Hello Gentle Reader
The beginning of the years, literary award season has begun. The Booker Prize has announced this year’s long listed. What follows are the long listed authors and their novels, and a quick description of the novel. The prize judges have said that this years, award is the most diverse in the prizes history. From experimental to traditional; dealing from subject matter from Shanghai to Zimbabwe to Hendon, the novels shortlisted this year, are diverse and very international. It is also a year of more newer and younger authors. Only two authors shortlisted previously have been placed on the longlist.
“Almost English,” – by Charlotte Mendelson – This novel chronicles a sixteen year old young woman. She lives in a west London flat with her emotionally delicate mother, and her three ancient Hungarian relatives. The main character is an outsider. Thanks to her family fiercely foreign and un-English pride. Alienated at both home and at school, this novel deals with what it means to be both English, foreign and out of place.
“Tale for the Time Being,” – by Ruth Ozeki – A novel that chronicles one girl’s great-grandmothers life as a Buddhist nun: as a form of escape from her painfully lonely life and bullying classmates. This diary kept by the young girl Nao, will have the power to touch people beyond cultures. The other part of this novel deals with Ruth a novelist who, finds in a hello kitty lunchbox artifacts that may have come, from Japan, after the, two-thousand and eleven tsunami. Within it holds Nao’s diary and recollections of her great-grandmother.
“The Spinning Heart,” by Donal Ryan – This debut novel, is set in a small town in Ireland. Set in the aftermath of Ireland Financial Collapse, told through twenty one different voices, this novel, tells the story of numerous people, trying to get by and make ends meet.
“The Testament of Mary,” – by Colm Tóibín – Perhaps this is the year, which Tóibín wins the Booker Prize. The novel recounts the life of Jesus, through the eyes of his mother Mary.
“We Need New Names,” by NoViolet Bulawayo – This novel is a expansion of the authors short story, which won her Caine Prize. The novel recounts the life of a Zimbabwean street child, named Darling, who escapes to America. There she finds material wealth does not always translate into happiness.
“Five Star Billionaire,” – by Tash Aw – Malaysian author Tash Aw, writes about four Malaysian people looking for success, and reinvention in Shanghai. With the rise of Global Capitalism, the fall of the western financial system, and the power shifting to the East, this novel is a bright beam of what the future maybe look like, with the global shift; and a brave new world.
“Unexploded,” by Alison Macleod – Where Tash Aw, writes about the present and the future that is; Alison Macleod has written a novel set historically in the past. Set in nineteen-forty the Beaumont are expecting a German invasion at any time. While in the area enemy aliens are being round up, and detained. There a “degenerate artist,” comes into their lives, and change it.
“The Lowland,” Jhumpa Lahiri – Jhumpa Lahiri is a American-Indian author. The story revolves around two brothers from Calcutta. Their orientation into the far-left militant group Naxalite. The groups violent campaign, divides the brothers – with tragic results. The publisher has called this forthcoming novel, to being epic.
“TransAtlantic,” by Colum McCann – What has begun as a short story about the non-stop flight from Newfoundland to County Galway in nineteen-nineteen; has now been produced into a larger work, of three parts. With historical accuracies and vignette’s, McCann paints the picture of our current society in its embryo stages.
“The Marrying of Chani Kaufman,” – by Eve Harris – The debut novel of Eve Harris, is based largely on the authors own experience. The protagonist a nineteen-year old who has never had any, physical contact with a man, is expected to marry a complete stranger. What evolves from this novel, is a tale of buried secrets and sexual desires, all wrapped in fear.
“The Luminaries,” – by Eleanor Catton – This book is a doorstopper. A large and ambitious novel that amounts to some eight-hundred and forty eight pages. The novel is about an Englishman who travels to New Zealand to seek his fortune, and leave behind some family shame. What occurs are three murders, in a single day; in which twelve men investigate – all of who have some connection and implication to the crimes? The wealthiest man of the town disappears. A fortune of gold has been found in a luckless drunks home. This and more creates a intricate tapestry of a novel. With ambition and what appears to be a rewarding book – but there is great potential for failure.
“Harvest,” – by Jim Crace – This atmospheric novel, has been hinted at to be Crace’s final novel, before his retirement. Set in a town that faces foreclosure, and liquidation of the lands, that were once shared in common; the novel recounts hardscrabble lives in an ever rolling cycle of the seasons.
“The Kills,” – Richard House – What may be a conventional crime novel, turns out to be an experimental novel, with the use of footnotes. Richard House’s novel is told in four books; that begins with a man on the run, and ends with a body burned. Yet with a detour in short films, and footnotes, this novel is said to surprise and bewilder, in its complex achievements.
There you have it Gentle Reader. The Booker Prize longlist. Books that deal with different countries, but also with different times. This year’s Booker Prize is very international, with novels set in various parts of the world. This year’s list has a range from the personal to the at times social and even political.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
Thursday, 18 July 2013
Primeval and Other Times
Hello Gentle Reader
In all honesty, Gentle Reader, there is something about family sagas that I am not all that interested in. One of the main reason and problems with the family saga for me is: what makes this family or – these families; so special? There is just something about the way they are written that appears so less interesting. Personally the family saga of writing is usually written as a form, to personalise and often give face and a more human element, to other wise, historical events and facts. A lot of family sagas always appear to fall into, clichés of some sort. Yet there are exceptions. Naguib Mahfouz’s Egyptian family saga “The Cairo Trilogy,” is one such piece of work – though arguably the first book is the best. There are countless books to the exception. But most, find themselves reading like a soap opera. Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” is different. It is not by any means a family saga at first glance. Once one understands that it takes the form loosely, it shows that an age old genre can still have some new life breathed into it.
Olga Tokarczuk has often pointed out that the short story form is far more natural for her. Tokarczuk has called the reason for this to being episodic consciousness. In that sense, the world in Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” is built upon a variety of images, and individual pictures. It’s a fragmented world, all seen through the honeycomb eyes of a bee or a fly. This allows for Olga Tokarczuk to write some interesting work. In theory Tokarczuk does not; need to focus on one main character. There’s something about books, which has a multitude of characters, and a variety of perspectives. Tokarczuk has pointed out and theorized that the traditional format for the novel is artificial. It is speculated that as human beings we see the world in a multitude of perspectives. Therefore the traditional novel with its few band of characters, or one main character, is artificial. It does not remain honest to the multitude of perspectives, that human beings perceive the world. In this sense Tokarczuk writes in short vignettes – almost short stories; that appear unrelated in some fashion or another; and eventually begin to gravitate to each other, beginning to tell a larger story, in fragmented bits.
Tokarczuk is one of Poland’s most renowned contemporary authors – from the later parts of the twentieth century to the present. Her fist work published was, a collection of poems titled “Cities in Mirror,” in nineteen-eight nine. Her first foray into fiction and prose came in nineteen-thirty three with the novel “Journey of the Book People,” gained Tokarczuk popularity with reading audiences, and critical acclaim with the literary critics. From there Tokarczuk has been steadily on the rise, with her fiction. Yet her work with the novel “Primeval and Other Times,” and what has come after, has shown a steady inclination towards fragmented prose. The work has since become more patchwork. A constant use of shorter prose pieces, sketches, stories and vignette’s, all develop the novel. She has contributed a story to “The Best European Fiction 2011.” Olga Tokarczuk has also written a novel for the “Canongate Myth Series.” It is however unfortunate that Tokarczuk, has only two novels as of recently translated into English. That being said Tokarczuk, has been critically acclaimed in Europe and in her home country of Poland. She has been a recipient of numerous awards. Among those awards: Vilenica Prize being the most recent in two-thousand and thirteen; and the Nike award in two-thousand and eight for her novel “Runners.”
