Hello Gentle Reader
The Library and Archives of Canada mandate is the following:
- To preserve the documentary heritage of Canada for the benefit of present and future generations;
- To be a source of enduring knowledge accessible to all, contributing to the cultural, social and economic advancement of Canada as a free and democratic society;
- To facilitate in Canada co-operation among communities involved in the acquisition, preservation and diffusion of knowledge;
- To serve as the continuing memory of the Government of Canada and its institutions.
As of right now though, the Library and Archives of Canada finds itself in hot water. First and foremost, because the Minster of Heritage James Moore, most recent appointees were economists. These two men – the first being Doctor Daniel Caron; who resigned earlier in May, and his replacement so far Hervé Déry. Daniel Caron had a difficult time, being the National Archivist and Liberian of Canada. First and foremost he was not well liked by his staff; there was constant scoffing and disapproval of his appointment. Many felt that the job should go to someone who had worked in the field of Archive and Library sciences. Many want someone like the former National Archivist and Liberian of Canada, to be like Ian Wilson. They want someone who has had experience managing and working within the environment. Wilson has held positions at Queen University as the University Archivist and as a provincial Archivist for the Province of Saskatchewan. Many believe that James Moore’s decisions are a complete mistake. Concerned citizens of Canada, people in the cultural community, authors, researchers, scientists, Archivists and Liberians all feel a sense of disappointment in the governments, in ability to take the needs of Canada’s Heritage seriously. A good example would be Daniel Caron who used funds to learn Spanish and to travel to Europe and meet with other archivists there.
Of course this all comes after a scandal of a thirty party, deal cloaked in secrecy was found out. The Library and Archives of Canada, was going to allow a third party organization, to digitalize the works held in the institution. Which is not a problem. But it appears that the deal may end up costing Canadian citizens, because it sounds like the organization would then ‘re-sell,’ the works digitalized back to the institute. What many do see though is that the institute is no longer being treated as a secular institute, or a third part mandate of its own. It is not being treated as a government department.
Michael Peterman, professor emeritus at Trent University, published a column in the Peterborough Examiner, that sums up what people are thinking about the mismanagement of the Library and Archives of Canada:
“Caron (did great damage) at the LAC, an institution of extraordinary national significance and of daily importance to historians of all stripes, be they academics, genealogists or private citizens. His job was no less than to oversee the preservation of Canada’s documentary heritage in a responsible and proactive way. But his approach was arrogant, slaphappy and counter-productive. In the name of budget austerity and faced with the need to cut several millions of dollars from his operating budget, he authorized, for example, the termination of vital programs like Interlibrary Loans, reduced access hours for researchers, and eliminated LAC’s standard duty of acquiring newly available archival material and published books. He claimed to be committed to digitalizing the archival collection, but, year after year, he offered little evidence of progress in that regard and provided only marginal information about the processes involved. He did little to consult with the country’s librarians and dismissed any queries or criticisms as merely petty and vexatious. And all that time he was improving his Spanish and allegedly traveling to undertake discussions with leading archivists in Europe while stonewalling their Canadian contemporaries.
[ . . . ]
Given the recent “resignation” of Daniel Caron, my worry continues to be that LAC will remain in a troubled and crippled condition. Will his replacement be a knowledgeable and informed leader with appropriate library credentials and expertise or simply another power-wielding bureaucrat like Caron? Once the smoke of 2012-13 has cleared, my fear is that Canada’s new head librarian will again be encouraged — with cleaner hands (for the moment) — to continue to disembowel one of our most important cultural and historical institutions.
Few archivists dispute the need for digitization and preservation of archival collections — it is the buzz of the twenty-first century. But institutions like LAC need not only ministerial protection and understanding but also an appropriate level of funding if they are to advance toward the future in a way that will address Canada’s best interests and the preservation and development of its archival heritage.
I hope that there will be enlightened consultation in Ottawa and that we will see a much better appointment than Daniel Caron, someone who will be able to restore LAC to its former reputation and significance while providing the wise leadership the institution so dearly needs.”
Gentle Reader, I do apologize for this. I am not a political person – at least not with this blog. But it does bug me, when a government pushes aside its cultural heritage and historical importance; and mocks and disrespects the profession of Liberians and Archivists. That is why I post this. For it is in the defense of the gatekeepers of literature and the preservers of knowledge.
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 27 June 2013
Touch
Hello Gentle Reader
A lot of this book reminded me of being a child. Because as we enter the season of spring’s renewal, as the weather turns warm, there is a feeling of nostalgia that fills the body. It echoes in the bones. It courses through the capillaries, veins, and arteries. Sings in the spiral shell of the eardrum. There are so many memories of being a child coming back. Hot chocolate on winter days. Our fingers and toes chilled. The liquid to hot, we would scoop out the marshmallows with our spoons. We would much down on the fluffy bone marrow cylindrical cubes. Other images and memories also come to mind. Mom’s crockpot: old and trustworthy. The cream-white background with the little houses evenly spaced apart around its circular circumference. I remember the blue house the red house, and the brown wintery trees. The spaces in between, where only silence and snow could call home. There’s the thick gravy stew that cooks and bubbles inside of the hearths of the homes. The large cut onions. The expensive stewing meat. Blocks of carrots and other vegetables. They all just sat in the bubbling mud of the gravy. The ingredients were like dried soggy almost transparent leaves of the previous autumn. Frost bitten and decayed by winter. Now mush and stuck in mud, along with sticks that were broken off in winter, and used to scratch and scribble lines in the snow. Who could forget the long walks in the late summer and early autumn, in the farmers’ fields? Gold and cream – a sea of the harvest all around. Dandelions, fox tails, hedge garlic, western salsify, dill, thistles – these are now weeds. Yet back then they were just flowers and plants. We did not discriminate against them. They were the same as the tulip, the daisy’s that sprouted in the back alley, the trees that were large and sentient giants. Yet none compared to the roses. The majestic queen of the flowers. Regal and thorny. Capricious and yet, not malicious. A beauty to behold. It is in the end delightful to go over these moments of a time that has passed. It’s a feeling of time passing and time passed. Yet the memories, and the moments remain there. Though they have drifted with the seeds in the wind. Sailed towards oblivion in a sense; the remnants remain. It’s delightful to look back. Yet though we look through the same window, as we did back then, the world has changed. This change has also infused with us. The reflection: the eyes that look back have also changed. As much as these static moments have been crystallised to the best of one’s ability, they are now unattainable. Nameless characters now pop up. People who have no names, and yet are now lost. Still one cannot give up those memories those moments. Those impressions left not only on us, but what we leave on the environment around us. Where footprints were once ingrained in sold earth. Depressed patches of grass. Where snowball fights took place. Behind sheds and trees where first kisses were delved. The world shapes us, as much as we have shaped it.
Adania Shibli is a Palestine author. A writer from the disputed land of Palestine. A politically ambiguous country that appears to exist in memory, ideology, political desire, and dream. No one can say where Palestine is. Yet it is generally speculated to be the Gaza strip, and the disputed Western Bank. The concept of Palestine is a jam. It is a large sticky formless mass. It rebuffs, being shaped, and yet demands to be recognized. This is the world Adania Shibli has called home. A place that exists on the voice; yet not on the map. A place that is heard and talked about yet appears to not exist. Adania Shibli inhabits this world, and yet in her novel “Touch,” does not deal with it directly. Shibli refuses to be seen as a ‘political production,’ as does her work. It ceases to be categorized. In “Touch,” one is stuck both by how short the work is, and how many volumes it speaks. In “Touch,” poetic vignette’s and impressionistic prose reign supreme. Carefully detailed with a painters touch of understanding of light and colour, and a poets comprehension of emotion and image; and a minimal narrative to bind and hold it all together. Each short chapter, and equally short section of this novella, is held together by the experience of the little girl.
The best part of this entire novella is its visuals. This perhaps the first authors since roughly Jean-Marie Gustav Le Clezio, who uses visual images and poetic sensuality, which mirrors both external and internal landscapes. It shows how rough the world is. How little it changes to the most heartbreaking moments:
“The sky had not changed its silence or its shape or its position after the brother’s soul rose up to it.”
Yet where Jean-Marie Gustav Le Clezio and Adania Shibli, branch away from each other, is that Adania Shibli uses more of an imagist poetic language; and with a painter’s keen sense of colour, shade, depth and understanding of the landscape is keenly able to realize it in a child’s perspective. Allowing for moments of true innocent wisdom to shine. Yet it also allows for true idiosyncratic observations to take shape:
“In the courtyard the little girl yelled, “God damn!”
Just like the children said in the schoolyard.”
What is most accomplished about this novella though is how it borders on the line between both prose poem, and a narrative. It eschews both concepts equally. Perhaps Shibli realizes that if she wrote this in a series of poems, following the approved line structure and use of a more metre and rhythm imitating the ticks of a metronome, the work would be ghettoized. Poetry is often pushed aside; and is an exclusive art form, that over the years has been taught to hate in school, because it is both something that cannot be taught, as a unified black or white concept, because it is always open to interpretation; and yet students are often told to adhere to one interpretation. Not to mention that at times the rules of poetry writing were constrained, and more refined and locked in shackles of form, beat and rhythm. Not allowing for true artistic freedom to take shape. Everything would be perfectly manicured. All to the point that the poem became a constrained archaic form of cryptic association of words and images. Yet if Adania Shibli, used strict narrative and prose work, the political subtleties and ideological issues, would be at the forefront, and she would therefore fall into the trap of discussing what is expected of her. In these regards, Adania Shibli, puts one foot in each tradition. She takes the unified whole of a narrative, and the image based language of poetry, and creates impressionistic vignettes, that carry the weight of the entire novella, and are infused with the perceptions of a child. That being said, the authors voice is a light shade that covers the text. Like the shadow of the little girls hand over the tadpoles in the pond. Rather than making it believable that the observations of the child are realistic; the child is merely the vessel, in which the events unfold around, and whose own unique brand of observations as her own and the authors are infused.
