Hello Gentle Reader
Once again Gentle Reader, here we are. Another year has come to an end. What a year it was. We we’re forced to say goodbye to some great talents – Nobel Laureates Seamus Heaney and then Doris Lessing; the outspoken Scotish writer and science fiction author, Ian Banks, had also perished due to cancer; as well as possible Nobel Laureate Chinua Achebe, also perished. However, we were also awakened to see some great new authors, showcase their talents; in the case of this year’s Booker Prize winner Eleanor Catton. “The Luminaires,” is the longest novel to even win the Booker Prize; and Catton is the youngest recipient to date, to receive the prize. There was some rather tragic news in regards to the Booker Prize as well. Two-thousand and fourteen open the award up to American authors. The criticism of this controversial decision, has died down, but coming years prize, will be under heavy scrutiny; as the judges will be under the pressure to present a fair or at the very least a balanced, longlist and shortlist, showcasing the talents of all qualified countries.
In regards to the personal taste in the books read – some yet to be posted on this blog; it was certainly a exciting year; with the enjoyable pleasure of Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” which was an interesting and fragmented novel, and a real pleasure to read. There was also the enjoyment of reading “Mondo and Other Stories,” a volume of stories by Nobel Laureate in Literature J.M.G Le Clezio that I still come back to, time and time again for a poetically beautiful and adventurous read, that leaves one with a feeling of nostalgia. I became acquainted with László Krasznahorkai, with his first novel “Satantango.” Krasznahorkai showcased his emerging talents that would become clearer in his later works, but also showed his sense of humour. “The Twin,” was also a novel that stands out in its immense pleasure that it was to read, and its understated premise: a novel about a Dutch farm, and an unhappy farmer. However appearances are deceiving; and it certainly proved that point. Then came, the slim and beautiful short novel “Touch,” by the Palestine author Adania Shibli. The novel itself was enjoyable for its lyrical prose, and its impressionistic writing. It certainly goes to show that a slim and slender novel often has more impact than that of a larger novel. Mikhail Shishkin finally had his overdue debut, with his novel “Maidenhair,” a sprawling and often confusing narrative, but it also showed the authors capability of dealing with large and engrossing obsessions, as themes on the human condition. There was “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy a barque piece of work, by one of the greatest prose stylists of the twentieth century by a Cuban writer, who was a perquisite to the eventual Latin American Boom. This list could not be completed without mentioning “Zigzag through the Bitter Orange Tree’s,” by the Greek writer Ersi Sotiropoulos. It’s a novel about four people; who are interconnected through each other, the only slightly. It’s a novel that is filled with Sotiropoulos’s constant disregard for the traditional narrative structure of a beginning or an end. It showcases the author’s lyrical prose and poetic flare without being ornament or decorating the prose with purple dashes of exaggeration.
Other books that have been read and reviews will be posted in the New Year, will be that of Lithuanian author Giedra Radvilavičiūtė and her book of essay like stories “Those Whom I Would Like To Meet Again.” Tõnu Õnnepalu a poet and prose writers novel “Border State,” was a great read, and will most likely be read again, for the sheer enjoyment of its language.
One of the biggest news makers for this year was the announcement that Alice Munro became a Nobel Laureate in Literature. The citation was simple and straightforward: “Master of the contemporary short story.” Even Rob Ford – Toronto’s own proud alcoholic and crack smoking mayor could not overshadow Alice Munro’s achievement.
That’s it for a year in review. The details can only be hinted. The major events, spoken of in one quick breath. Yet it still was a great and amazing year, for literature. Two-thousand and fourteen certainly can deliver, and continue the flare.
Happy New Year Gentle Reader
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Thursday, 26 December 2013
House of Day, House of Night
Hello Gentle Reader
Antonia Lloyd-Jones is an industrious translator. In two-thousand and twelve alone, she had published, seven Polish translations. In two-thousand and eight Lloyd-Jones had won, the Found in Translation Award. Again now in two-thousand and thirteen, Lloyd-Jones finds herself winning the award. With one exception. This award is usually handed out on the basis of a single work. This time Lloyd-Jones won the award, for her seven translations, done in the previous year. Anyone who has read Polish translations will most likely have seen the work of Antonia-Lloyd-Jones. From Paweł Huelle to Olga Tokarczuk; Lloyd-Jones has brought their works to the attention of English readers.