“Primeval and Other Times,” takes place in a fictional small town – or to be more precise; a village. This small village is unpretentiously claimed to be the center of the universe. This centre of the universe is guarded by four angels. The entire novel runs over, most of the twentieth century. From World War I to the nineteen eighties – and the loosening control of the Soviet Iron Curtain. All of the twentieth century’s historical events come and take place, and in essence come and affect the lives of the inhabitants of the people of Primeval. From Michal’s conscription into the imperial army during The Great War, to his subsequent return, sullen and shrunken into himself – devastated by the war. With his war time spoil: an elaborate and decorative coffee grinder, in which he gives to his daughter Misa; who was born in his departure. Yet there are so many characters. There is Michal’s wife Genowefa and Misa’s mother. She ran the mill win Michal was gone. There comes a slight fondness for a Jewish young man who works at the mill, by the name of Eli. That being said their relationship is never consummated, or truly explored. Yet if there was truly a main character of this novel, it is Primeval itself. The first chapter itself lays great importance to this place. It is then one begins to understand, that Primeval is more than just a small village. It is more than just a collection of cottages. Primeval, becomes a microcosm. It is a small world – an undisturbed Garden of Eden. It is a place of myths, and a place of timelessness. Characters that are not only part of history -- personal and grand; but are also timeless virtues and concepts of what and who people are. These characters are kind; they are cruel; they are arrogant; they are foolish; they are sad. Yet in the end they are all human.
Olga Tokarczuk has stated that she wanted to write a novel just like this:
“Since I can remember, I wanted to write a book like this. Develop and describe the world. This is the history of the world who, like all living things, are born, evolve and die.”
It should then come to no surprise that, volatility is a key part of this novel. Everything is changing. Nothing stays the same. Everything is moving. Sometimes the course changes, other times they move where we expect them. It comes to no surprise that the characters in this novel, over eighty years; will all eventually meet their end. Yet it is the virtue of volatility that sweeps through this novel, which pushes it forward. With concise prose, in short concrete sentences, Tokarczuk is able to present the world of Primeval in acutely physical observations. That being said, the story also has a great deal of mixture with psychological and metaphorical elements. Myth making, is a large part of Olga Tokarczuk’s work. Personal legends, and a continual sense of the unknown and mystical also play a part in this work. The drowned Man’s soul, who dubs himself “The King of the Mist,” – inability to escape the world; and therefore haunts the inhabitants of Primeval. Then there is the mad woman Florentynka, and her dogs. The way she shouts and curses the moon. There is the fearful Bad Man, who is more beast than man. There is Cornspike; a somewhat mystical woman who sleeps with the men from the tavern – but only as an equal.
I think what makes this novel so great though, is not only its structure; but also how the author (Olga Tokarczuk) seamlessly allows for the mystical and the mundane to collide. Olga Tokarczuk is also able to tackle large themes in effortless fashion. The narrative is sewn with the concepts of: god, human, nature – and the concept of fate. I think the story obviously realises that the circumstances in which the characters are placed into, are there’s to shape. Yet a great deal is still out of their control. Like the Parish Priest, whose meadows flooded every year. Despite his best efforts, to contain and stop the inevitable flood – his efforts where in vain.
“The priest was by nature impetuous and touchy about his dignity, so when he saw something of so little substance, so sluggish, so non-descript and vacuous, so elusive and cowardly taking way hos meadows, he was filled with rage.”
Yet despite the priests rage over the natural occurrence of the flood, the meadow flowers, continued their dainty and faithful prayer:
“In the priest’s meadows the flowers never stop praying. All those Saint Margaret daises and Saint Roch’s bluebells pray, and so do the common yellow dandelions. Constant prayer makes the bodies of dandelions less and less material, less and less yellow, and less and less solid, until June they change into subtle seed clocks. Then God, moved by their piety, sends warm winds that take the seed-clock souls of the dandelion up to heaven.”
It’s the prose like that, such simplicity in imagery, laced with the other worldly and divine that make this novel such a superb delight. Throughout this novel, moments of mysticism, acts of mundane transactions, the human desire to dream, and a sense of divinity, make this novel so wonderful. One begins to care about the inhabitants of Primeval. We smile when they make a fool of themselves, we ponder their philosophies – we hope for them to get back up; and we are disheartened when they die. In a sense looking into Primeval is looking into a fishbowl or an ant farm. As a reader there is a sense of omnipresence in their lives. Constantly we cast shadows over their lives – yet no matter what we hope for; no matter what we ask for; they all find themselves victims of their circumstances in one way or another.
Personally, my favourite part of this entire novel was in the beginning and the beginning of the middle portion of this novel. There is a constant feeling, of good times. The Parish Priest’s yearly war, against the white and black rivers, that floods his meadows. Squire Popielski, and this obsessive fascination with an absurd game. In the beginning there was just this feeling, of sunshine. This constant illusion of permanence; that everything has found its natural order. The water spins the wheel. The wheel in turn grinds the grains. The grains become flour. The flour is sold. Everything just appeared to run on that water wheel. The wheel became the perpetual cycle of primeval. It had the sense that everything was going to be fine. Admittedly it was a desire that everything would be fine. Yet that’s not a good story. There needs to be conflict. Everything is doomed to fall into volatility and transient movements. Nothing is stand still. Nothing is left to go stale. Everything just washes away. Everything begins to change anew. This is unfortunate because, change can come from the most disastrous chaotic events. That is why sometimes our characters escape into dreamy escapades:
“She dreamed she might find treasure under the bushes, jewels wrapped in a rag or a tin full of dollars. Later on she peeled the potatoes, she would image she was a healer, the potatoes were the sick people who had come to her, and she was removing their illness and cleaning their bodies of all foul matter. Then as she tossed the peeled potatoes into the boiling water she would imagine she was brewing an elixir of beauty, and as soon as she drank it, her life would change for once and for all. Some doctor or lawyer from Kielce would see her on the Highway, shower her with gifts and fall in love with like a princess.”
Yet the inevitabilities do happen. The twentieth century is a brutal century. It is a century filled with innovations, full of bloody wars and gruesome battles – it was a century that showed how capable human beings were of, destruction. Not only of the world, but also of each other. How systematically we adopt a new ideology. How methodically we program efficient institutions of death – and how the suffering continued for many even after the war was over, with the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. That predominately wonderful sunshine feel to the world, of this novel is gone. It’s taken away. Harder questions are asked in relation to both human nature and Gods relationship with people:
"Either God exists and has always existed or" --- here he added the second finger --- "God doesn´t exist and never has. Or else" --- the third appeared --- "God used to exist, but no longer does. And finally," --- here he poked all four fingers at Izydor --- "God doesn´t exist and has yet to appear.”
This novel is great. The beginning is full of baroque imagery. It is has that sense of wonder, and delight. It is just a truly wonder piece of work. Eventually though the tone does change, it becomes dryer. I think Tokarczuk begins to philosophise about everything a bit more, and she starts realize how much damage human beings are capable of. So in those regards, one can certainly say that Tokarczuk’s change in tone is fitting. I think the past is always more brighter and nostalgic then the present. There is something about the past, which we grasp and hold on to. Memories become our talismans to feign of our current situations and our present realities. It doesn’t leave one with a sour taste in their mouth. It is by far, more bitter sweet than anything. Yet you remember the good times, and enjoy them. Yet one begins to understand the following quote in more than just superficial ways:
“People think they live more intensely than animals, than plants and especially than things. Animals sense that they live more intensely than plants things. Plants dream that they live more intensely than things. But things last, and this lasting is more alive than anything else.”
Olga Tokarczuk had concerns that she does not write easily translatable work. I have no opinion on how difficult translating is – but her themes are translatable and they are wonderful; and the quality of this translation, shows that with diligence the work pays off. It’s a wonderful novel. One that I think that I’ll come back to.
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
In all honesty, Gentle Reader, there is something about family sagas that I am not all that interested in. One of the main reason and problems with the family saga for me is: what makes this family or – these families; so special? There is just something about the way they are written that appears so less interesting. Personally the family saga of writing is usually written as a form, to personalise and often give face and a more human element, to other wise, historical events and facts. A lot of family sagas always appear to fall into, clichés of some sort. Yet there are exceptions. Naguib Mahfouz’s Egyptian family saga “The Cairo Trilogy,” is one such piece of work – though arguably the first book is the best. There are countless books to the exception. But most, find themselves reading like a soap opera. Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” is different. It is not by any means a family saga at first glance. Once one understands that it takes the form loosely, it shows that an age old genre can still have some new life breathed into it.
