is run by unseen anarchic forces, mysticism alien culture. A place free of the constraints of enlightened Europe.
While traveling across the Pampas for Buenos Aires, it is revealed that Rugendas hopes to witness an earthquake and an Indian raid. However both are unpredictable, and the likeness of witnessing either was small and sat next to impossible. One of the greatest moments was when Rugendas and Krause think that they have reached the Pampas. How could it be possible to get even flatter? Though once San Luis is reached the true expansive nature of the word flat is seen. Locusts destroyed and tore apart the green colour of nature as is their brutal nature. The horses dehydrated and exhausted, and the mules perpetually cantankerous; that allow one to see the savagery viciousness of the land. The painters could not decide what to do; and so Rugendas suggested splitting up. Krause however had reservations about the idea; but Rugendas could not or rather would not take no for answers and quickly sped off on his panic and nerve wracked horse. As he cleared the mountain, Rugendas’s horse was frightened further by a thunderstorm. This is the climactic scene which brutally maims Rugendas described in vivid detail.
To be struck by lightning is the feeling of a quick flash; but in that quick flash time is disrupted. Where it once flows in a continual flowing river, when the electric current flows through the body it severs and divides the spliced and braided molecules of the river of time. It splinters off into small streams, while the energizing current of electricity courses through the body. In that electrifying shock of a flash, moments become life times. So is this novella.
It is a flash. A snap of the fingers novella. One of two that the author César Aira writes yearly. The author is known for his productivity, at the most he writes three novels yearly; but usually keeps a steady supply of writing two novellas a year. The late Chilean author Roberto Bolaño expressed great admiration for César Aira, even warmly comparing him to the Spanish author Enrique Vila-Matas.
With atmospheric prose and very evocative; and brilliant descriptive language there is a justifiable need to concur with Mister Bolaño on this consensus of the authors talent and his truly literary outstanding originality. It is truly one of the most wonderful novella’s that personally I have read, as well as a novella that truly shows the novella’s capability as a literary art form separate from both the short story and the novel.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
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