The worst part about reading is the ending. The dreaded final page. After which it’s all over. What has been written and said, now says: au revoir! (Because French language and literature go together like cheese and wine – French cheese and wine, naturally) – The ending breaks the writer, or exemplifies the writer. It tortures the reader with questions and queries; or it leaves the reader wondering if there is much use in going forward. Endings are usually far more acceptable in shorter works. Shorter works often have ambiguous and opaque endings. That leaves the reader, falling or flying in the softness of the air. Large novels, that finally reach the end, will stir two reactions. The slamming of the novel down; followed by the proclamation: “that’s it!” Upon which the book cannot find itself, in a home on the bookshelf, but rather find itself, collecting dust in a used and second hand bookstore, with a discounted price tag attached to it. A milder reaction of this one is: “Well at least that is finished.” The second reaction is that of melancholic pathos. It’s that bittersweet pill to swallow – the realization that it is all over. The story has been paced evenly. The characters were quickly renewed. Nothing was stale. There was a constant brain challenge. Then it’s over. The last page is flipped. It’s all over. This is why it took me so long to read “House of Day, House of Night.” It was the constant, attempt at thwarting the inevitable ending.
“House of Day, House of Night,” came after “Primeval and Other Times,” but was published in English before “Primeval and Other Times.” Part of the literary series “Writing From a Unbound Europe.” It introduced Olga Tokarczuk’s unique “episodic consciousness,” writing style, to English language readers. Both “House of Day, House of Night,” share numerous similarities. Both are made up short narratives, and stories, that evolve, mutate and connect with each other in a larger scheme, and whole. Both works, display the tragedies of human existence, the frailties of the individual against history. Yet both are also comical, in their depiction of the mundane, and the ever occurring irony, that pertains to day to day existence. Both are wise, and often focus on the esoteric. Yet where they differentiate, is that “Primeval and Other Times,” had a set of characters, which evolved and mutated, and died within the narrative. Their stories however lived on within the next generation, and their own tales. “Primeval and Other Times,” sought out to tell the history of the small village of Primeval. “House of Day, House of Night,” takes on these themes, but in a different way. Were “Primeval and Other Times,” is told from a wistful omnipresent narrator. A narrator who was objective, and all seeing. This narrator is a grand historian recording the myopic world of Primeval; and seeing its own miniscule events, reflecting the larger events around it, and entering it. “House of Day, House of Night,” has moments where the third person narrator returns. With the utmost natural ease. As if the third person is Tokarczuk’s, more natural writing perspective. For the most part, the novel is a first person account of life in Nowa Ruda. A small town in south-western Poland, bordering the Czech Republic. It once housed Germans, who called the town Neurode; but was later renamed the Polish Nowa Ruda.
The history behind Polish Nowa Ruda and the German Neurode, is hinted at. Though it’s not delved into; via an in-depth process. Nowa Ruda, became a Polish settlement, after the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. The new “Soviet,” Poles, found themselves, forced from their traditional homes, in the east – which had created Belorussia and Lithuania; and settled in the old German homes of Neurode. The Germans expelled, the Poles found themselves, in their new home – aptly renamed to a Polish name Nowa Ruda. The said Germans were expelled from their homes, and sought new homes in Germany, often made treks back; in this novel. Some come back to see their beloved homeland before they die – and in some cases, to die.
Our narrator is a strange, almost new age creature. Constantly on the search for esoteric patterns in life. From dreams, to the stars. She remembers the first encounters of people that are important to her. She can recall each of their details. She’s almost faux pas, mystical it appears. As if somehow the new age, beliefs of the narrator, are paramount, and often seen as earthly wholesome, wisdom. It actually bothered me. How the Tokcarzuk discussed divination methods. Methods via, ash or blood; tea leaves; or throwing knives, and reading their scattered blades. It became bothersome. Like a scratch just beneath the skin. Still Tokcarzuk makes up, for this flaw with her more, primary and delightful character portraits; and subjective observations. The way the narrator is both intrigued and baffled by her neighbour the wigmaker Marta. She also recounts and documents the stories, and the history of the world around her. How the Polish inhabitants have a shortcut that crosses into Czech territory. How the Czech and Poles comical, scenario of finding a dead, on the border, and move it to the others side. She recounts the life of a saint – and her biographer.