The casual observations are often tinged with personal solitude. Being the youngest sister of nine, there are very few and rare moments, when she is at the centre of attention. She is constantly pushed aside. A number, in a larger sum, in a crowded household. Yet it is this alienation and solitude that allow for her to have moments of happiness. Moments when she falls in love, argues with her siblings, and tries to understand the world around her, and her own place in it:
“And there, from the edge of the mountain, the sky stretched pit to the distant fields, while the sun was about to disappear, dragging behind it a long ray of purple, the last colour of the day.”
Moments of true beauty however, are also infused with the incomprehensible violence of the ideologies and politics. Such as the Sabra and Shatila massacre and the foreignness of the word Palestine itself:
“The girl tried to understand the meaning of the words Sabra and Shatila. Maybe they were one word. The word Palestine was unclear, expect that it was forbidden. The color of the green board resembled that color of cactus.”
Yet this is what also makes this novella so stunning is its attempt not at indoctrinating the reader into a specific ideology or political thought. It recounts this tragedy as incomprehensible. As unwarranted, as an act of pure atrocious malice. Where the goal was death and destruction, with no winning survivor or causality. Were in the end it is nothing more than another chapter in the concept of the human tragedy. Yet it is the language of this novella: simple minimal and pure that rings true through and through:
“Sometimes colors disappeared from nature, and all that remained was green on the mountain, yellow on the hay, and blue on the sky in summer. Before the end of the spring, the green and red crayons got used up because there were so many anemones, yet it seemed the pink crayon would last through many winters.”
The most minute and minimal details, offer the greatest sensations. Silence, the sea, colours, movements; how flakes of rust turn to gold, the feeling of grass, a secret kiss on the older shepherd boys lips, playing a game with a friend – all these sensations become the daily life of this little girl. All of these sounds become the soundtrack to her life. She is entirely human. She fights with her siblings, she plays, she tries to understand the world around her, and her own place in it. With such minimal knowledge of the outside world, and her basic attempts at trying to understand language as not only spoken but written and the power of the written and the spoken, all lead to a sense of wonder. The world for her appears endless and abundant. A place of vivid colour, and endless noises and moments of silence. Yet a place where the sky is still the same overhead.
One cannot express enough how intimately beautiful this novella is. Each scene is expressive; and impressions that run deeper than the words on the page. It’s a short book, yet weighty. It’ll be something that one needs to re-read countlessly to capture the moments of beauty again, but also begin to understand further the work itself as a whole. The fact that it is so short and minimal is somewhat of a drawback. There is a desire for more; an explanation, something. Yet in time after digestion and re-reading, it becomes more and more apparent. In all a wonderful lovely book. That is not overtly political, and more intimately detailed in the poetic universe of this little girl.
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 would like to Note Gentle Reader, this review as written in the beginning of spring and the late winter period)
A lot of this book reminded me of being a child. Because as we enter the season of spring’s renewal, as the weather turns warm, there is a feeling of nostalgia that fills the body. It echoes in the bones. It courses through the capillaries, veins, and arteries. Sings in the spiral shell of the eardrum. There are so many memories of being a child coming back. Hot chocolate on winter days. Our fingers and toes chilled. The liquid to hot, we would scoop out the marshmallows with our spoons. We would much down on the fluffy bone marrow cylindrical cubes. Other images and memories also come to mind. Mom’s crockpot: old and trustworthy. The cream-white background with the little houses evenly spaced apart around its circular circumference. I remember the blue house the red house, and the brown wintery trees. The spaces in between, where only silence and snow could call home. There’s the thick gravy stew that cooks and bubbles inside of the hearths of the homes. The large cut onions. The expensive stewing meat. Blocks of carrots and other vegetables. They all just sat in the bubbling mud of the gravy. The ingredients were like dried soggy almost transparent leaves of the previous autumn. Frost bitten and decayed by winter. Now mush and stuck in mud, along with sticks that were broken off in winter, and used to scratch and scribble lines in the snow. Who could forget the long walks in the late summer and early autumn, in the farmers’ fields? Gold and cream – a sea of the harvest all around. Dandelions, fox tails, hedge garlic, western salsify, dill, thistles – these are now weeds. Yet back then they were just flowers and plants. We did not discriminate against them. They were the same as the tulip, the daisy’s that sprouted in the back alley, the trees that were large and sentient giants. Yet none compared to the roses. The majestic queen of the flowers. Regal and thorny. Capricious and yet, not malicious. A beauty to behold. It is in the end delightful to go over these moments of a time that has passed. It’s a feeling of time passing and time passed. Yet the memories, and the moments remain there. Though they have drifted with the seeds in the wind. Sailed towards oblivion in a sense; the remnants remain. It’s delightful to look back. Yet though we look through the same window, as we did back then, the world has changed. This change has also infused with us. The reflection: the eyes that look back have also changed. As much as these static moments have been crystallised to the best of one’s ability, they are now unattainable. Nameless characters now pop up. People who have no names, and yet are now lost. Still one cannot give up those memories those moments. Those impressions left not only on us, but what we leave on the environment around us. Where footprints were once ingrained in sold earth. Depressed patches of grass. Where snowball fights took place. Behind sheds and trees where first kisses were delved. The world shapes us, as much as we have shaped it.
Adania Shibli is a Palestine author. A writer from the disputed land of Palestine. A politically ambiguous country that appears to exist in memory, ideology, political desire, and dream. No one can say where Palestine is. Yet it is generally speculated to be the Gaza strip, and the disputed Western Bank. The concept of Palestine is a jam. It is a large sticky formless mass. It rebuffs, being shaped, and yet demands to be recognized. This is the world Adania Shibli has called home. A place that exists on the voice; yet not on the map. A place that is heard and talked about yet appears to not exist. Adania Shibli inhabits this world, and yet in her novel “Touch,” does not deal with it directly. Shibli refuses to be seen as a ‘political production,’ as does her work. It ceases to be categorized. In “Touch,” one is stuck both by how short the work is, and how many volumes it speaks. In “Touch,” poetic vignette’s and impressionistic prose reign supreme. Carefully detailed with a painters touch of understanding of light and colour, and a poets comprehension of emotion and image; and a minimal narrative to bind and hold it all together. Each short chapter, and equally short section of this novella, is held together by the experience of the little girl.
The best part of this entire novella is its visuals. This perhaps the first authors since roughly Jean-Marie Gustav Le Clezio, who uses visual images and poetic sensuality, which mirrors both external and internal landscapes. It shows how rough the world is. How little it changes to the most heartbreaking moments:
“The sky had not changed its silence or its shape or its position after the brother’s soul rose up to it.”
Yet where Jean-Marie Gustav Le Clezio and Adania Shibli, branch away from each other, is that Adania Shibli uses more of an imagist poetic language; and with a painter’s keen sense of colour, shade, depth and understanding of the landscape is keenly able to realize it in a child’s perspective. Allowing for moments of true innocent wisdom to shine. Yet it also allows for true idiosyncratic observations to take shape:
“In the courtyard the little girl yelled, “God damn!”
Just like the children said in the schoolyard.”
What is most accomplished about this novella though is how it borders on the line between both prose poem, and a narrative. It eschews both concepts equally. Perhaps Shibli realizes that if she wrote this in a series of poems, following the approved line structure and use of a more metre and rhythm imitating the ticks of a metronome, the work would be ghettoized. Poetry is often pushed aside; and is an exclusive art form, that over the years has been taught to hate in school, because it is both something that cannot be taught, as a unified black or white concept, because it is always open to interpretation; and yet students are often told to adhere to one interpretation. Not to mention that at times the rules of poetry writing were constrained, and more refined and locked in shackles of form, beat and rhythm. Not allowing for true artistic freedom to take shape. Everything would be perfectly manicured. All to the point that the poem became a constrained archaic form of cryptic association of words and images. Yet if Adania Shibli, used strict narrative and prose work, the political subtleties and ideological issues, would be at the forefront, and she would therefore fall into the trap of discussing what is expected of her. In these regards, Adania Shibli, puts one foot in each tradition. She takes the unified whole of a narrative, and the image based language of poetry, and creates impressionistic vignettes, that carry the weight of the entire novella, and are infused with the perceptions of a child. That being said, the authors voice is a light shade that covers the text. Like the shadow of the little girls hand over the tadpoles in the pond. Rather than making it believable that the observations of the child are realistic; the child is merely the vessel, in which the events unfold around, and whose own unique brand of observations as her own and the authors are infused.
The casual observations are often tinged with personal solitude. Being the youngest sister of nine, there are very few and rare moments, when she is at the centre of attention. She is constantly pushed aside. A number, in a larger sum, in a crowded household. Yet it is this alienation and solitude that allow for her to have moments of happiness. Moments when she falls in love, argues with her siblings, and tries to understand the world around her, and her own place in it:
“And there, from the edge of the mountain, the sky stretched pit to the distant fields, while the sun was about to disappear, dragging behind it a long ray of purple, the last colour of the day.”
Moments of true beauty however, are also infused with the incomprehensible violence of the ideologies and politics. Such as the Sabra and Shatila massacre and the foreignness of the word Palestine itself:
“The girl tried to understand the meaning of the words Sabra and Shatila. Maybe they were one word. The word Palestine was unclear, expect that it was forbidden. The color of the green board resembled that color of cactus.”