Olga Tokarczuk has often pointed out that the short story form is far more natural for her. Tokarczuk has called the reason for this to being episodic consciousness. In that sense, the world in Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” is built upon a variety of images, and individual pictures. It’s a fragmented world, all seen through the honeycomb eyes of a bee or a fly. This allows for Olga Tokarczuk to write some interesting work. In theory Tokarczuk does not; need to focus on one main character. There’s something about books, which has a multitude of characters, and a variety of perspectives. Tokarczuk has pointed out and theorized that the traditional format for the novel is artificial. It is speculated that as human beings we see the world in a multitude of perspectives. Therefore the traditional novel with its few band of characters, or one main character, is artificial. It does not remain honest to the multitude of perspectives, that human beings perceive the world. In this sense Tokarczuk writes in short vignettes – almost short stories; that appear unrelated in some fashion or another; and eventually begin to gravitate to each other, beginning to tell a larger story, in fragmented bits.
Tokarczuk is one of Poland’s most renowned contemporary authors – from the later parts of the twentieth century to the present. Her fist work published was, a collection of poems titled “Cities in Mirror,” in nineteen-eight nine. Her first foray into fiction and prose came in nineteen-thirty three with the novel “Journey of the Book People,” gained Tokarczuk popularity with reading audiences, and critical acclaim with the literary critics. From there Tokarczuk has been steadily on the rise, with her fiction. Yet her work with the novel “Primeval and Other Times,” and what has come after, has shown a steady inclination towards fragmented prose. The work has since become more patchwork. A constant use of shorter prose pieces, sketches, stories and vignette’s, all develop the novel. She has contributed a story to “The Best European Fiction 2011.” Olga Tokarczuk has also written a novel for the “Canongate Myth Series.” It is however unfortunate that Tokarczuk, has only two novels as of recently translated into English. That being said Tokarczuk, has been critically acclaimed in Europe and in her home country of Poland. She has been a recipient of numerous awards. Among those awards: Vilenica Prize being the most recent in two-thousand and thirteen; and the Nike award in two-thousand and eight for her novel “Runners.”
“Primeval and Other Times,” takes place in a fictional small town – or to be more precise; a village. This small village is unpretentiously claimed to be the center of the universe. This centre of the universe is guarded by four angels. The entire novel runs over, most of the twentieth century. From World War I to the nineteen eighties – and the loosening control of the Soviet Iron Curtain. All of the twentieth century’s historical events come and take place, and in essence come and affect the lives of the inhabitants of the people of Primeval. From Michal’s conscription into the imperial army during The Great War, to his subsequent return, sullen and shrunken into himself – devastated by the war. With his war time spoil: an elaborate and decorative coffee grinder, in which he gives to his daughter Misa; who was born in his departure. Yet there are so many characters. There is Michal’s wife Genowefa and Misa’s mother. She ran the mill win Michal was gone. There comes a slight fondness for a Jewish young man who works at the mill, by the name of Eli. That being said their relationship is never consummated, or truly explored. Yet if there was truly a main character of this novel, it is Primeval itself. The first chapter itself lays great importance to this place. It is then one begins to understand, that Primeval is more than just a small village. It is more than just a collection of cottages. Primeval, becomes a microcosm. It is a small world – an undisturbed Garden of Eden. It is a place of myths, and a place of timelessness. Characters that are not only part of history -- personal and grand; but are also timeless virtues and concepts of what and who people are. These characters are kind; they are cruel; they are arrogant; they are foolish; they are sad. Yet in the end they are all human.
Olga Tokarczuk has stated that she wanted to write a novel just like this:
“Since I can remember, I wanted to write a book like this. Develop and describe the world. This is the history of the world who, like all living things, are born, evolve and die.”
It should then come to no surprise that, volatility is a key part of this novel. Everything is changing. Nothing stays the same. Everything is moving. Sometimes the course changes, other times they move where we expect them. It comes to no surprise that the characters in this novel, over eighty years; will all eventually meet their end. Yet it is the virtue of volatility that sweeps through this novel, which pushes it forward. With concise prose, in short concrete sentences, Tokarczuk is able to present the world of Primeval in acutely physical observations. That being said, the story also has a great deal of mixture with psychological and metaphorical elements. Myth making, is a large part of Olga Tokarczuk’s work. Personal legends, and a continual sense of the unknown and mystical also play a part in this work. The drowned Man’s soul, who dubs himself “The King of the Mist,” – inability to escape the world; and therefore haunts the inhabitants of Primeval. Then there is the mad woman Florentynka, and her dogs. The way she shouts and curses the moon. There is the fearful Bad Man, who is more beast than man. There is Cornspike; a somewhat mystical woman who sleeps with the men from the tavern – but only as an equal.
I think what makes this novel so great though, is not only its structure; but also how the author (Olga Tokarczuk) seamlessly allows for the mystical and the mundane to collide. Olga Tokarczuk is also able to tackle large themes in effortless fashion. The narrative is sewn with the concepts of: god, human, nature – and the concept of fate. I think the story obviously realises that the circumstances in which the characters are placed into, are there’s to shape. Yet a great deal is still out of their control. Like the Parish Priest, whose meadows flooded every year. Despite his best efforts, to contain and stop the inevitable flood – his efforts where in vain.
“The priest was by nature impetuous and touchy about his dignity, so when he saw something of so little substance, so sluggish, so non-descript and vacuous, so elusive and cowardly taking way hos meadows, he was filled with rage.”
Yet despite the priests rage over the natural occurrence of the flood, the meadow flowers, continued their dainty and faithful prayer:
“In the priest’s meadows the flowers never stop praying. All those Saint Margaret daises and Saint Roch’s bluebells pray, and so do the common yellow dandelions. Constant prayer makes the bodies of dandelions less and less material, less and less yellow, and less and less solid, until June they change into subtle seed clocks. Then God, moved by their piety, sends warm winds that take the seed-clock souls of the dandelion up to heaven.”
It’s the prose like that, such simplicity in imagery, laced with the other worldly and divine that make this novel such a superb delight. Throughout this novel, moments of mysticism, acts of mundane transactions, the human desire to dream, and a sense of divinity, make this novel so wonderful. One begins to care about the inhabitants of Primeval. We smile when they make a fool of themselves, we ponder their philosophies – we hope for them to get back up; and we are disheartened when they die. In a sense looking into Primeval is looking into a fishbowl or an ant farm. As a reader there is a sense of omnipresence in their lives. Constantly we cast shadows over their lives – yet no matter what we hope for; no matter what we ask for; they all find themselves victims of their circumstances in one way or another.
Personally, my favourite part of this entire novel was in the beginning and the beginning of the middle portion of this novel. There is a constant feeling, of good times. The Parish Priest’s yearly war, against the white and black rivers, that floods his meadows. Squire Popielski, and this obsessive fascination with an absurd game. In the beginning there was just this feeling, of sunshine. This constant illusion of permanence; that everything has found its natural order. The water spins the wheel. The wheel in turn grinds the grains. The grains become flour. The flour is sold. Everything just appeared to run on that water wheel. The wheel became the perpetual cycle of primeval. It had the sense that everything was going to be fine. Admittedly it was a desire that everything would be fine. Yet that’s not a good story. There needs to be conflict. Everything is doomed to fall into volatility and transient movements. Nothing is stand still. Nothing is left to go stale. Everything just washes away. Everything begins to change anew. This is unfortunate because, change can come from the most disastrous chaotic events. That is why sometimes our characters escape into dreamy escapades:
“She dreamed she might find treasure under the bushes, jewels wrapped in a rag or a tin full of dollars. Later on she peeled the potatoes, she would image she was a healer, the potatoes were the sick people who had come to her, and she was removing their illness and cleaning their bodies of all foul matter. Then as she tossed the peeled potatoes into the boiling water she would imagine she was brewing an elixir of beauty, and as soon as she drank it, her life would change for once and for all. Some doctor or lawyer from Kielce would see her on the Highway, shower her with gifts and fall in love with like a princess.”