What is most special of Tokcarzuk’s writing so far, is that she can write about the most myopic, the most mundane; and banal. And still make it fascinating. She embellishes it with folktales, personal histories, myths, and magic. Dreams mix with reality. Reality mixes with wishes. Past and present, waltz on a clocks cog. Tokcarzuk has captured the absurdities of our lives, and the comical singing blade of irony, that cuts through it all, through and through. Just like the bank’s coffee ritual.
“At about ten the daily coffee – drink ritual began, announced by the clatter of aluminum tea-spoons and the sound of glasses striking softly against saucers – the usual office chimes. The precious ground coffee brought from home in jam jars was shared equally between the glasses, and formed a thick brown skin on the surface, briefly holding up the torrents of sugar. The smell of coffee filled the bank to the ceiling, and the farmers queuing for service kick themselves for having into the sacred coffee hour.”
Some of the interesting things that Tokcarzuk has done are repeat some success with “Primeval and Other Times.” She uses character portraits, to offer interesting twists into the story. Like Marek Marek, the handsome but violent drunk who discovers he has a bird that lives inside of him. His attempts at suicide are much like his life: unsuccessful – until he finds success with his life. Then there is the man who receives thoughts and messages from a newly discovered planet. So he builds himself a helmet made of ash wood. There he finds his thoughts free from the planetary influence. The novel also incorporates some interesting (if a bit deadly) recipes. Antonia Lloyd-Jones, herself writes, that this book should come with a warning: “Do not try these recipes.”
Tokcarzuk has created a wonderful novel. A novel that relies on poetic fragmentation; to allow her narrative, too move with ease, through the lives and homes of the inhabitants (historical and other wise) of Nowa Ruda. She mixes lush descriptions with poetic semantics:
“Anyone who has ever seen the mountains in late autumn, when the last frost-glazed leaves still hang on the trees, when the earth is warmer than the sky and is slowly wasting away breath the first snows, when its strong bones are starting to protrude from the under the withered grass, when the darkness starts to seep from the washed out mornings of the horizon, when sounds finally become sharp and hang in the frost air like knives – he who has seen all this has witnessed the death of the world. But I would say the world is always dying, day after day, though for some reason only in late autumn is the entire mystery of that death laid bare.”
Tokcarzuk achieves once again a sense of artistic purity. Though it does not entirely match “Primeval and Other Times,” it still stands on its own weight and achievement. Though it seems a bit messy somewhat at times, it is still a good novel. It shows Tokcarzuk’s preoccupations; but it’s less contained and structured, and often seems to mosey along into tangents at times, that only later can come to mean something. Still a fascinating novel, something unique and different.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. Hello Gentle Reader, I am still experiencing some technical malfunctions with the computer, but the problem is getting fixed – with the end of the Christmas Season, normalcy should take place, once again, and life will flow in a quiet nature again. Again my apologies for the inconvenience and hope that all of you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.
Antonia Lloyd-Jones is an industrious translator. In two-thousand and twelve alone, she had published, seven Polish translations. In two-thousand and eight Lloyd-Jones had won, the Found in Translation Award. Again now in two-thousand and thirteen, Lloyd-Jones finds herself winning the award. With one exception. This award is usually handed out on the basis of a single work. This time Lloyd-Jones won the award, for her seven translations, done in the previous year. Anyone who has read Polish translations will most likely have seen the work of Antonia-Lloyd-Jones. From Paweł Huelle to Olga Tokarczuk; Lloyd-Jones has brought their works to the attention of English readers.
The worst part about reading is the ending. The dreaded final page. After which it’s all over. What has been written and said, now says: au revoir! (Because French language and literature go together like cheese and wine – French cheese and wine, naturally) – The ending breaks the writer, or exemplifies the writer. It tortures the reader with questions and queries; or it leaves the reader wondering if there is much use in going forward. Endings are usually far more acceptable in shorter works. Shorter works often have ambiguous and opaque endings. That leaves the reader, falling or flying in the softness of the air. Large novels, that finally reach the end, will stir two reactions. The slamming of the novel down; followed by the proclamation: “that’s it!” Upon which the book cannot find itself, in a home on the bookshelf, but rather find itself, collecting dust in a used and second hand bookstore, with a discounted price tag attached to it. A milder reaction of this one is: “Well at least that is finished.” The second reaction is that of melancholic pathos. It’s that bittersweet pill to swallow – the realization that it is all over. The story has been paced evenly. The characters were quickly renewed. Nothing was stale. There was a constant brain challenge. Then it’s over. The last page is flipped. It’s all over. This is why it took me so long to read “House of Day, House of Night.” It was the constant, attempt at thwarting the inevitable ending.