Yet this is what also makes this novella so stunning is its attempt not at indoctrinating the reader into a specific ideology or political thought. It recounts this tragedy as incomprehensible. As unwarranted, as an act of pure atrocious malice. Where the goal was death and destruction, with no winning survivor or causality. Were in the end it is nothing more than another chapter in the concept of the human tragedy. Yet it is the language of this novella: simple minimal and pure that rings true through and through:
“Sometimes colors disappeared from nature, and all that remained was green on the mountain, yellow on the hay, and blue on the sky in summer. Before the end of the spring, the green and red crayons got used up because there were so many anemones, yet it seemed the pink crayon would last through many winters.”
The most minute and minimal details, offer the greatest sensations. Silence, the sea, colours, movements; how flakes of rust turn to gold, the feeling of grass, a secret kiss on the older shepherd boys lips, playing a game with a friend – all these sensations become the daily life of this little girl. All of these sounds become the soundtrack to her life. She is entirely human. She fights with her siblings, she plays, she tries to understand the world around her, and her own place in it. With such minimal knowledge of the outside world, and her basic attempts at trying to understand language as not only spoken but written and the power of the written and the spoken, all lead to a sense of wonder. The world for her appears endless and abundant. A place of vivid colour, and endless noises and moments of silence. Yet a place where the sky is still the same overhead.
One cannot express enough how intimately beautiful this novella is. Each scene is expressive; and impressions that run deeper than the words on the page. It’s a short book, yet weighty. It’ll be something that one needs to re-read countlessly to capture the moments of beauty again, but also begin to understand further the work itself as a whole. The fact that it is so short and minimal is somewhat of a drawback. There is a desire for more; an explanation, something. Yet in time after digestion and re-reading, it becomes more and more apparent. In all a wonderful lovely book. That is not overtly political, and more intimately detailed in the poetic universe of this little girl.
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 would like to Note Gentle Reader, this review as written in the beginning of spring and the late winter period)
Friday 21 June 2013
Alice Munro – Retiring
Hello Gentle Reader
After fourteen collections, and at the age of eighty one, Alice Munro has said, she’s done enough. Canada’s literary Grandmother has announced her retirement. Munro said that after winning the Trillium Prize, it was nice to go out with a bang.
“A little more special in that I'm probably not going to write any more. And, so, it's nice to go out with a bang.”
From the sounds of it; Munro has stated that one of the biggest reasons for her decision to retire is that she doesn’t wish to continue in the solidarity. She has a desire to being a bit more social.
“I'm delighted. Not that I didn't love writing, but I think you do get to a stage where you sort of think about your life in a different way. And perhaps, when you're my age, you don't wish to be alone as much as a writer has to be. It's like, at the wrong end of life, sort of becoming very sociable.”
Many thought in two-thousand and six that Alice Munro was done, with her collection “A View from Castle Rock,” – yet come two-thousand and nine Munro came out with a new collection “Too Much Happiness.” Then in two-thousand and twelve, Munro has come out with “Dear Life,” which I haven’t bought because I don’t like the cover art – the UK version is much nicer – but I don’t want to pay for international shipping. It seems though that Alice Munro, she’s written enough. Perhaps though this October a Nobel may role her way.
Regardless the short story writer has achieved Literary Sainthood. Proving time and time again, that the short story is not a less literary form; but just as strong as the novel. In that sense she has become “our Checkhov.” To which she has earned, and deserves her retirement.
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
After fourteen collections, and at the age of eighty one, Alice Munro has said, she’s done enough. Canada’s literary Grandmother has announced her retirement. Munro said that after winning the Trillium Prize, it was nice to go out with a bang.
“A little more special in that I'm probably not going to write any more. And, so, it's nice to go out with a bang.”
From the sounds of it; Munro has stated that one of the biggest reasons for her decision to retire is that she doesn’t wish to continue in the solidarity. She has a desire to being a bit more social.
“I'm delighted. Not that I didn't love writing, but I think you do get to a stage where you sort of think about your life in a different way. And perhaps, when you're my age, you don't wish to be alone as much as a writer has to be. It's like, at the wrong end of life, sort of becoming very sociable.”
Many thought in two-thousand and six that Alice Munro was done, with her collection “A View from Castle Rock,” – yet come two-thousand and nine Munro came out with a new collection “Too Much Happiness.” Then in two-thousand and twelve, Munro has come out with “Dear Life,” which I haven’t bought because I don’t like the cover art – the UK version is much nicer – but I don’t want to pay for international shipping. It seems though that Alice Munro, she’s written enough. Perhaps though this October a Nobel may role her way.
Regardless the short story writer has achieved Literary Sainthood. Proving time and time again, that the short story is not a less literary form; but just as strong as the novel. In that sense she has become “our Checkhov.” To which she has earned, and deserves her retirement.
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 20 June 2013
Zig Zag Through the Bitter-Orange Tree’s
(please note Gentle Reader – that there was a review for this written earlier; however it somehow got lost or misplaced, and is now off in some cyberspace limbo – or hell. unfortunately that I now have/had to write a new review for this book. I had to go looking through the book again for the same (and hopefully) exact quotes, in order to once again achieve the same likeness of the reviews original and now its rewrite. I do apologize for this inconvenience and the fact that it may not turn out as good as the original.)
Hello Gentle Reader
Ersi Sotiropoulos is by no means a new name to this blog. Our first introduction to this avant-garde Greek novelist, short story writer, and poet; was through her short story collection “Landscape with Dog,” which in twenty ten, was longlisted for Three Percent’s Best Translated Book Award. This small and often powerful collection however did not make it to the shortlist. However during the preliminaries of the award, “Landscape with Dog,” was discussed in depth of why it should win the Best Translated Book Award. In the first paragraph, of this guest post, highlighting this amazing book and author Monica Carter, who was on the Fiction Committee for the Best Translated Book Award, had this to say about that book, and highlighting one of the greatest moments and achievements of Ersi Sotiropoulos’s career:
“Ersi Sotiropoulos, a virtuoso of postmodern Greek fiction, masters the short story in her collection, Landscape with Dog and Other Stories. Sotiropoulos, whose 2000 novel Zigzag through the Bitter-Orange Trees, won both the national Greek book award and the book critics award, continues to use her deft sense of psychological insight and poetic language to give us portraits of the intimate and the abstract.”
In just a quick and brief moment, and well chosen (and placed) words Monica Carter, summarizes Ersi Sotiropoulos’s writing style; but also mentions the fact that Ersi Sotiropoulos was the first writer to win “The National Greek Book Award,” and “The Book Critics Award,” for her amazing abstract, and at times comedic novel “Zig Zag Through the Bitter-Orange Tree’s.”
Ersi Sotiropolous recently is the author who has discussed the Greek Financial/Fiscal Economic Crisis. When talking to PBS Art Beat, Ersi Sotiropolous had described at first a sense of naivety and hope that the crisis would do away with material preoccupations in favour of fraternity and a simpler or unified human experience. In the interview though with Jeffery Brown Ersi Sotiropolous says the following:
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. At the beginning I thought the crisis could be beneficial, in a way. That it would get rid of many silly things. The idiotic consumerism, the fast lifestyles. I thought it would be a chance to rediscover things like friendship. But I was wrong. It was an illusion. I mean the crisis empties the wallets as well as the souls.”
In an essay titled “The View from Greece,” Ersi Sotiropoulos turns her deft sense of the psychological to the sociological and financial problems that are plaguing Greece. With the sense of melancholy and outrage, of someone seeing their country falling into ruin; but also with a sense of prescience, forewarns of a continual collapse of not only Greece but other countries. Already another Mediterranean country is falling into disarray because of “fiscal irresponsibility.” Italy, Greece and now Cyprus are all struggling to stay afloat. In a sense there is a feeling of outrage, on Ersi Sotiropoulos’s part. Before there was a feeling that finally Greece was going to join the European dream, and reap the benefits that other European Nations had. Yet now there is only a sense of point and blame. Demands for punishment and retribution, for the lack of care placed into the financial systems. Even over here, during the first wave of the economic meltdown, there was constant talk of Greece’s laziness. There was talk that the people only worked three hours a day, and worked for the government. Constantly suckling the teets of the social programs. However, looking at the issues from Ersi Sotiropoulos perspective it is more challenging and more difficult to truly judge and understand. All over Greece is suffering. People are suffering. As Ersi Sotiropoulos points out “the crisis empties the wallets as well as the souls,” – even she has found herself having to focus on herself, and take care of herself rather than be able to support other people or even help other people. She can’t. With all of this is caused then by the governments lack of handling problems more carefully, and with more thought. With quick and pressured decisions they have liquidated their country; forcing the residents to pay higher taxes that they cannot afford, all just to stay afloat. Demonstrations have blocked the days. Social programs have fallen apart. Garbage is piled up on the streets, and squatters have taken to making homes in abandoned and depleted buildings. Businesses are closing, and homes are foreclosing. The crisis has become a dark shapeless and abstract oppressor over the country, and its residents.
Knowing the present of what Greece is going through at times; make it difficult to remind oneself that this novel was published in the year two-thousand. At the turn of the century – when the twenty-first century just began. There is even a passing remark of the two-thousand and four Olympics of Athens. Holding that in mind, allows for one to read the book, not in the current predicament of Greece, but in the events that would surely lead up to it. At times it becomes difficult to imagine the two Greece’s; the optimistic and quiet, very short contemporary past; and the daunting present situation.