Yet the inevitabilities do happen. The twentieth century is a brutal century. It is a century filled with innovations, full of bloody wars and gruesome battles – it was a century that showed how capable human beings were of, destruction. Not only of the world, but also of each other. How systematically we adopt a new ideology. How methodically we program efficient institutions of death – and how the suffering continued for many even after the war was over, with the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. That predominately wonderful sunshine feel to the world, of this novel is gone. It’s taken away. Harder questions are asked in relation to both human nature and Gods relationship with people:
"Either God exists and has always existed or" --- here he added the second finger --- "God doesn´t exist and never has. Or else" --- the third appeared --- "God used to exist, but no longer does. And finally," --- here he poked all four fingers at Izydor --- "God doesn´t exist and has yet to appear.”
This novel is great. The beginning is full of baroque imagery. It is has that sense of wonder, and delight. It is just a truly wonder piece of work. Eventually though the tone does change, it becomes dryer. I think Tokarczuk begins to philosophise about everything a bit more, and she starts realize how much damage human beings are capable of. So in those regards, one can certainly say that Tokarczuk’s change in tone is fitting. I think the past is always more brighter and nostalgic then the present. There is something about the past, which we grasp and hold on to. Memories become our talismans to feign of our current situations and our present realities. It doesn’t leave one with a sour taste in their mouth. It is by far, more bitter sweet than anything. Yet you remember the good times, and enjoy them. Yet one begins to understand the following quote in more than just superficial ways:
“People think they live more intensely than animals, than plants and especially than things. Animals sense that they live more intensely than plants things. Plants dream that they live more intensely than things. But things last, and this lasting is more alive than anything else.”
Olga Tokarczuk had concerns that she does not write easily translatable work. I have no opinion on how difficult translating is – but her themes are translatable and they are wonderful; and the quality of this translation, shows that with diligence the work pays off. It’s a wonderful novel. One that I think that I’ll come back to.
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, 11 July 2013
Small Lives
Hello Gentle Reader
French Literature used to be all the rage. Jean-Paul Sartre was a rock star of his time. He had brought a philosophy of life to the people. He tossed aside notions of scholarly debate about God and the transcendence of the human soul, and instead proclaimed that one should live in the now. That meaning if any is subjective to the beholder. There is no universal grand scheme of it. No power above or God on some mountain, stating that this is the meaning of life. Sartre’s view, meaning is created by the individual. Sartre’s former friend and great thinker Albert Camus, was roughly in the same boat; though completely different and unique in his own right. Both straddled the problem of nihilism and its forceful propagation that there is no such concept of meaning. No meaning to life – just absolute nothingness. In a sense nihilism in its philosophical sensibilities looked at the abyss, and as it looked back, proclaimed the futile meaninglessness of existence. Where Jean-Paul Sartre was an existentialist, Camus was an absurdist. Where Sartre proclaimed that meaning is essential is to existentialism, Camus simply stated that meaning is in a sense part of the great dualism of life itself. The pursuit of personal meaning is not essential but rather a doable choice. Yet both authors died. In a sense the Irish writer and fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature to both authors Samuel Beckett, wrote comical plays that dealt with the absurd meaning and logic of the world. In a way Samuel Beckett picked up the mantle, of the two’s ideas and concepts and used them to depict the comically absurd, of life. Yet even Samuel Beckett died. His later work becoming increasingly minimalist and consequently blurring the lines between what is acceptable as literature and what is pure minimalist joke. In the seventies, there was the “Nouveau Roman,” or “New Novel,” of Alain-Robbe Grillet and others such as Nathalie Sarraute, Marguerite Duras, Maurice Blanchot and Michel Butor – as well as the early years of J.M.G Le Clezio and Claude Simon. These writers took up the mantel of their modernist fore fathers, and decided to write towards the experimental and avant-garde. Though it was soon to become simply a fashion statement, and soon fell out of grace with the general reading public. In a sense, the work of these authors; and the early work of J.M.G Le Clezio, were read as the chic literature of the time, they are now simply in a sense artifacts of the literati of the time. There swank has since worn off. In the end it became stepping stone of French literature. Where does that take us today in the world of French letters? Besides the Alain-Robbe Grillet inspired, metaphysical detective novels, and Michel Houellebecq the bad boy of French letters, and a few great French authors here and there; France has since fallen into decline. The days it would appear of Sartre, Camus and the New Novelist, has since disappeared. Former glories of French Literature, that was. Yet there are other authors like Eric Chevillard that have taken up the mantel and prove that France still has something to give.
Pierre Michon than, is a breath of fresh air. I first came across this authors name in two-thousand and twelve, where on one of those internet forums, were discussing possible authors to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Immediately Pierre Michon grabbed my attention. First and foremost he was French. Since I was a young child, and learned that I came from French ancestry, France has always been that cultural paradise that my young mine imagined. Pastries, and castles; museums and paintings. A place far away and completely different than the cultural wasteland of farmers and rednecks, with the occasional transient person, who comes and goes. I often thought of my Grandfather Zenin and Grandmother Aurélie – whose names I bare neither name middle or first; and pondered if they left France, though I know they didn’t. There were second or third generation immigrants. Yet after meeting some Quebec people, I was the one left saying suc le bleu, not to mention that French teacher who made me afraid of the letter R and its rolling sound. So my allegiances changed. However reading that name Pierre Michon, brought back some old feelings of my fantasies of France, back to being. It didn’t take much time at all to locate a book by the author in translation – and it just happened to be from one of my favourite presses Archipelago Books.
“Small Lives,” by Pierre Michon, is his first book. The author has admitted to have written this book “to save my own skin. I felt in my body that my life was turning around. This book born in an aura of inexpressible joy and catharsis rescued me more effectively than my aborted analysis.” It’s a lush book though. Surprisingly for a debut, it was wonderfully and boldly written with a mature hand. It is full of lush prose, and long winded winding sentences, that if not read carefully one can get lost in. Yet in these illuminating poetic sentences there are beautiful jewels. In these small biographies Michon traces the lives of these few mundane and banal individuals; and yet his preoccupations lie more closely with himself. In a sense there is a lot of redemption, which Michon tries to capture or achieve in this book. This “renegade poet,” lost to drunkenness and to writers block, is trying to find a foothold on his own life, and in a sense writes about these small insignificant people, and yet shows how significant they are to the individuals who knew or hold them dear, and to the author himself, who writing about them has turned his pain into energy.
At first this preoccupations and subjects, when referred to in the lines discussing personal history:
“Was one of my ancestors a fine captain, a young, insolent ensign, or fiercely taciturn slave trader? East of the Suez, some uncle gone back to Barbary in a cork helmet, wearing jodhpur boots and a bitter smile, a stereotype warmly endorsed by younger branches of the family, by renegade poets, all those dishonored ones full of honor, shadow, and memory, the black pearls of the family trees? Did I have some colonial or seafaring antecedent?”
At first left me with a sense that this narrator, who is also the author, is slightly conceited. Yet, this quick judgement is pushed aside or rather proven to be insubstantial on its own grounds. These “Small Lives,” or vies miniscules are no more conceited or preoccupied with the narcissistic reflection of oneself, and one’s own personal mythology or history, than any other poet. Yet Michon is not a poet; though in this work he often places both feet into the genres of prose and poetry. Refusing to be classified as auto-fiction, and scoffs at the idea of autobiography or memoir; these vignettes trace personal history and lives and becomes a greater dialogue of personal suffering as an example and understanding of all suffering. Then again that’s a rather pompous assessment, of my own doing.