“House of Day, House of Night,” came after “Primeval and Other Times,” but was published in English before “Primeval and Other Times.” Part of the literary series “Writing From a Unbound Europe.” It introduced Olga Tokarczuk’s unique “episodic consciousness,” writing style, to English language readers. Both “House of Day, House of Night,” share numerous similarities. Both are made up short narratives, and stories, that evolve, mutate and connect with each other in a larger scheme, and whole. Both works, display the tragedies of human existence, the frailties of the individual against history. Yet both are also comical, in their depiction of the mundane, and the ever occurring irony, that pertains to day to day existence. Both are wise, and often focus on the esoteric. Yet where they differentiate, is that “Primeval and Other Times,” had a set of characters, which evolved and mutated, and died within the narrative. Their stories however lived on within the next generation, and their own tales. “Primeval and Other Times,” sought out to tell the history of the small village of Primeval. “House of Day, House of Night,” takes on these themes, but in a different way. Were “Primeval and Other Times,” is told from a wistful omnipresent narrator. A narrator who was objective, and all seeing. This narrator is a grand historian recording the myopic world of Primeval; and seeing its own miniscule events, reflecting the larger events around it, and entering it. “House of Day, House of Night,” has moments where the third person narrator returns. With the utmost natural ease. As if the third person is Tokarczuk’s, more natural writing perspective. For the most part, the novel is a first person account of life in Nowa Ruda. A small town in south-western Poland, bordering the Czech Republic. It once housed Germans, who called the town Neurode; but was later renamed the Polish Nowa Ruda.
The history behind Polish Nowa Ruda and the German Neurode, is hinted at. Though it’s not delved into; via an in-depth process. Nowa Ruda, became a Polish settlement, after the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. The new “Soviet,” Poles, found themselves, forced from their traditional homes, in the east – which had created Belorussia and Lithuania; and settled in the old German homes of Neurode. The Germans expelled, the Poles found themselves, in their new home – aptly renamed to a Polish name Nowa Ruda. The said Germans were expelled from their homes, and sought new homes in Germany, often made treks back; in this novel. Some come back to see their beloved homeland before they die – and in some cases, to die.
Our narrator is a strange, almost new age creature. Constantly on the search for esoteric patterns in life. From dreams, to the stars. She remembers the first encounters of people that are important to her. She can recall each of their details. She’s almost faux pas, mystical it appears. As if somehow the new age, beliefs of the narrator, are paramount, and often seen as earthly wholesome, wisdom. It actually bothered me. How the Tokcarzuk discussed divination methods. Methods via, ash or blood; tea leaves; or throwing knives, and reading their scattered blades. It became bothersome. Like a scratch just beneath the skin. Still Tokcarzuk makes up, for this flaw with her more, primary and delightful character portraits; and subjective observations. The way the narrator is both intrigued and baffled by her neighbour the wigmaker Marta. She also recounts and documents the stories, and the history of the world around her. How the Polish inhabitants have a shortcut that crosses into Czech territory. How the Czech and Poles comical, scenario of finding a dead, on the border, and move it to the others side. She recounts the life of a saint – and her biographer.
What is most special of Tokcarzuk’s writing so far, is that she can write about the most myopic, the most mundane; and banal. And still make it fascinating. She embellishes it with folktales, personal histories, myths, and magic. Dreams mix with reality. Reality mixes with wishes. Past and present, waltz on a clocks cog. Tokcarzuk has captured the absurdities of our lives, and the comical singing blade of irony, that cuts through it all, through and through. Just like the bank’s coffee ritual.
“At about ten the daily coffee – drink ritual began, announced by the clatter of aluminum tea-spoons and the sound of glasses striking softly against saucers – the usual office chimes. The precious ground coffee brought from home in jam jars was shared equally between the glasses, and formed a thick brown skin on the surface, briefly holding up the torrents of sugar. The smell of coffee filled the bank to the ceiling, and the farmers queuing for service kick themselves for having into the sacred coffee hour.”