A preoccupation that runs throughout this novel, is how the four lives of the quartet of characters, intersect into each other. From Lia, the young girl dying of a rare disease in a hospital; to her brother Sid, the vague apathetic and slightly eccentric drifter; to Sotiris, the nurse; a man who is desperately fluctuating through almost bipolar amount of extremes, of cowardice and desire; and Ersi Sotiropolous’s voice herself in the form of the rebellious little writer Nina, who loathes the mundane aspects of life, and wishes to escape it all. In this novel Sotiropoulos presents how these wildly different characters, intersect with each other, in strange coincidences, as if fate itself. Truly one understands, just how small the world is.
What is some of the best of this book though is the language. At times it is poetic and lyrical; well written and encompassing a place unique in its own right. The fact that Ersi Sotiropoulos is a poet as well, as novelist and short story writer, allows for her to often use a strange and unique way of language. Free association of a comparison of images; and at times an indirect first person narrator; as well as moments where speech or a fictional characters writing is displayed, with no real hint other than dialogue to be displayed. A lot of the book relies on the reader. This makes for a unique and challenging book – yet completely approachable. Sotiropoulos does not shy away from the fact that she is an abstract writer of avant-garde work. This novel itself is not linear. Yet it is approachable. Its language is unique. Yet it is not full of word games, puns, neologisms, and a pastiche of a world of advertisements from television, the newspaper, magazines, and the bombardment of information. That is more Elfriede Jelinek’s work, where poetics and semantics of high and low culture, are paired with social commentary.
“She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. Thousands of tiny fireflies flickered under the velvety skin, and her mind became a bright dome that darkened with breathtaking speed.”
Sotiropoulos’s use of language is grounded in the everyday, with a free association of metaphors and images; often allowing for the everyday to become a different aspect entirely. A description of the name of a lover’s name:
“Without making a sound, Nina would say his name again and again. Her lips half-parted, she would roll its first two consonants on the tip of her tongue, letting the rest flow out briefly, filling her mouth with a taste of strawberry ice cream.”
But it also the use of unique speech. Such as the Chinese man, who phones both Sid and Sotiris; asking if either one wants to subscribe to a publication:
“Intelest.
Subsclibing . . .
Tomorrow.”
This becomes a unique experience, later on. A symbol of coincidence, and a fact of authorial fate, on Sotiropoulos’s part; as the Chinese salesman – though poor at his job; at first is nothing more than a mere annoyance of day to day life, of both characters. This becomes a repetitive, motif, and later becomes a rather big deal. In the end it becomes just a small part of how the characters are intertwined and interwoven with each other; even in the smallest of details; and how the string of fate, is at times the least extraordinary.
Don’t be mistaken though. As with the stories of “Landscape with Dog,” – “Zig Zag Through the Bitter-Orange Tree’s,” is classic Sotiropoulos. Familiarity is disputed. Actions always have a slightly different feel to them. Constantly Sotiropoulos plays with the senses and instincts of the reader. Leaving a casual sense of violence, to scurry around the edges; always simmering under the inky black words. Almost creeping out around the edges. Yet never taking complete fruit or blooming entirely. Yet it is always there. Unsettling and disturbing.
“She put one arm round the puppy’s neck and hugged it close to her. With her free hand she took the knife and scratched a cross on her knee. I swear eternal love to you, she said silently. The puppy was panting quickly, impatient to be off. “That’s how it is, Blackie,” she said. “You’ve got know.” Then she licked the blade clean and put the knife back in its place.”
In all it’s a unique and wonderful piece of work. It straddles the line between readability and ambiguity with abstract concepts and language. In all though there is a constant sense of familiarity that keeps the reader comfortable. Yet with Sotiropoulos, this comfort is to be disturbed. Constantly a feeling of forbearance, is always casting its shadow, ever so slyly over the words. Yet despite this preoccupation, the comedic – in a dark manner of speaking; is apparent throughout this novel. That mixed with the poetic and semantic lyrically language, it all comes out to be a unique experience. The characters are drawn as they need to be, allowing for flexibility in narrative and their actions within it. Constantly allowing for a sense of authorial voice to be glimpsed. In the end Ersi Sotiropoulos delivered a remarkable piece of work. On a personal note I look forward to seeing more works by Sotiropoulos to be translated in to English like “Eva,” which won Athens Academy Prize in two-thousand and eleven and “Feeling Blue, Dress in Red,” was shortlisted for the Greek National Book Award.
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
Hello Gentle Reader
Ersi Sotiropoulos is by no means a new name to this blog. Our first introduction to this avant-garde Greek novelist, short story writer, and poet; was through her short story collection “Landscape with Dog,” which in twenty ten, was longlisted for Three Percent’s Best Translated Book Award. This small and often powerful collection however did not make it to the shortlist. However during the preliminaries of the award, “Landscape with Dog,” was discussed in depth of why it should win the Best Translated Book Award. In the first paragraph, of this guest post, highlighting this amazing book and author Monica Carter, who was on the Fiction Committee for the Best Translated Book Award, had this to say about that book, and highlighting one of the greatest moments and achievements of Ersi Sotiropoulos’s career:
“Ersi Sotiropoulos, a virtuoso of postmodern Greek fiction, masters the short story in her collection, Landscape with Dog and Other Stories. Sotiropoulos, whose 2000 novel Zigzag through the Bitter-Orange Trees, won both the national Greek book award and the book critics award, continues to use her deft sense of psychological insight and poetic language to give us portraits of the intimate and the abstract.”
In just a quick and brief moment, and well chosen (and placed) words Monica Carter, summarizes Ersi Sotiropoulos’s writing style; but also mentions the fact that Ersi Sotiropoulos was the first writer to win “The National Greek Book Award,” and “The Book Critics Award,” for her amazing abstract, and at times comedic novel “Zig Zag Through the Bitter-Orange Tree’s.”
Ersi Sotiropolous recently is the author who has discussed the Greek Financial/Fiscal Economic Crisis. When talking to PBS Art Beat, Ersi Sotiropolous had described at first a sense of naivety and hope that the crisis would do away with material preoccupations in favour of fraternity and a simpler or unified human experience. In the interview though with Jeffery Brown Ersi Sotiropolous says the following:
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. At the beginning I thought the crisis could be beneficial, in a way. That it would get rid of many silly things. The idiotic consumerism, the fast lifestyles. I thought it would be a chance to rediscover things like friendship. But I was wrong. It was an illusion. I mean the crisis empties the wallets as well as the souls.”
In an essay titled “The View from Greece,” Ersi Sotiropoulos turns her deft sense of the psychological to the sociological and financial problems that are plaguing Greece. With the sense of melancholy and outrage, of someone seeing their country falling into ruin; but also with a sense of prescience, forewarns of a continual collapse of not only Greece but other countries. Already another Mediterranean country is falling into disarray because of “fiscal irresponsibility.” Italy, Greece and now Cyprus are all struggling to stay afloat. In a sense there is a feeling of outrage, on Ersi Sotiropoulos’s part. Before there was a feeling that finally Greece was going to join the European dream, and reap the benefits that other European Nations had. Yet now there is only a sense of point and blame. Demands for punishment and retribution, for the lack of care placed into the financial systems. Even over here, during the first wave of the economic meltdown, there was constant talk of Greece’s laziness. There was talk that the people only worked three hours a day, and worked for the government. Constantly suckling the teets of the social programs. However, looking at the issues from Ersi Sotiropoulos perspective it is more challenging and more difficult to truly judge and understand. All over Greece is suffering. People are suffering. As Ersi Sotiropoulos points out “the crisis empties the wallets as well as the souls,” – even she has found herself having to focus on herself, and take care of herself rather than be able to support other people or even help other people. She can’t. With all of this is caused then by the governments lack of handling problems more carefully, and with more thought. With quick and pressured decisions they have liquidated their country; forcing the residents to pay higher taxes that they cannot afford, all just to stay afloat. Demonstrations have blocked the days. Social programs have fallen apart. Garbage is piled up on the streets, and squatters have taken to making homes in abandoned and depleted buildings. Businesses are closing, and homes are foreclosing. The crisis has become a dark shapeless and abstract oppressor over the country, and its residents.
Knowing the present of what Greece is going through at times; make it difficult to remind oneself that this novel was published in the year two-thousand. At the turn of the century – when the twenty-first century just began. There is even a passing remark of the two-thousand and four Olympics of Athens. Holding that in mind, allows for one to read the book, not in the current predicament of Greece, but in the events that would surely lead up to it. At times it becomes difficult to imagine the two Greece’s; the optimistic and quiet, very short contemporary past; and the daunting present situation.
A preoccupation that runs throughout this novel, is how the four lives of the quartet of characters, intersect into each other. From Lia, the young girl dying of a rare disease in a hospital; to her brother Sid, the vague apathetic and slightly eccentric drifter; to Sotiris, the nurse; a man who is desperately fluctuating through almost bipolar amount of extremes, of cowardice and desire; and Ersi Sotiropolous’s voice herself in the form of the rebellious little writer Nina, who loathes the mundane aspects of life, and wishes to escape it all. In this novel Sotiropoulos presents how these wildly different characters, intersect with each other, in strange coincidences, as if fate itself. Truly one understands, just how small the world is.
What is some of the best of this book though is the language. At times it is poetic and lyrical; well written and encompassing a place unique in its own right. The fact that Ersi Sotiropoulos is a poet as well, as novelist and short story writer, allows for her to often use a strange and unique way of language. Free association of a comparison of images; and at times an indirect first person narrator; as well as moments where speech or a fictional characters writing is displayed, with no real hint other than dialogue to be displayed. A lot of the book relies on the reader. This makes for a unique and challenging book – yet completely approachable. Sotiropoulos does not shy away from the fact that she is an abstract writer of avant-garde work. This novel itself is not linear. Yet it is approachable. Its language is unique. Yet it is not full of word games, puns, neologisms, and a pastiche of a world of advertisements from television, the newspaper, magazines, and the bombardment of information. That is more Elfriede Jelinek’s work, where poetics and semantics of high and low culture, are paired with social commentary.