This is a novel of bittersweet realizations. From Andre Dufourneau, about the young man who left for Africa and never returns, is described in a photograph – and from that photograph a vignette is born:
“Come now, admit it, he really resembles a writer. There is a portrait of a young Faulkner, a small man like him, in which I recognize the same haughty yet drowsy air, the eyes heavy but with an ominous, but flashing gravity, and under the ink-black moustache formerly used to hide the coarseness of the lip, alive like the din silenced by the spoken word, the same bitter mouth that prefers to smile. He moves away from the deck, stretches out on his berth, and there he writes the thousand novels out of which the future is made and which the future unmakes; he is living the fullest days of his life. The clock of rolling waves disguises the hours, time passes and place changes, Dufourneau is as alive as the stuff of his dreams; he has been dead a long time; I am not yet abandoning his shadow.”
The only aspect of Dufourneau that ever returns is some coffee beans in which he sends back. And yet these beans have becomes a relic of his memory – something that has achieved a higher value in the sentimental value than that of monetary worth:
“The coffee was never roasted. Sometimes my grandmother, straightening the back shelf of the cupboard where it was kept, would say, “Here, Dufourneau’s coffee.” She would look at it for a minute, then her look would change, and she would add, “It must still be good,” but in a tone that said, “No one will ever taste this.” … Roasted and consumable, it would have waned, profane, into an aromatic presence; eternally green and arrested at a premature stage in its cycle, it was each day more from the past, from beyond, from overseas; it was one of those things that make the timber of the voice change when speaking of them.”
One of my favourite parts of this book, is the vignette about the boarding school and the brothers in which are at war there. The casual landscape of childhood arbitrary barbaric traditions and customs is well described and wonderful. It fills me with a nostalgic feeling, and understanding of empathy is connected between both reader and character, on a mutual understanding:
“When his tormentors had disappeared, the victim sniffled a little, looked hard at the ground as he adjusted his beret, located his chestnut again in his pocket; the impenetrable brown skin astonished him once more, its smooth, faultless volume gratified him, and leaning into that platitude, painfully, he lost himself there. Everything was like that; impenetrable, closed up in itself, subject to monumental and inscrutable laws; the blind wind seizes the leaves with a passion, tears off the chestnuts and tossing them, shatters and strips them, pushes them out into the world; eyeless, under your own eyes, the chestnut rolls little, comes to a stop.”
This is a delightful book. At times though it felt like it was too clever for its own good. The authors at times dense and brooding voice sometimes gets a bit out of control, and harrowing. Countless sentences and passages of being mocked by the blank white page, virgin white and unmarked pure as the Eucharistic flesh; at times gets a bit old. Yet its densely lyrical poetics is something truly its own, and is beautiful. Another favourite passage is the description of the bishop or priest on his motorcycle:
“Marie-Georgette turned away, the wisteria at her door danced a little, violet against her dress and she too disappeared, in the wide sunlit square only three or four astonished peasants remained, who had not recovered from seeing themselves struck by some many mythologies at once: a motorcycle from a Piaf song had just passed bearing a golden mouthed bishop with the profile of Apollo.”
That’s the France of my fantasy.
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
French Literature used to be all the rage. Jean-Paul Sartre was a rock star of his time. He had brought a philosophy of life to the people. He tossed aside notions of scholarly debate about God and the transcendence of the human soul, and instead proclaimed that one should live in the now. That meaning if any is subjective to the beholder. There is no universal grand scheme of it. No power above or God on some mountain, stating that this is the meaning of life. Sartre’s view, meaning is created by the individual. Sartre’s former friend and great thinker Albert Camus, was roughly in the same boat; though completely different and unique in his own right. Both straddled the problem of nihilism and its forceful propagation that there is no such concept of meaning. No meaning to life – just absolute nothingness. In a sense nihilism in its philosophical sensibilities looked at the abyss, and as it looked back, proclaimed the futile meaninglessness of existence. Where Jean-Paul Sartre was an existentialist, Camus was an absurdist. Where Sartre proclaimed that meaning is essential is to existentialism, Camus simply stated that meaning is in a sense part of the great dualism of life itself. The pursuit of personal meaning is not essential but rather a doable choice. Yet both authors died. In a sense the Irish writer and fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature to both authors Samuel Beckett, wrote comical plays that dealt with the absurd meaning and logic of the world. In a way Samuel Beckett picked up the mantle, of the two’s ideas and concepts and used them to depict the comically absurd, of life. Yet even Samuel Beckett died. His later work becoming increasingly minimalist and consequently blurring the lines between what is acceptable as literature and what is pure minimalist joke. In the seventies, there was the “Nouveau Roman,” or “New Novel,” of Alain-Robbe Grillet and others such as Nathalie Sarraute, Marguerite Duras, Maurice Blanchot and Michel Butor – as well as the early years of J.M.G Le Clezio and Claude Simon. These writers took up the mantel of their modernist fore fathers, and decided to write towards the experimental and avant-garde. Though it was soon to become simply a fashion statement, and soon fell out of grace with the general reading public. In a sense, the work of these authors; and the early work of J.M.G Le Clezio, were read as the chic literature of the time, they are now simply in a sense artifacts of the literati of the time. There swank has since worn off. In the end it became stepping stone of French literature. Where does that take us today in the world of French letters? Besides the Alain-Robbe Grillet inspired, metaphysical detective novels, and Michel Houellebecq the bad boy of French letters, and a few great French authors here and there; France has since fallen into decline. The days it would appear of Sartre, Camus and the New Novelist, has since disappeared. Former glories of French Literature, that was. Yet there are other authors like Eric Chevillard that have taken up the mantel and prove that France still has something to give.
Pierre Michon than, is a breath of fresh air. I first came across this authors name in two-thousand and twelve, where on one of those internet forums, were discussing possible authors to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Immediately Pierre Michon grabbed my attention. First and foremost he was French. Since I was a young child, and learned that I came from French ancestry, France has always been that cultural paradise that my young mine imagined. Pastries, and castles; museums and paintings. A place far away and completely different than the cultural wasteland of farmers and rednecks, with the occasional transient person, who comes and goes. I often thought of my Grandfather Zenin and Grandmother Aurélie – whose names I bare neither name middle or first; and pondered if they left France, though I know they didn’t. There were second or third generation immigrants. Yet after meeting some Quebec people, I was the one left saying suc le bleu, not to mention that French teacher who made me afraid of the letter R and its rolling sound. So my allegiances changed. However reading that name Pierre Michon, brought back some old feelings of my fantasies of France, back to being. It didn’t take much time at all to locate a book by the author in translation – and it just happened to be from one of my favourite presses Archipelago Books.
“Small Lives,” by Pierre Michon, is his first book. The author has admitted to have written this book “to save my own skin. I felt in my body that my life was turning around. This book born in an aura of inexpressible joy and catharsis rescued me more effectively than my aborted analysis.” It’s a lush book though. Surprisingly for a debut, it was wonderfully and boldly written with a mature hand. It is full of lush prose, and long winded winding sentences, that if not read carefully one can get lost in. Yet in these illuminating poetic sentences there are beautiful jewels. In these small biographies Michon traces the lives of these few mundane and banal individuals; and yet his preoccupations lie more closely with himself. In a sense there is a lot of redemption, which Michon tries to capture or achieve in this book. This “renegade poet,” lost to drunkenness and to writers block, is trying to find a foothold on his own life, and in a sense writes about these small insignificant people, and yet shows how significant they are to the individuals who knew or hold them dear, and to the author himself, who writing about them has turned his pain into energy.
At first this preoccupations and subjects, when referred to in the lines discussing personal history:
“Was one of my ancestors a fine captain, a young, insolent ensign, or fiercely taciturn slave trader? East of the Suez, some uncle gone back to Barbary in a cork helmet, wearing jodhpur boots and a bitter smile, a stereotype warmly endorsed by younger branches of the family, by renegade poets, all those dishonored ones full of honor, shadow, and memory, the black pearls of the family trees? Did I have some colonial or seafaring antecedent?”
At first left me with a sense that this narrator, who is also the author, is slightly conceited. Yet, this quick judgement is pushed aside or rather proven to be insubstantial on its own grounds. These “Small Lives,” or vies miniscules are no more conceited or preoccupied with the narcissistic reflection of oneself, and one’s own personal mythology or history, than any other poet. Yet Michon is not a poet; though in this work he often places both feet into the genres of prose and poetry. Refusing to be classified as auto-fiction, and scoffs at the idea of autobiography or memoir; these vignettes trace personal history and lives and becomes a greater dialogue of personal suffering as an example and understanding of all suffering. Then again that’s a rather pompous assessment, of my own doing.