Some of the interesting things that Tokcarzuk has done are repeat some success with “Primeval and Other Times.” She uses character portraits, to offer interesting twists into the story. Like Marek Marek, the handsome but violent drunk who discovers he has a bird that lives inside of him. His attempts at suicide are much like his life: unsuccessful – until he finds success with his life. Then there is the man who receives thoughts and messages from a newly discovered planet. So he builds himself a helmet made of ash wood. There he finds his thoughts free from the planetary influence. The novel also incorporates some interesting (if a bit deadly) recipes. Antonia Lloyd-Jones, herself writes, that this book should come with a warning: “Do not try these recipes.”
Tokcarzuk has created a wonderful novel. A novel that relies on poetic fragmentation; to allow her narrative, too move with ease, through the lives and homes of the inhabitants (historical and other wise) of Nowa Ruda. She mixes lush descriptions with poetic semantics:
“Anyone who has ever seen the mountains in late autumn, when the last frost-glazed leaves still hang on the trees, when the earth is warmer than the sky and is slowly wasting away breath the first snows, when its strong bones are starting to protrude from the under the withered grass, when the darkness starts to seep from the washed out mornings of the horizon, when sounds finally become sharp and hang in the frost air like knives – he who has seen all this has witnessed the death of the world. But I would say the world is always dying, day after day, though for some reason only in late autumn is the entire mystery of that death laid bare.”
Tokcarzuk achieves once again a sense of artistic purity. Though it does not entirely match “Primeval and Other Times,” it still stands on its own weight and achievement. Though it seems a bit messy somewhat at times, it is still a good novel. It shows Tokcarzuk’s preoccupations; but it’s less contained and structured, and often seems to mosey along into tangents at times, that only later can come to mean something. Still a fascinating novel, something unique and different.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. Hello Gentle Reader, I am still experiencing some technical malfunctions with the computer, but the problem is getting fixed – with the end of the Christmas Season, normalcy should take place, once again, and life will flow in a quiet nature again. Again my apologies for the inconvenience and hope that all of you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Technical Difficulties
Hello Gentle Reader
Due to technical difficulties, with the computer, there may be a prolonged absence, of reviews and other such material from this blog; until the problem is rectified. However, I do promise to be diligent and quick in the response to this unwarranted and unexpected malfunction of my computer, and its terminal access to you Gentle Reader.
In the meantime: Have a Merry Christmas my Dear Gentle Reader!
And if I do not have the issue, resolved, by the New Year. I wish you the best celebrations in welcoming in the New Year, and hope the coming New Year will be as wonderful as it has the previous one!
Again Gentle Reader, I would like to apologise for this inconvenience, and disruption of this blogs routine. However, it should be fixed in due time; and everything will be back on track.
Just to reiterate, though, Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Due to technical difficulties, with the computer, there may be a prolonged absence, of reviews and other such material from this blog; until the problem is rectified. However, I do promise to be diligent and quick in the response to this unwarranted and unexpected malfunction of my computer, and its terminal access to you Gentle Reader.
In the meantime: Have a Merry Christmas my Dear Gentle Reader!
And if I do not have the issue, resolved, by the New Year. I wish you the best celebrations in welcoming in the New Year, and hope the coming New Year will be as wonderful as it has the previous one!
Again Gentle Reader, I would like to apologise for this inconvenience, and disruption of this blogs routine. However, it should be fixed in due time; and everything will be back on track.
Just to reiterate, though, Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Friday, 13 December 2013
The Detour
Hello Gentle Reader
Emily Dickinson is the epitome of the poet. A reclusive and hermetic creature, who appears to survive on writing. Writing became the existential exercise of bringing conscious meaning to life. Besides that, the facts of Dickinson’s life are minimal. There is only one authenticated portrait of the poetess. Dickinson is one of America’s most beloved poets. Though she published very little in her life time – and what was published, was often edited and revised, to fit into the poetic tradition of the time. It was not until the nineteen-fifties with the publication of “Complete Poems,” by the publisher Thomas H Johnson, that Dickinson’s poems were published in their manuscript form. Furthermore, Dickinson had published most of her poems, anonymously. The few that she had ever published during her life time. Less than a dozen of her eighteen hundred poems had been published. The poetess style is, known for its unusual syntax and extensive use of dashes; as well as unconventional capitalization, and a use of half rhymes. As an individual, she is known – even in her time as an eccentric. She had a love of gardening. Gardens and flowers often populate her poems. Some of her poems were often sent to her correspondence with, posies. One of the legendary facts of Dickinson; was her hermetic and reclusive behaviour. She only left the homestead when absolutely necessary. She communicated with visitors, from the other side of doors, never face to face. She was rarely seen; and when she was, she was always dressed in white. Still, despite her seclusion and retirement from an immediate public life; she was known for her prolific socialisation via correspondence. It was with letters that Dickinson was able, to be expressive and socially active. When visitors did visit the homestead, she was known to leave or send posies and poems to the guests. Despite her seclusion, she was not intolerant of other people or social tendencies.