“She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. Thousands of tiny fireflies flickered under the velvety skin, and her mind became a bright dome that darkened with breathtaking speed.”
Sotiropoulos’s use of language is grounded in the everyday, with a free association of metaphors and images; often allowing for the everyday to become a different aspect entirely. A description of the name of a lover’s name:
“Without making a sound, Nina would say his name again and again. Her lips half-parted, she would roll its first two consonants on the tip of her tongue, letting the rest flow out briefly, filling her mouth with a taste of strawberry ice cream.”
But it also the use of unique speech. Such as the Chinese man, who phones both Sid and Sotiris; asking if either one wants to subscribe to a publication:
“Intelest.
Subsclibing . . .
Tomorrow.”
This becomes a unique experience, later on. A symbol of coincidence, and a fact of authorial fate, on Sotiropoulos’s part; as the Chinese salesman – though poor at his job; at first is nothing more than a mere annoyance of day to day life, of both characters. This becomes a repetitive, motif, and later becomes a rather big deal. In the end it becomes just a small part of how the characters are intertwined and interwoven with each other; even in the smallest of details; and how the string of fate, is at times the least extraordinary.
Don’t be mistaken though. As with the stories of “Landscape with Dog,” – “Zig Zag Through the Bitter-Orange Tree’s,” is classic Sotiropoulos. Familiarity is disputed. Actions always have a slightly different feel to them. Constantly Sotiropoulos plays with the senses and instincts of the reader. Leaving a casual sense of violence, to scurry around the edges; always simmering under the inky black words. Almost creeping out around the edges. Yet never taking complete fruit or blooming entirely. Yet it is always there. Unsettling and disturbing.
“She put one arm round the puppy’s neck and hugged it close to her. With her free hand she took the knife and scratched a cross on her knee. I swear eternal love to you, she said silently. The puppy was panting quickly, impatient to be off. “That’s how it is, Blackie,” she said. “You’ve got know.” Then she licked the blade clean and put the knife back in its place.”
In all it’s a unique and wonderful piece of work. It straddles the line between readability and ambiguity with abstract concepts and language. In all though there is a constant sense of familiarity that keeps the reader comfortable. Yet with Sotiropoulos, this comfort is to be disturbed. Constantly a feeling of forbearance, is always casting its shadow, ever so slyly over the words. Yet despite this preoccupation, the comedic – in a dark manner of speaking; is apparent throughout this novel. That mixed with the poetic and semantic lyrically language, it all comes out to be a unique experience. The characters are drawn as they need to be, allowing for flexibility in narrative and their actions within it. Constantly allowing for a sense of authorial voice to be glimpsed. In the end Ersi Sotiropoulos delivered a remarkable piece of work. On a personal note I look forward to seeing more works by Sotiropoulos to be translated in to English like “Eva,” which won Athens Academy Prize in two-thousand and eleven and “Feeling Blue, Dress in Red,” was shortlisted for the Greek National Book Award.
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 13 June 2013
Atlas: Archeology of an Imaginary City
Hello Gentle Reader
Many authors have written love letters to their favourite cities. It could be their adopted home; or it could be the landscape of their life: from childhood to adulthood to old age. So many authors come to mind and their beloved cities: Charles Dickens Victorian London; Charles Baudelaire’s decadent Paris; Paul Auster’s metaphysical New York; James Joyce’s modernist playground Dublin; Kafka’s surreal and alienating Prague; the existential wasteland of Dostoevsky’s St. Petersburg; Robert Walser’s sparkling and vibrant turn of the century Berlin; Fernando Pessoa’s mystical Lisbon; all the way to Orhan Pamuk’s home of Istanbul, the bridge that meets east and west. The Austrian (and more importantly Viennese) poet Friederike Mayrocker, can only write in Vienna. Well on a six month residency to Berlin, the poet was unable to write a word. She was forced to go home, for a weekend, in order to write a single word. The have been many songs, stories, poems and novels written and sung about cities. From New York to London; Paris to Berlin; Budapest to Bucharest; Istanbul to Hong Kong; Tokyo to Vancouver. These places of steel and stone; built on the dreams come true and of the broken failures of others. A place were the refuge of the world, can call home, when their own home has abandoned them. There in this world are cities that are so populated they become countries on their own. Singapore is the most significant; a metropolitan, brightly lit world. It is the fourth leading financial sector in the world. Singapore’s port is one of the busiest in the world. It along with Taiwan, South Korea, and Hong Kong is one of the Four Asian Tigers – economic power houses of the Asian world. Hong Kong is a special city. A place that has changed, and whose position in the world is not debated, but exactly who runs Hong Kong is something of a speculative and rather confusing mess. Hong Kong along with Macau is a “Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China,” – as with all political matters/terms/titles/names, it’s a large long winded title, which summarises Hong Kong and mainland China’s, reliance on each other – the same can be said with Macau. The simplest answer in regards to Hong Kong and China is that it’s one country with two systems. Hong Kong has substantially more freedoms; especially financially than its Chinese mainland counterpart. It is one of the most densely populated regions in the world, and its modern architecture of compact space, but also looking good is quite a marvel.
The skyline of the city itself is beautiful. These shimmering golden lights. Bright neon lights, red blinking air traffic lights. A mixture of an indigo, violet, and pink haze always hovering over the city. It must be both a crowded and claustrophobic city as well as a world on its own. A place of constant fluxing change, to meet and match its ever changing needs. It’s hard to imagine Hong Kong without the glass and steel skyscrapers. The constant light filled nights. It’s a high stakes city, full of money – and with this high money come a lot of hustle and bustle. A constant clean image, and a desire to constantly to look towards the future and not dilly dally in the past. This must surely be Hong Kong. A place where, an event or activity is always going on. It surely must be a wonderful place – if only to visit. Yet the concept of Hong Kong as a self-sustaining organism, that works on the most basic of levels as a well-oiled machine is something amazing. Cities here in the developed western parts of North America – are not small contained highly dense population. They have become an urban sprawl. A place of frustrating transportation issues and inconveniences a very similar destination. Commuting in around the city that I live in, via public transportation is something to a hellish bureaucratic nightmare. There is plenty of waiting. Which isn’t so bad; if you have something to do. Nowadays people have their phones and their tables to watch television and pass times or read. But in the dead cold hard Canadian winter when its minus twenty five outside and a wind chill making it feel like minus thirty-five, I don’t want to read or wait in the open space and freeze. Then of course, if you want to drive, you have accidents to deal with, and traffic because the roads have not been kept up, and maintained in order to deal with the continuing increase of traffic. Personal I feel one cannot call themselves a city until they have proper transportation, that can commute on a very intricate schedule larger groups of the population to their destinations – as well as connect via trams surrounding communities and suburbs to the city centre, and continually create profit and fill jobs as needed, rather than outsource or hire temporary ‘international workers.’ That is why I praise the European and Asian cities for their advanced understanding of sophisticated transportation and commuter problems. Allowing the population to thrive within an almost petri dish like existence.
Dung Kai-Cheung has been born and raised in Hong Kong. “Atlas: Archeology of an Imaginary City,” is Dung Kai-Cheung’s love letter to Hong Kong. It’s a strange novel – and not what I had expected. Dung Kai-Cheung has been compared to Borges and Italo Calvino – especially this work compared to Calvino’s “Invisible City.” It is a strange book full of postmodern techniques and sensibilities. It’s a fiction based work; written as if it were a non-fiction account. It’s about the reconstruction by a future archeologist, of a city by the name of Victoria – which is very similar to Hong Kong. Even this though is a boneless or rather abstract concept of the plot and workings of the novel.
There are no real characters. There are a few character studies and vignettes in their place and contribution to the city and to its history. But other than that, there is not a lot in regards to character or really even much of a story. That is why it is wonderful, that it is a short book; because towards the end it had started become bone dry and very difficult to plow through. This is mainly because it was missing the human element. It structured itself off of an academic premise, in a fictional content. But it came across as overtly academic and not fictional enough. Often missing key parts, like the individuals role inside the workings itself. There are a few instances of this; but they are few and far in between. The fictional documentation is very interesting, but the critical assessment of cartography and topography is overly done. Yet there are moments of beauty and often interesting understandings; that do become breaths of fresh air.
“Looking out at night from the front gallery of the Government House, before the moon had risen, I witnessed an effect which was quite strange to me. The sky, though clear of clouds, was somewhat hazy, as that the small-magnitude stars were not visible, though some of the larger ones were plain enough. Beneath however, the air was quite clear, and consequently, though the buildings, in the city were invisible in the darkness, their innumerable lights seemed like another hemisphere of stars even more numerous than the others, and differently only as being more dizzying.”
-- a quote from the book, by Chris Patten, the last governor of Hong Kong before the United Kingdom relinquished it back to mainland China.