This is a novel of bittersweet realizations. From Andre Dufourneau, about the young man who left for Africa and never returns, is described in a photograph – and from that photograph a vignette is born:
“Come now, admit it, he really resembles a writer. There is a portrait of a young Faulkner, a small man like him, in which I recognize the same haughty yet drowsy air, the eyes heavy but with an ominous, but flashing gravity, and under the ink-black moustache formerly used to hide the coarseness of the lip, alive like the din silenced by the spoken word, the same bitter mouth that prefers to smile. He moves away from the deck, stretches out on his berth, and there he writes the thousand novels out of which the future is made and which the future unmakes; he is living the fullest days of his life. The clock of rolling waves disguises the hours, time passes and place changes, Dufourneau is as alive as the stuff of his dreams; he has been dead a long time; I am not yet abandoning his shadow.”
The only aspect of Dufourneau that ever returns is some coffee beans in which he sends back. And yet these beans have becomes a relic of his memory – something that has achieved a higher value in the sentimental value than that of monetary worth:
“The coffee was never roasted. Sometimes my grandmother, straightening the back shelf of the cupboard where it was kept, would say, “Here, Dufourneau’s coffee.” She would look at it for a minute, then her look would change, and she would add, “It must still be good,” but in a tone that said, “No one will ever taste this.” … Roasted and consumable, it would have waned, profane, into an aromatic presence; eternally green and arrested at a premature stage in its cycle, it was each day more from the past, from beyond, from overseas; it was one of those things that make the timber of the voice change when speaking of them.”
One of my favourite parts of this book, is the vignette about the boarding school and the brothers in which are at war there. The casual landscape of childhood arbitrary barbaric traditions and customs is well described and wonderful. It fills me with a nostalgic feeling, and understanding of empathy is connected between both reader and character, on a mutual understanding:
“When his tormentors had disappeared, the victim sniffled a little, looked hard at the ground as he adjusted his beret, located his chestnut again in his pocket; the impenetrable brown skin astonished him once more, its smooth, faultless volume gratified him, and leaning into that platitude, painfully, he lost himself there. Everything was like that; impenetrable, closed up in itself, subject to monumental and inscrutable laws; the blind wind seizes the leaves with a passion, tears off the chestnuts and tossing them, shatters and strips them, pushes them out into the world; eyeless, under your own eyes, the chestnut rolls little, comes to a stop.”
This is a delightful book. At times though it felt like it was too clever for its own good. The authors at times dense and brooding voice sometimes gets a bit out of control, and harrowing. Countless sentences and passages of being mocked by the blank white page, virgin white and unmarked pure as the Eucharistic flesh; at times gets a bit old. Yet its densely lyrical poetics is something truly its own, and is beautiful. Another favourite passage is the description of the bishop or priest on his motorcycle:
“Marie-Georgette turned away, the wisteria at her door danced a little, violet against her dress and she too disappeared, in the wide sunlit square only three or four astonished peasants remained, who had not recovered from seeing themselves struck by some many mythologies at once: a motorcycle from a Piaf song had just passed bearing a golden mouthed bishop with the profile of Apollo.”
That’s the France of my fantasy.
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, 4 July 2013
Fiasco
Hello Gentle Reader
Imre Kertész is a resilient person. Before he won the Nobel Prize in Literature, in two-thousand and two, this author of remarkable humanity has proved his willingness to live, after surviving not one but two concentration camps during World War II, Auschwitz and Buchenwald; Kertész became a hot potato that was transferred from one universe of death, and inhumanity to another – and in a remarkable sense of justice and altruism, has maintained a sense of who he was previously and who is now. A man who has looked the laughing devil in the eye, and whose spirit did not break. In a universe of death and mass slaughter on a level of efficiency of that of a large factory whose only products are death and misery, Kertész was one of the few to survive. In an expansive cosmos of a slaughterhouse, Kertész was given the subject matter that would haunt his literary output of his entire career. This theme or subject matter is however difficult to name and place into a definitive area; yes his work deals with the holocaust, and is based off his own experiences; but they are subjective but not in an autobiographical way. Furthermore Kertész work is not really documentation. They are fictional narratives on their own. One of the surprising actions of Kertész work is that it really does not speak in terms of good and evil. The world – be it the grand worldwide, or the galaxies of mass produced death of a concentration camp; were all perpetrated by individuals – individuals who were just following orders, and were lead to believe that they were following the plan. In those respects, the masks or the concepts of these monsters, and wolves and hounds of these camps are simply non-existent in his work as Kertész points out in one way or another, through flesh, blood and bone; it was always a human being that committed the crime. That individual was just the cog in a large efficient factory of death. Dehumanized and desensitized to human suffering; especially a human, without any trace of being referred to or even recognized as a human being – these individuals were lead to commit acts of horror, simply out of duty – out of production. Kertész is not like Peace Prize Laureate Elie Wiesel who documents camp and regards human suffering with black and white lenses. Kertész on the other hand, looks through the Kafkaesque point of view; of seeing a world without order, without meaning, and absurdity. It is in these that Kertész finds humour, but also a great understanding of his literary influences.
This may explain why Kertész was not a roaring success before his Nobel Prize in Literature. Even in his homeland of Hungary Kertész was practically unknown. A theory is perhaps, Kertész was not well known, because of his lack of judgement being passed. He maintained a sense of neutrality, between prisoner and guard. Recognizing that surviving the camp was at times a fate worst then dying in it. He does not feign or make any announcement that he knows why it happened, or what causes people to act in such a manner. All that the author can do is simply recognize that it had happened, and bear witness to it. In his own words Kertész has written “fiction founded on reality.” “Fiasco,” is the final volume of Kertész trilogy, that some have called a qausi-autobiographical depiction of twentieth century Europe. From Holocaust to the discovery that one’s homeland has been consumed and turned into another totalitarian state. Though it has been called a trilogy, there is no real reference to the other books – at least not with “Fiasco.”
Kertész’s Nobel win, was not without controversy in his native Hungary. Many – especially from the far right; felt that the award should not have been bestowed upon the author, who so openly discusses his own alienation and the holocaust and Jewish repression. Many Hungarian nationalists felt that Kertész wasn’t a true Hungarian writer, or Hungarian enough to truly be awarded the prize – once again though as a society or as a world, one forgets the award is awarded on the merits of the author themselves, and their work. Kertész though is reported to now live in Berlin Germany; and has lived there for the past ten (plus) years. In November of two-thousand twelve, it was rumoured that Kertész had announced his retirement, though with an impish sense of humour, Kertész has slightly denied these speculative rumours.
The Swedish academy has praised Kertész “for writing that upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history,” as well as exploring the possibility of individual consciousness in the world of social forces, and the subjection that human beings are placed under. From Nazism of Nazi Germany to the totalitarian governments of the Soviet Satellite states. Kertész has upheld the individuals constant strive for freedom and tolerance in a world that is not adherently free or tolerant of others freedoms. Yet Kertész shows that on the back drop of the horrible drab grey lands of Eastern (Communist) Europe, and twentieth century history, individuals have proven, that they exist and are alien to the happenings of history modern or otherwise, and exist solely because it is their divine human right.
This is a deeply pessimistic novel. Yet much like Thomas Bernhard’s novels, there are moments, where there is solace in humour. Though as previously pointed in other books, countless times before, don’t look towards this humour, as something that is go in got make you roll around on the floor. It’s there to lighten the mood, and it’s a sense of humour brought on simply by the absurdity of the nature of the situation. Just like the below quote:
“You’re the one who has come home from abroad. We know about you,” and at that, while the expression of curiosity on her face was extinguished just as incomprehensibly as it had lit up, she let Köves know that she would first have to come to an agreement with the editor in chief by phone, than the editor in chief would set a time point for an appointment, which he would inform her of, and about which she in turn would notify Köves – by telephone, if he had a telephone, if he didn’t, by mail.”