Dear Emily Dickinson was more renowned in her life time as a gardener, more than she was a poet. Most likely because her poetic, interests, were not common knowledge. Her classical Victorian education, included botany; and Dickinson and her sister, often tended the garden on the homestead. The garden of the Dickinson homestead was admired and revered locally – in its time. Unfortunately, the garden has not survived. Furthermore Emily did not leave any, list of plants that were in the garden; or any notebook of the garden layout or plans. However she did have a herbarium, which contained four hundred and twenty four pressed flowers.
Emily Dickinson is very important to the novel: “The Detour,” also published as “Ten White Geese.” The main character takes the name ‘Emilie,’ – and is an Emily Dickinson scholar, and professor of translation studies at a university within the Netherlands. Dickinson also makes repeated visits within the novel, with lines of her verse, populating it. This often gives the novel a poetic flare. The fact that the main character, is a Dickinson scholar, and is often reminded of lines of her verse, gives the main character an often interesting characterization. One line of verse that stood out for me was, from the poem “These Are the Days When Birds Come Back,” and the lines:
“These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.”
The line: “a blue and gold mistake,” is a striking image, mixed with the mild weather of Wales, in which ‘Emilie,’ finds herself. The way Bakker provided the line, in comparison to the November was poignant. Bakker’s prose is cool. It’s minimal and it is detached. It moves not by action, but by its own pace, which is based around daily activities; that along with the constant, threat of an underlying menace.
Bakker’s previous and debut novel “The Twin,” won the IMAPAC Literary Dublin Award; the most lucrative prize for a single piece of fiction (novel). The two novels share common similarities with style, Bakker’s trademark; cool and unadorned prose. Yet his sense of detail is precise. It is with these details that Bakker can create the most interesting tale. Bakker’s acute sense of environment and its relation to its characters is also a key component of both novels. With “The Twin,” the farm is both home, and hell. A constant reminder of poor memories, a troubled past, and a failed future, and depleted present. Helmers life abruptly ended, with the death of his twin, Henk. Helmer is then forced to abandon his own future, to take up the one destined for Henk. The Welsh countryside, in “The Detour,” achieves the same purpose. Wales becomes a strange and foreign land. A place populated by elusive living badgers and dead badgers. It’s scarcely populated. With many local residents, remarking that in the future all that will remain are badgers. That along with a stone circle, grazing sheep, and strange if somewhat incompetent residents, give the impression that Emilie is truly in a foreign land. Daily life is also paramount of these novels. Neither one of the novels, are filled with magical quests, or anything out of the ordinary. Both novels are filled with daily meditations and transactions. Strangely enough Bakker is able to; imbue these chores with a sense of rhythm. The novels begin to be pulled along by this rhythmic repetition of images and actions. Putting wood on the fire, cooking supper, walking, exploring, feeding the geese. All of these begin to carry their own weight. They eventually begin to hint at larger pictures.
“The Detour,” is not a novel that one reads, and is done with. This alone makes it difficult to review. It appears that any shred of information let lose, or given prematurely will upstart the delicate balance that Bakker has strived to achieve. This novel is far more opaque, then “The Twin,” was. It’s ethereal and compact. It leaves a lot unsaid, a lot of red herrings, and questions unanswered. Bakker gives hints to what is going on, but that is about, all that Bakker gives in regards to this novel. You do not know what is killing the geese, other than presumed fox or badger. The relationship between Rhys Jones and his estranged son Bradwen is not entirely clear. Neither is their reason for their estrangement. Then there is of course, ‘Emilie,’ fleeing her, husband and the Netherlands, after an abrupt end to an affair. This leaves her husband unsure about the relationship between himself and his wife; and his own strange relationship that forms, after he tries to set her office on fire, after learning about the affair and her abrupt disappearance. Then of course comes the, menace that lurks behind every page of the novel. What is wrong with ‘Emilie,’? She pops pain killers as if they were candy; and smells things, that rationally are not produced within the environment. After seeing two badgers – quiet shy and lumbering animals; fight, and retreat back into the bush; she smells coconut in the air. Then the fact that, her husband realises something medically is wrong with ‘Emilie;’ though their doctor is not sharing the information. Though it is safe to presume, that whatever it is, is terminal. This explains ‘Emilie’s,’ inability to pay much mind to time itself. Openly disregarding its presence entirely.