It furthers this romantic and often strange world of Hong Kong. A place built on steel, glass and light. A universe so small and compact, yet buzzing and teeming with life, that it almost defies reality with its existence. The only regret with this books besides it’s often overtly dead plan academic feel to it, is that it did not have enough stories. The ones that did pop up were wonderful and very intriguing but, there is a feeling that they were only a small taste of what could have been; what is; and what will be. Constant discussions of maps can become rather wearisome. But legends, folktales, and odd characters, salt and peppered throughout the novel will always give a sense of connection. It’s a great book, and a better understanding of Hong Kong, written by a Hong Kong writer, not an outsider. So it has a more authentic feel to it; but it did not deliver as it had promised, all the 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
Many authors have written love letters to their favourite cities. It could be their adopted home; or it could be the landscape of their life: from childhood to adulthood to old age. So many authors come to mind and their beloved cities: Charles Dickens Victorian London; Charles Baudelaire’s decadent Paris; Paul Auster’s metaphysical New York; James Joyce’s modernist playground Dublin; Kafka’s surreal and alienating Prague; the existential wasteland of Dostoevsky’s St. Petersburg; Robert Walser’s sparkling and vibrant turn of the century Berlin; Fernando Pessoa’s mystical Lisbon; all the way to Orhan Pamuk’s home of Istanbul, the bridge that meets east and west. The Austrian (and more importantly Viennese) poet Friederike Mayrocker, can only write in Vienna. Well on a six month residency to Berlin, the poet was unable to write a word. She was forced to go home, for a weekend, in order to write a single word. The have been many songs, stories, poems and novels written and sung about cities. From New York to London; Paris to Berlin; Budapest to Bucharest; Istanbul to Hong Kong; Tokyo to Vancouver. These places of steel and stone; built on the dreams come true and of the broken failures of others. A place were the refuge of the world, can call home, when their own home has abandoned them. There in this world are cities that are so populated they become countries on their own. Singapore is the most significant; a metropolitan, brightly lit world. It is the fourth leading financial sector in the world. Singapore’s port is one of the busiest in the world. It along with Taiwan, South Korea, and Hong Kong is one of the Four Asian Tigers – economic power houses of the Asian world. Hong Kong is a special city. A place that has changed, and whose position in the world is not debated, but exactly who runs Hong Kong is something of a speculative and rather confusing mess. Hong Kong along with Macau is a “Special Administrative Region of the People’s Republic of China,” – as with all political matters/terms/titles/names, it’s a large long winded title, which summarises Hong Kong and mainland China’s, reliance on each other – the same can be said with Macau. The simplest answer in regards to Hong Kong and China is that it’s one country with two systems. Hong Kong has substantially more freedoms; especially financially than its Chinese mainland counterpart. It is one of the most densely populated regions in the world, and its modern architecture of compact space, but also looking good is quite a marvel.
The skyline of the city itself is beautiful. These shimmering golden lights. Bright neon lights, red blinking air traffic lights. A mixture of an indigo, violet, and pink haze always hovering over the city. It must be both a crowded and claustrophobic city as well as a world on its own. A place of constant fluxing change, to meet and match its ever changing needs. It’s hard to imagine Hong Kong without the glass and steel skyscrapers. The constant light filled nights. It’s a high stakes city, full of money – and with this high money come a lot of hustle and bustle. A constant clean image, and a desire to constantly to look towards the future and not dilly dally in the past. This must surely be Hong Kong. A place where, an event or activity is always going on. It surely must be a wonderful place – if only to visit. Yet the concept of Hong Kong as a self-sustaining organism, that works on the most basic of levels as a well-oiled machine is something amazing. Cities here in the developed western parts of North America – are not small contained highly dense population. They have become an urban sprawl. A place of frustrating transportation issues and inconveniences a very similar destination. Commuting in around the city that I live in, via public transportation is something to a hellish bureaucratic nightmare. There is plenty of waiting. Which isn’t so bad; if you have something to do. Nowadays people have their phones and their tables to watch television and pass times or read. But in the dead cold hard Canadian winter when its minus twenty five outside and a wind chill making it feel like minus thirty-five, I don’t want to read or wait in the open space and freeze. Then of course, if you want to drive, you have accidents to deal with, and traffic because the roads have not been kept up, and maintained in order to deal with the continuing increase of traffic. Personal I feel one cannot call themselves a city until they have proper transportation, that can commute on a very intricate schedule larger groups of the population to their destinations – as well as connect via trams surrounding communities and suburbs to the city centre, and continually create profit and fill jobs as needed, rather than outsource or hire temporary ‘international workers.’ That is why I praise the European and Asian cities for their advanced understanding of sophisticated transportation and commuter problems. Allowing the population to thrive within an almost petri dish like existence.
Dung Kai-Cheung has been born and raised in Hong Kong. “Atlas: Archeology of an Imaginary City,” is Dung Kai-Cheung’s love letter to Hong Kong. It’s a strange novel – and not what I had expected. Dung Kai-Cheung has been compared to Borges and Italo Calvino – especially this work compared to Calvino’s “Invisible City.” It is a strange book full of postmodern techniques and sensibilities. It’s a fiction based work; written as if it were a non-fiction account. It’s about the reconstruction by a future archeologist, of a city by the name of Victoria – which is very similar to Hong Kong. Even this though is a boneless or rather abstract concept of the plot and workings of the novel.
There are no real characters. There are a few character studies and vignettes in their place and contribution to the city and to its history. But other than that, there is not a lot in regards to character or really even much of a story. That is why it is wonderful, that it is a short book; because towards the end it had started become bone dry and very difficult to plow through. This is mainly because it was missing the human element. It structured itself off of an academic premise, in a fictional content. But it came across as overtly academic and not fictional enough. Often missing key parts, like the individuals role inside the workings itself. There are a few instances of this; but they are few and far in between. The fictional documentation is very interesting, but the critical assessment of cartography and topography is overly done. Yet there are moments of beauty and often interesting understandings; that do become breaths of fresh air.
“Looking out at night from the front gallery of the Government House, before the moon had risen, I witnessed an effect which was quite strange to me. The sky, though clear of clouds, was somewhat hazy, as that the small-magnitude stars were not visible, though some of the larger ones were plain enough. Beneath however, the air was quite clear, and consequently, though the buildings, in the city were invisible in the darkness, their innumerable lights seemed like another hemisphere of stars even more numerous than the others, and differently only as being more dizzying.”
-- a quote from the book, by Chris Patten, the last governor of Hong Kong before the United Kingdom relinquished it back to mainland China.
It furthers this romantic and often strange world of Hong Kong. A place built on steel, glass and light. A universe so small and compact, yet buzzing and teeming with life, that it almost defies reality with its existence. The only regret with this books besides it’s often overtly dead plan academic feel to it, is that it did not have enough stories. The ones that did pop up were wonderful and very intriguing but, there is a feeling that they were only a small taste of what could have been; what is; and what will be. Constant discussions of maps can become rather wearisome. But legends, folktales, and odd characters, salt and peppered throughout the novel will always give a sense of connection. It’s a great book, and a better understanding of Hong Kong, written by a Hong Kong writer, not an outsider. So it has a more authentic feel to it; but it did not deliver as it had promised, all the 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
Friday 7 June 2013
IMPAC Literary Dublin Award Winner: Kevin Barry
Hello Gentle Reader
Kevin Barry, has won the European Union Prize for Literature in two-thousand and twelve for his novel “City of Bohane.” It is also Kevin Barry’s debut novel. His two previous works were short stories: “There are Little Kingdoms,” and most recently “Dark Lies the Island.” Now the Irish author scoops up the one hundred thousand dollar prize, beating out previous winner Michel Houellebecq and his novel “The Map and The Territory,” as well as Japanese surrealist Haruki Murakami with his large (and often called his magnum opus), “1Q84.” It’s quite an achievement for the writer, further puts him on the map, and countless lets me know that the author is a force to look out for on the world stage of literature. This novel may be set in the future, but it is snared in the past.
Barry has intended for the novel to be both a language experiment but also, an entertaining read. The only compassions I can make from the impressions given to me are – “A Clockwork Orange,” by Anthony Burgess, “The Sailor Who Fell From Grace with The Sea,” by Yukio Mishima and “Wonder, Wonderful Times,” by Elfriede Jelinek. In the end though it’s something entirely its own; and it sounds rather interesting.
Congratulations to Kevin Barry are certainly in order. I look forward to seeing his future output – and reading his current output.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
Kevin Barry, has won the European Union Prize for Literature in two-thousand and twelve for his novel “City of Bohane.” It is also Kevin Barry’s debut novel. His two previous works were short stories: “There are Little Kingdoms,” and most recently “Dark Lies the Island.” Now the Irish author scoops up the one hundred thousand dollar prize, beating out previous winner Michel Houellebecq and his novel “The Map and The Territory,” as well as Japanese surrealist Haruki Murakami with his large (and often called his magnum opus), “1Q84.” It’s quite an achievement for the writer, further puts him on the map, and countless lets me know that the author is a force to look out for on the world stage of literature. This novel may be set in the future, but it is snared in the past.
Barry has intended for the novel to be both a language experiment but also, an entertaining read. The only compassions I can make from the impressions given to me are – “A Clockwork Orange,” by Anthony Burgess, “The Sailor Who Fell From Grace with The Sea,” by Yukio Mishima and “Wonder, Wonderful Times,” by Elfriede Jelinek. In the end though it’s something entirely its own; and it sounds rather interesting.