As a reader, we are first introduced to this book, with a harrowing detailed cycling narrative. It moves at a sluggish pace, and can be downright frustrating, and boring. It’s a discussing of the “Old Boy,” who, is anxious about writing a new book. This “Old Boy,” who is having himself, a think with casual interruptions. It’s reminiscent of the prose of Samuel Beckett. In the beginning, there was a thought of – “oh dear three hundred and sixty pages of this.” Yet about half way through, on page one-hundred and nineteen, the entire book takes off in an entirely different direction.
The entire second part of this narrative encompasses the confusing and bewildering life of Köves who has returned, to his home country (Hungary) from being abroad. Though not explicitly stated; based on the life of Kertész, it is not at all difficult to speculate that our narrator Köves has returned home from abroad; but not necessarily for some business trip or leisure. It very well could be stated that he is returning from a concentration camp. Though on the back of the book does present a clouded hint of this as well.
The world in which Köves enters freely – and under the guise that it is home; is a world that is like a Kafka story or a Becket play. It is a world of confusion and despair. A place where, happenings may not have an actual concise and concrete ending – let alone a purposeful beginning. This, causes great pessimism throughout the novel, also carries a lot of the sense of humour. But where Kafka and Kertész deviate from each other’s paths, is that Kafka’s work is abstract at times. The language and words that Kafka used where often hollow which allowed them to be used in a language of alienation; but the world in which they were presented became insubstantial. Kertész on the other hand, creates a world all too real, where the absurdities of shifting laws and unintelligible and often absurd happenings are quite common and apparent. Much like the above quote, in regards to Köves dismissal from his job, as a newspaper writer; a post that he did not hold before his departure; is just an instance where two different realities do not match up.
The landscape that Kertész presents in this novel is what one would typically think of when dealing with Eastern Europe under the Communist Regime. Grey upon grey. Misery upon misery. Unbearable abnormalities of life. The description of the “Rumpus Room,” is a great depiction of the world at the time:
“In the “Rumpus Room,” the name given to a low-ceilinged windowless parlour, illuminated only by the nightmarish glow of neon tubes, in a wing right at the back of the restaurant, card games were going on amid a cacophony of sounds clattering back and off the walls, with slim, grey – templed uncle André, the chloroformist, a bored, man-of-the-world stopping every now and then, behind a seat, to take inwardly whether he should leave and come back later when Alice, as she rushed by, took his fate in her hands. [. . . ]”
That does make this novel, interesting though; in regards other than its writing style, and also its subject matter – it shows how quick and easy one can be assimilated into irrational situations; just as Köves does. It is an interesting study into how as people, one comes to understand their circumstances, and where they fit into them. Much like Köves, who accepts his dismissal from the newspaper, than to becoming a factory worker – only to have made it as a working writer for the ministry of production! As the saying goes: “There is no rhyme or reason,” – and that is especially true with this novel, what happens – happens with no real concern for the past or the present or the future; it just happens. This will at times leave the reader a bit confused and disoriented. But the ride along is quite the journey. It is both bleakly pessimistic, yet compassionate and a bit light hearted in other moments.
“One morning, perhaps more mid-morning, Köves stepped out of the front door and set off with a whistle, though there was no reason for that, the weather being overcast, with a cool wind blowing, and over the streets rose a cloud of dust (constant yet at first glance it came merely from construction sites, with their proliferation of ruins, scaffolding, and obstacles of every kind) mingled with pungent smells, as though possibly (it was not out of the question) heralding the approach of autumn, conjuring up in Köves remote images of a by gone (purpose never were) real autumns of reds and yellows and crackling hearths, and awakening a whimsical longing for a light, soft, yet warm overcoat into the upturned collar of which, in one of those familiar acts, he might hang his chin – but anyway he set off with a whistle to his workplace, the ministry of production.”
The Swedish Academy in their Press Release sums up Kertész’s literary style and themes, as follows – but they also share in an elegant way, what any reader will be in store for when they read a book by the author:
“The refusal to compromise in Kertész's stance can be perceived clearly in his style, which is reminiscent of a thickset hawthorn hedge, dense and thorny for unsuspecting visitors. But he relieves his readers of the burden of compulsory emotions and inspires a singular freedom of thought.”
(http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2002/press.html)
And they are right. Kertész's work is a thicket of thorns, and dense foliage. It pricks and prods. It’s claustrophobic and a constrained writing style, that is tight, and strangles the reader close. Yet throughout it all there is compassion, hope, and dignity out of human suffering.
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
Imre Kertész is a resilient person. Before he won the Nobel Prize in Literature, in two-thousand and two, this author of remarkable humanity has proved his willingness to live, after surviving not one but two concentration camps during World War II, Auschwitz and Buchenwald; Kertész became a hot potato that was transferred from one universe of death, and inhumanity to another – and in a remarkable sense of justice and altruism, has maintained a sense of who he was previously and who is now. A man who has looked the laughing devil in the eye, and whose spirit did not break. In a universe of death and mass slaughter on a level of efficiency of that of a large factory whose only products are death and misery, Kertész was one of the few to survive. In an expansive cosmos of a slaughterhouse, Kertész was given the subject matter that would haunt his literary output of his entire career. This theme or subject matter is however difficult to name and place into a definitive area; yes his work deals with the holocaust, and is based off his own experiences; but they are subjective but not in an autobiographical way. Furthermore Kertész work is not really documentation. They are fictional narratives on their own. One of the surprising actions of Kertész work is that it really does not speak in terms of good and evil. The world – be it the grand worldwide, or the galaxies of mass produced death of a concentration camp; were all perpetrated by individuals – individuals who were just following orders, and were lead to believe that they were following the plan. In those respects, the masks or the concepts of these monsters, and wolves and hounds of these camps are simply non-existent in his work as Kertész points out in one way or another, through flesh, blood and bone; it was always a human being that committed the crime. That individual was just the cog in a large efficient factory of death. Dehumanized and desensitized to human suffering; especially a human, without any trace of being referred to or even recognized as a human being – these individuals were lead to commit acts of horror, simply out of duty – out of production. Kertész is not like Peace Prize Laureate Elie Wiesel who documents camp and regards human suffering with black and white lenses. Kertész on the other hand, looks through the Kafkaesque point of view; of seeing a world without order, without meaning, and absurdity. It is in these that Kertész finds humour, but also a great understanding of his literary influences.
This may explain why Kertész was not a roaring success before his Nobel Prize in Literature. Even in his homeland of Hungary Kertész was practically unknown. A theory is perhaps, Kertész was not well known, because of his lack of judgement being passed. He maintained a sense of neutrality, between prisoner and guard. Recognizing that surviving the camp was at times a fate worst then dying in it. He does not feign or make any announcement that he knows why it happened, or what causes people to act in such a manner. All that the author can do is simply recognize that it had happened, and bear witness to it. In his own words Kertész has written “fiction founded on reality.” “Fiasco,” is the final volume of Kertész trilogy, that some have called a qausi-autobiographical depiction of twentieth century Europe. From Holocaust to the discovery that one’s homeland has been consumed and turned into another totalitarian state. Though it has been called a trilogy, there is no real reference to the other books – at least not with “Fiasco.”
Kertész’s Nobel win, was not without controversy in his native Hungary. Many – especially from the far right; felt that the award should not have been bestowed upon the author, who so openly discusses his own alienation and the holocaust and Jewish repression. Many Hungarian nationalists felt that Kertész wasn’t a true Hungarian writer, or Hungarian enough to truly be awarded the prize – once again though as a society or as a world, one forgets the award is awarded on the merits of the author themselves, and their work. Kertész though is reported to now live in Berlin Germany; and has lived there for the past ten (plus) years. In November of two-thousand twelve, it was rumoured that Kertész had announced his retirement, though with an impish sense of humour, Kertész has slightly denied these speculative rumours.