Congratulations to Kevin Barry are certainly in order. I look forward to seeing his future output – and reading his current output.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
Thursday 6 June 2013
The Twin
Hello Gentle Reader
Gardening has never been my forte. Weeds and flowers all look the same, to me in some degree. They were green when they started. They all have leaves. They all survive by the same biological laws. The same laws force them to cast shadows as my own. Yet it's the act of pulling. Selective acts of destruction. Passing judgement of what lives and what goes. It's in an act of discrimination. Some people find it a very tranquil experience. The act of pruning, weeding, pulling - all of it an act of being one with nature; but also a simulation of control. If nature is left unattended, it sprawls and grows wild. This than forces it to implode on itself. Organisms within itself begin to fight for control and dominance. Some win and some loose; and the concept of creation by the dying out of the older or the weaker takes hold. Life and renewal, comes and passes as the changing seasons. A quartered cycle, that spins ever so slowly like a lazy Susan. In it though one sees perfect balance of predator and prey. Social Darwinism at its finest. The strongest do survive, because they are the fittest to survive. Eventually it makes sense why such wonders of nature do what they do. Why plants crawl up larger more sturdy trees and structures to reach sunlight, and absorb moisture in the air. Then comes the reasons why some plants eat - literally digest in the manner of an animal; and why prey and predators are equipped with their own unique survival skills. Yet its human beings who think we have won. We have prevailed over this unnecessary unruly sprawl. We are now the stewards of nature. Quick to pull the weeds and toss them aside. Cut worms and maggots, and other pests are quickly disposed of with chemicals. Gophers/ground hog/prairie dog are always fighting against the attempts of their extermination. Even their name is compatible with cowardice and being a pest. The very act of cruelty is even encouraged. Running them over with cars. Shooting them with pellet and airsoft guns. Yet we are outraged when the natural order takes vengeance on us. Coyotes that slink into yards at night, killing cats to feed themselves and their pups. Birds that steal food. Raccoon's breaking and entering. The natural world intrudes on our own world, as much as we intrude on its. Still in the end, gardening is something that I love and yet something that is out of reach for me. Admiring the finished product is about as far as my gardening goes. For the most part, the rough work, of weeding is far too interesting. I am more interested in to knowing what makes a weed a weed; and their own unique characteristics, the characteristics of all plants.
Gerbrand Bakker is a gardener by trade. Though not a tamer of nature; but more of an admirer of nature itself. Yet in the end he has become a writer. Though there is a physical understanding to his writing. The natural landscape often becomes a mirror to the psychological landscape, and the meditations of daily life, often become suspenseful actions. Actions one drudgingly does. Chores become labour meditations: feeding sheep, picking eggs, and milking cows. Actions, that speaks of regrets. Of a path that was not meant to be taken. Yet small consolations come. Often in the smallest of miracles. Gerbrand Bakker is an author who in his writing contemplates. His pace is extremely slow. Yet not painstakingly; all because he is not a long winded author. Gerbrand Bakker writes in cool laconic prose. He cuts the fat, and doesn't mince words. He is an author of direct and decisive story telling. It reflects that of the main character Helmer; a lonely mid-fifties farmer. He's cold and appears rather directionless. He's not one to open up much. He doesn't talk much. Instead he's a casual and at times detached observer. The farm imagery becomes a rhythmic beat that, flows underneath the narrative. Quietly always there - with a feeling both resentment and being the only world that is known, much like Helmer describing his now elderly and sickly father:
"He sat there like a calf that's just a couple of minutes old, before it's been licked clean: with a directionless, wobbly head and eyes that drift over things."
Yet Helmer's coldness to his father, which borders on cruelty often, makes one very apprehensive of him. Denying his father basic necessities - seeing a doctor; and what would appear to be food and water, with a cool reply "sometimes I get hungry," or "sometimes I get thirsty," - all leaves one with a sense of a very casual cruelty. Then in just a few pages time, we are given the memory of this same, weary eyed, vague man; running over stray kittens in a bag. It's this quick sense, of revelatory story telling through immediate and often carefully sketched details, that one can begin to understand, that Gerbrand Bakker's characters do not inhabit the plain world of black and white, but rather are residents of the ambiguity of the grey area. As their actions often, talk of a different man of both the past and the present. It is also this kind of irony that quickly reveals the emotional landscapes in which the characters reside. This contrast works well, within this observant novel. It is in these regards that the novel was first born; as Gerbrand Bakker points out, the initial concept of the novel came from the idea of a son doing something horrible to his father. In those regards, Helmer has done just that. He's packed his father away. In a sense he places him out of the way. He becomes out of sight and out of mind. Yet his presence, hovers over the house like an oppressive shadow.
Helmer quickly gets to work through the beginning of this novel, of changing the home. He rips the carpet up, paints, removes the clutter. Everything he can do, that becomes symbolic of changing the home of what it was, and burying his own past away. This is how this novel works. Much of it is rooted in the past, and how it works its way into the present. Helmer's twin - Henk and his accidental death; their own different personalities, and a longing - that almost appear like Helmer is incomplete. When Henk died in a car accident, which happened thirty some years prior to this novels present events, there is a feeling that it just happened yesterday. Yet it's not a dour novel. It very well could be; but Bakker has a sense of humour. It's not outrageous or loud; but it is there and offers for a lightheartedness. It's the few rays of sunshine that comes through the thickness of the fog of this novel.
That being said it's the routine of this novel. The constant feeling that everything happens, because it has always been that way, predominates this novel. The milking of the cows; the yearlings; feeding the animals; getting up at five thirty - it all runs like clockwork. This timelessness is also commented on. How the farm could survive throughout the years, and never truly change. As pointed out by an observer by a canoe:
"It's here on this road now, but it might just as well be 1967 or 1930."
It's these abrupt superficial changes, that at first don't appear to have much meaning; and are just mundane actions; but as pointed out before Bakker is a driven and a purposeful writer. He doesn't waste time or words, with overtly wasteful things. I suspect he (as Wisława Szymborska pointed out once) that he has a trash bin. There are moments, where the two young boys from the farm over, Teun and Ronald and their slightly nosey mother Ada with the hair lip; appear to offer the sense of family that Helmer himself wished he could have had; and maybe should have had. These moments, usually in the form of Ada, that often allow for welcomed disturbances, and even humour.
This novel could have been overdone; overtly dramatic and dour and trite. It is though none of these. With humour, and a slow revealing plot, and straightforward matter of fact way, of telling the story, does the story truly achieve in an essential form a high regard of realism. The thoughts and actions orbit the everyday actions and chores. It is with these actions that he allows for the story to be more human and ordinary. It's that quiet peacefulness that holds this story and makes it a moving one at that; and so excellent. The tension of the family is evident and clear. Each character is carefully drawn. Helmer's father was (and presumably is still) a hard old farmer; who had to work hard at his life, and sees no purpose in life without hard work, and that it alone should be paid for. Helmers deceased mother, a bleeding heart of a creature, exemplifies Helmers companion of childhood. Then there is the old farm hand Jaap who becomes a substitute father figure. Even though Helmer is the oldest of the twin by a few seconds, it has always been Henk and Helmer. Henk was the outgoing one. He was in all definitions and observations: their father's son. He would take control of the farm; as that is how it usually goes and continues to go. Helmer admits he never knew what he wanted. These flaws and foils as well as alliances make for an interesting family dynamic.
One thing one will notice with this novel about farm life is it is not by any means what one expects. Coming from a small town in Western Canada, surrounded by farmers and their cousin the redneck; is that this novel does not fall into masculine stereotypes of western novels or films. There is no horses, bucking or riding; no running with the bulls or rodeos. It's a quiet novel, that contemplates family, regrets, and in many ways life in general. This is probably what led to a lot of enjoyment in this novel. As a reader, I am not being confronted with images and stereotypical attitudes that I personally could find back home. Bakker also allows for a more symbolist and imagist like moments to be incorporated into this novel. Especially with the arrival of the hooded crow. Yet they are not over-handed they are ambiguous, though at first impressions they can become slightly, a bit of annoyance. Though in time these visual references and images; as repetitive, as they become; also become more poetic in their own right. Much like Helmer repeating the names of places in Denmark before he goes to bed, becomes a verbal repetitive ritual, of both absolutely no meaning other than places he has not been; and yet holds weight on its own, and speaks volumes of his character and a certain feeling of longing for somewhere else; someplace different:
"I close my bedroom door and go over to stand in front of the map of Denmark. "Helsingor," I say. "Stenstrup, Esrum, Blistrup, Tisvildeleje." Five names spoken slowly are not enough tonight. I do a few extra islands. "Samso, Aero, Anholt, Mon."
Yet things get interesting with the arrival of Henk's old girlfriend and fiancé Reit; after her departure years ago by Helmer's father; after the accident; and it gets even more interesting with the arrival of her son Henk. Who in a sense reawakens Helmer's feelings of being a twin; and the missing half of his and of who he is and was. In all it's a story of regret. Told and painted in varying shades of grey. Though despite that it's a incredibly optimistic novel in its own way. Helmer seems cut off and shut in his own daily routine, yet is surprisingly warm and communicative after a while, and in truth human. All the characters act as if they were real people. They have no meaning to their actions; yet they're emotions and actions do not become disjointed or melodramatic. They are not exaggerated or capitalised on. They are shown and then through. Bakker is a novelist and writer who shows not tells. Yet his dialogue is acute and well sketched. Minimalist and written as need be. The conversations themselves could be and are imitations of conversations one has in real life. Short and simple; with an often business like transaction to them.
This is a delightful read. Meditative and slow paced. Simplicity is key and yet not a no-brainer or simple tale. It's intelligent but does not flout this intelligence. It's revelatory by slow details, coming to light. Drop by drop they create the story. With humour that splashes the pages Gerbrand Bakker, allows for an optimistic and quiet novel. One that is shrouded in the grey mists of the landscape, and of the emotional landscapes of the characters. It is in the end a wonderful pastoral realistic simple tale with surprising depths. Truly a great debut of fiction; that shows a very mature author who can deal with the physical and the psychological in a fluent and lucid graceful way.
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
Gardening has never been my forte. Weeds and flowers all look the same, to me in some degree. They were green when they started. They all have leaves. They all survive by the same biological laws. The same laws force them to cast shadows as my own. Yet it's the act of pulling. Selective acts of destruction. Passing judgement of what lives and what goes. It's in an act of discrimination. Some people find it a very tranquil experience. The act of pruning, weeding, pulling - all of it an act of being one with nature; but also a simulation of control. If nature is left unattended, it sprawls and grows wild. This than forces it to implode on itself. Organisms within itself begin to fight for control and dominance. Some win and some loose; and the concept of creation by the dying out of the older or the weaker takes hold. Life and renewal, comes and passes as the changing seasons. A quartered cycle, that spins ever so slowly like a lazy Susan. In it though one sees perfect balance of predator and prey. Social Darwinism at its finest. The strongest do survive, because they are the fittest to survive. Eventually it makes sense why such wonders of nature do what they do. Why plants crawl up larger more sturdy trees and structures to reach sunlight, and absorb moisture in the air. Then comes the reasons why some plants eat - literally digest in the manner of an animal; and why prey and predators are equipped with their own unique survival skills. Yet its human beings who think we have won. We have prevailed over this unnecessary unruly sprawl. We are now the stewards of nature. Quick to pull the weeds and toss them aside. Cut worms and maggots, and other pests are quickly disposed of with chemicals. Gophers/ground hog/prairie dog are always fighting against the attempts of their extermination. Even their name is compatible with cowardice and being a pest. The very act of cruelty is even encouraged. Running them over with cars. Shooting them with pellet and airsoft guns. Yet we are outraged when the natural order takes vengeance on us. Coyotes that slink into yards at night, killing cats to feed themselves and their pups. Birds that steal food. Raccoon's breaking and entering. The natural world intrudes on our own world, as much as we intrude on its. Still in the end, gardening is something that I love and yet something that is out of reach for me. Admiring the finished product is about as far as my gardening goes. For the most part, the rough work, of weeding is far too interesting. I am more interested in to knowing what makes a weed a weed; and their own unique characteristics, the characteristics of all plants.
Gerbrand Bakker is a gardener by trade. Though not a tamer of nature; but more of an admirer of nature itself. Yet in the end he has become a writer. Though there is a physical understanding to his writing. The natural landscape often becomes a mirror to the psychological landscape, and the meditations of daily life, often become suspenseful actions. Actions one drudgingly does. Chores become labour meditations: feeding sheep, picking eggs, and milking cows. Actions, that speaks of regrets. Of a path that was not meant to be taken. Yet small consolations come. Often in the smallest of miracles. Gerbrand Bakker is an author who in his writing contemplates. His pace is extremely slow. Yet not painstakingly; all because he is not a long winded author. Gerbrand Bakker writes in cool laconic prose. He cuts the fat, and doesn't mince words. He is an author of direct and decisive story telling. It reflects that of the main character Helmer; a lonely mid-fifties farmer. He's cold and appears rather directionless. He's not one to open up much. He doesn't talk much. Instead he's a casual and at times detached observer. The farm imagery becomes a rhythmic beat that, flows underneath the narrative. Quietly always there - with a feeling both resentment and being the only world that is known, much like Helmer describing his now elderly and sickly father:
"He sat there like a calf that's just a couple of minutes old, before it's been licked clean: with a directionless, wobbly head and eyes that drift over things."
Yet Helmer's coldness to his father, which borders on cruelty often, makes one very apprehensive of him. Denying his father basic necessities - seeing a doctor; and what would appear to be food and water, with a cool reply "sometimes I get hungry," or "sometimes I get thirsty," - all leaves one with a sense of a very casual cruelty. Then in just a few pages time, we are given the memory of this same, weary eyed, vague man; running over stray kittens in a bag. It's this quick sense, of revelatory story telling through immediate and often carefully sketched details, that one can begin to understand, that Gerbrand Bakker's characters do not inhabit the plain world of black and white, but rather are residents of the ambiguity of the grey area. As their actions often, talk of a different man of both the past and the present. It is also this kind of irony that quickly reveals the emotional landscapes in which the characters reside. This contrast works well, within this observant novel. It is in these regards that the novel was first born; as Gerbrand Bakker points out, the initial concept of the novel came from the idea of a son doing something horrible to his father. In those regards, Helmer has done just that. He's packed his father away. In a sense he places him out of the way. He becomes out of sight and out of mind. Yet his presence, hovers over the house like an oppressive shadow.
Helmer quickly gets to work through the beginning of this novel, of changing the home. He rips the carpet up, paints, removes the clutter. Everything he can do, that becomes symbolic of changing the home of what it was, and burying his own past away. This is how this novel works. Much of it is rooted in the past, and how it works its way into the present. Helmer's twin - Henk and his accidental death; their own different personalities, and a longing - that almost appear like Helmer is incomplete. When Henk died in a car accident, which happened thirty some years prior to this novels present events, there is a feeling that it just happened yesterday. Yet it's not a dour novel. It very well could be; but Bakker has a sense of humour. It's not outrageous or loud; but it is there and offers for a lightheartedness. It's the few rays of sunshine that comes through the thickness of the fog of this novel.
That being said it's the routine of this novel. The constant feeling that everything happens, because it has always been that way, predominates this novel. The milking of the cows; the yearlings; feeding the animals; getting up at five thirty - it all runs like clockwork. This timelessness is also commented on. How the farm could survive throughout the years, and never truly change. As pointed out by an observer by a canoe:
"It's here on this road now, but it might just as well be 1967 or 1930."
It's these abrupt superficial changes, that at first don't appear to have much meaning; and are just mundane actions; but as pointed out before Bakker is a driven and a purposeful writer. He doesn't waste time or words, with overtly wasteful things. I suspect he (as Wisława Szymborska pointed out once) that he has a trash bin. There are moments, where the two young boys from the farm over, Teun and Ronald and their slightly nosey mother Ada with the hair lip; appear to offer the sense of family that Helmer himself wished he could have had; and maybe should have had. These moments, usually in the form of Ada, that often allow for welcomed disturbances, and even humour.
This novel could have been overdone; overtly dramatic and dour and trite. It is though none of these. With humour, and a slow revealing plot, and straightforward matter of fact way, of telling the story, does the story truly achieve in an essential form a high regard of realism. The thoughts and actions orbit the everyday actions and chores. It is with these actions that he allows for the story to be more human and ordinary. It's that quiet peacefulness that holds this story and makes it a moving one at that; and so excellent. The tension of the family is evident and clear. Each character is carefully drawn. Helmer's father was (and presumably is still) a hard old farmer; who had to work hard at his life, and sees no purpose in life without hard work, and that it alone should be paid for. Helmers deceased mother, a bleeding heart of a creature, exemplifies Helmers companion of childhood. Then there is the old farm hand Jaap who becomes a substitute father figure. Even though Helmer is the oldest of the twin by a few seconds, it has always been Henk and Helmer. Henk was the outgoing one. He was in all definitions and observations: their father's son. He would take control of the farm; as that is how it usually goes and continues to go. Helmer admits he never knew what he wanted. These flaws and foils as well as alliances make for an interesting family dynamic.
One thing one will notice with this novel about farm life is it is not by any means what one expects. Coming from a small town in Western Canada, surrounded by farmers and their cousin the redneck; is that this novel does not fall into masculine stereotypes of western novels or films. There is no horses, bucking or riding; no running with the bulls or rodeos. It's a quiet novel, that contemplates family, regrets, and in many ways life in general. This is probably what led to a lot of enjoyment in this novel. As a reader, I am not being confronted with images and stereotypical attitudes that I personally could find back home. Bakker also allows for a more symbolist and imagist like moments to be incorporated into this novel. Especially with the arrival of the hooded crow. Yet they are not over-handed they are ambiguous, though at first impressions they can become slightly, a bit of annoyance. Though in time these visual references and images; as repetitive, as they become; also become more poetic in their own right. Much like Helmer repeating the names of places in Denmark before he goes to bed, becomes a verbal repetitive ritual, of both absolutely no meaning other than places he has not been; and yet holds weight on its own, and speaks volumes of his character and a certain feeling of longing for somewhere else; someplace different:
"I close my bedroom door and go over to stand in front of the map of Denmark. "Helsingor," I say. "Stenstrup, Esrum, Blistrup, Tisvildeleje." Five names spoken slowly are not enough tonight. I do a few extra islands. "Samso, Aero, Anholt, Mon."
Yet things get interesting with the arrival of Henk's old girlfriend and fiancé Reit; after her departure years ago by Helmer's father; after the accident; and it gets even more interesting with the arrival of her son Henk. Who in a sense reawakens Helmer's feelings of being a twin; and the missing half of his and of who he is and was. In all it's a story of regret. Told and painted in varying shades of grey. Though despite that it's a incredibly optimistic novel in its own way. Helmer seems cut off and shut in his own daily routine, yet is surprisingly warm and communicative after a while, and in truth human. All the characters act as if they were real people. They have no meaning to their actions; yet they're emotions and actions do not become disjointed or melodramatic. They are not exaggerated or capitalised on. They are shown and then through. Bakker is a novelist and writer who shows not tells. Yet his dialogue is acute and well sketched. Minimalist and written as need be. The conversations themselves could be and are imitations of conversations one has in real life. Short and simple; with an often business like transaction to them.
This is a delightful read. Meditative and slow paced. Simplicity is key and yet not a no-brainer or simple tale. It's intelligent but does not flout this intelligence. It's revelatory by slow details, coming to light. Drop by drop they create the story. With humour that splashes the pages Gerbrand Bakker, allows for an optimistic and quiet novel. One that is shrouded in the grey mists of the landscape, and of the emotional landscapes of the characters. It is in the end a wonderful pastoral realistic simple tale with surprising depths. Truly a great debut of fiction; that shows a very mature author who can deal with the physical and the psychological in a fluent and lucid graceful way.
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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