The Swedish academy has praised Kertész “for writing that upholds the fragile experience of the individual against the barbaric arbitrariness of history,” as well as exploring the possibility of individual consciousness in the world of social forces, and the subjection that human beings are placed under. From Nazism of Nazi Germany to the totalitarian governments of the Soviet Satellite states. Kertész has upheld the individuals constant strive for freedom and tolerance in a world that is not adherently free or tolerant of others freedoms. Yet Kertész shows that on the back drop of the horrible drab grey lands of Eastern (Communist) Europe, and twentieth century history, individuals have proven, that they exist and are alien to the happenings of history modern or otherwise, and exist solely because it is their divine human right.
This is a deeply pessimistic novel. Yet much like Thomas Bernhard’s novels, there are moments, where there is solace in humour. Though as previously pointed in other books, countless times before, don’t look towards this humour, as something that is go in got make you roll around on the floor. It’s there to lighten the mood, and it’s a sense of humour brought on simply by the absurdity of the nature of the situation. Just like the below quote:
“You’re the one who has come home from abroad. We know about you,” and at that, while the expression of curiosity on her face was extinguished just as incomprehensibly as it had lit up, she let Köves know that she would first have to come to an agreement with the editor in chief by phone, than the editor in chief would set a time point for an appointment, which he would inform her of, and about which she in turn would notify Köves – by telephone, if he had a telephone, if he didn’t, by mail.”
As a reader, we are first introduced to this book, with a harrowing detailed cycling narrative. It moves at a sluggish pace, and can be downright frustrating, and boring. It’s a discussing of the “Old Boy,” who, is anxious about writing a new book. This “Old Boy,” who is having himself, a think with casual interruptions. It’s reminiscent of the prose of Samuel Beckett. In the beginning, there was a thought of – “oh dear three hundred and sixty pages of this.” Yet about half way through, on page one-hundred and nineteen, the entire book takes off in an entirely different direction.
The entire second part of this narrative encompasses the confusing and bewildering life of Köves who has returned, to his home country (Hungary) from being abroad. Though not explicitly stated; based on the life of Kertész, it is not at all difficult to speculate that our narrator Köves has returned home from abroad; but not necessarily for some business trip or leisure. It very well could be stated that he is returning from a concentration camp. Though on the back of the book does present a clouded hint of this as well.
The world in which Köves enters freely – and under the guise that it is home; is a world that is like a Kafka story or a Becket play. It is a world of confusion and despair. A place where, happenings may not have an actual concise and concrete ending – let alone a purposeful beginning. This, causes great pessimism throughout the novel, also carries a lot of the sense of humour. But where Kafka and Kertész deviate from each other’s paths, is that Kafka’s work is abstract at times. The language and words that Kafka used where often hollow which allowed them to be used in a language of alienation; but the world in which they were presented became insubstantial. Kertész on the other hand, creates a world all too real, where the absurdities of shifting laws and unintelligible and often absurd happenings are quite common and apparent. Much like the above quote, in regards to Köves dismissal from his job, as a newspaper writer; a post that he did not hold before his departure; is just an instance where two different realities do not match up.
The landscape that Kertész presents in this novel is what one would typically think of when dealing with Eastern Europe under the Communist Regime. Grey upon grey. Misery upon misery. Unbearable abnormalities of life. The description of the “Rumpus Room,” is a great depiction of the world at the time:
“In the “Rumpus Room,” the name given to a low-ceilinged windowless parlour, illuminated only by the nightmarish glow of neon tubes, in a wing right at the back of the restaurant, card games were going on amid a cacophony of sounds clattering back and off the walls, with slim, grey – templed uncle André, the chloroformist, a bored, man-of-the-world stopping every now and then, behind a seat, to take inwardly whether he should leave and come back later when Alice, as she rushed by, took his fate in her hands. [. . . ]”
That does make this novel, interesting though; in regards other than its writing style, and also its subject matter – it shows how quick and easy one can be assimilated into irrational situations; just as Köves does. It is an interesting study into how as people, one comes to understand their circumstances, and where they fit into them. Much like Köves, who accepts his dismissal from the newspaper, than to becoming a factory worker – only to have made it as a working writer for the ministry of production! As the saying goes: “There is no rhyme or reason,” – and that is especially true with this novel, what happens – happens with no real concern for the past or the present or the future; it just happens. This will at times leave the reader a bit confused and disoriented. But the ride along is quite the journey. It is both bleakly pessimistic, yet compassionate and a bit light hearted in other moments.
“One morning, perhaps more mid-morning, Köves stepped out of the front door and set off with a whistle, though there was no reason for that, the weather being overcast, with a cool wind blowing, and over the streets rose a cloud of dust (constant yet at first glance it came merely from construction sites, with their proliferation of ruins, scaffolding, and obstacles of every kind) mingled with pungent smells, as though possibly (it was not out of the question) heralding the approach of autumn, conjuring up in Köves remote images of a by gone (purpose never were) real autumns of reds and yellows and crackling hearths, and awakening a whimsical longing for a light, soft, yet warm overcoat into the upturned collar of which, in one of those familiar acts, he might hang his chin – but anyway he set off with a whistle to his workplace, the ministry of production.”
The Swedish Academy in their Press Release sums up Kertész’s literary style and themes, as follows – but they also share in an elegant way, what any reader will be in store for when they read a book by the author:
“The refusal to compromise in Kertész's stance can be perceived clearly in his style, which is reminiscent of a thickset hawthorn hedge, dense and thorny for unsuspecting visitors. But he relieves his readers of the burden of compulsory emotions and inspires a singular freedom of thought.”
(http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2002/press.html)
And they are right. Kertész's work is a thicket of thorns, and dense foliage. It pricks and prods. It’s claustrophobic and a constrained writing style, that is tight, and strangles the reader close. Yet throughout it all there is compassion, hope, and dignity out of human suffering.
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
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
David Constantine Wins Frank O’Connor Award
Hello Gentle Reader
Sometimes, there comes this ironic feeling. If it had a taste it would be that of an unripe green, orange. While shopping for books, the other day, I repeatedly debated buying David Constantine’s new collection of short stories “Tea at The Midland.” Now this short story collection had been shortlisted for the Frank O’Connor Short Story Award – the most lucrative award for the short story. Past recipients of the award have been, Simon Van Booy, Edna O’Brien, Haruki Murakami and last year’s winner Nathan Englander. This year alone, David Constantine was up against, fellow British author and Booker Prize nominee Deborah Levy, as well as Peter Stamm, who was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize; for his collection “We’re Flying.” Yet David Constantine the poet on the periphery – as he described himself; won this year’s award, and the twenty five thousand dollars that comes with it. Constantine has been favourably reviewed, from critics and from fellow authors. Dame A.S. Byatt has described David Constantine’s writing in his previous collection “Under the Dam,” as:
“They are gripping tales, but what is startling is the quality of the writing. Every sentence is both unpredictable and exactly what it should be. Reading them is a series of short shocks of (agreeably envious) pleasure.”
Congratulations are in order for David Constantine!
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
Sometimes, there comes this ironic feeling. If it had a taste it would be that of an unripe green, orange. While shopping for books, the other day, I repeatedly debated buying David Constantine’s new collection of short stories “Tea at The Midland.” Now this short story collection had been shortlisted for the Frank O’Connor Short Story Award – the most lucrative award for the short story. Past recipients of the award have been, Simon Van Booy, Edna O’Brien, Haruki Murakami and last year’s winner Nathan Englander. This year alone, David Constantine was up against, fellow British author and Booker Prize nominee Deborah Levy, as well as Peter Stamm, who was shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize; for his collection “We’re Flying.” Yet David Constantine the poet on the periphery – as he described himself; won this year’s award, and the twenty five thousand dollars that comes with it. Constantine has been favourably reviewed, from critics and from fellow authors. Dame A.S. Byatt has described David Constantine’s writing in his previous collection “Under the Dam,” as:
“They are gripping tales, but what is startling is the quality of the writing. Every sentence is both unpredictable and exactly what it should be. Reading them is a series of short shocks of (agreeably envious) pleasure.”
Congratulations are in order for David Constantine!
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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