The novel thrives off this menacing atmosphere. The atmosphere gripes the reader, the daily transactions move the narrator, and the strand relationships of the characters, keep the drama intact. No matter how quiet it is. It is no wonder why it won the “The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.” It’s a quiet novel. A novel that thrives on its desolate landscape that is strikingly beautiful, and ridden with despair. The characters hold more to themselves then they do share. Their relationships strained or their contact and knowledge of each other, minimal to non-existent. The judges themselves were won over by its themes of exile, infidelity, and isolation – seen through misted windows; making sure that not all secrets are entirely shared. It moves swiftly. It does not waste a word. Everything is carefully chosen. The words are precise and the imagery lush and spare. The book itself lingers. It lingers in the mind like unswept corners and dusty chinks of the house. They are there. They are out of sight. Yet their existence is there. That existence alone is what lingers in the mind. Such is what “The Detour,” is like. A mistaken turn, that leads one down a foreign and beautiful, desolate world.
“The Detour,” is a striking novel. A novel of mundane oddities. Geese that go missing. A dead former owner whose scent fills the house. Strange residences, who know more then they let on. To compare “The Detour,” and “The Twin,” is unable to do either justice. Bakker has delivered a novel that is readable, mysterious and extremely opaque. It’ll take some re-reading to understand, and see the hints and the hints that are missed the first time around, in order to fully understand the novel. It’s a quiet read; but not entirely straightforward. Incredibly atmospheric; and rather interesting. Bakker delivered what he offered in “The Twin,” in a repackaged novel, which is a bit more eccentric, in its literary tastes.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Emily Dickinson is the epitome of the poet. A reclusive and hermetic creature, who appears to survive on writing. Writing became the existential exercise of bringing conscious meaning to life. Besides that, the facts of Dickinson’s life are minimal. There is only one authenticated portrait of the poetess. Dickinson is one of America’s most beloved poets. Though she published very little in her life time – and what was published, was often edited and revised, to fit into the poetic tradition of the time. It was not until the nineteen-fifties with the publication of “Complete Poems,” by the publisher Thomas H Johnson, that Dickinson’s poems were published in their manuscript form. Furthermore, Dickinson had published most of her poems, anonymously. The few that she had ever published during her life time. Less than a dozen of her eighteen hundred poems had been published. The poetess style is, known for its unusual syntax and extensive use of dashes; as well as unconventional capitalization, and a use of half rhymes. As an individual, she is known – even in her time as an eccentric. She had a love of gardening. Gardens and flowers often populate her poems. Some of her poems were often sent to her correspondence with, posies. One of the legendary facts of Dickinson; was her hermetic and reclusive behaviour. She only left the homestead when absolutely necessary. She communicated with visitors, from the other side of doors, never face to face. She was rarely seen; and when she was, she was always dressed in white. Still, despite her seclusion and retirement from an immediate public life; she was known for her prolific socialisation via correspondence. It was with letters that Dickinson was able, to be expressive and socially active. When visitors did visit the homestead, she was known to leave or send posies and poems to the guests. Despite her seclusion, she was not intolerant of other people or social tendencies.
Dear Emily Dickinson was more renowned in her life time as a gardener, more than she was a poet. Most likely because her poetic, interests, were not common knowledge. Her classical Victorian education, included botany; and Dickinson and her sister, often tended the garden on the homestead. The garden of the Dickinson homestead was admired and revered locally – in its time. Unfortunately, the garden has not survived. Furthermore Emily did not leave any, list of plants that were in the garden; or any notebook of the garden layout or plans. However she did have a herbarium, which contained four hundred and twenty four pressed flowers.
Emily Dickinson is very important to the novel: “The Detour,” also published as “Ten White Geese.” The main character takes the name ‘Emilie,’ – and is an Emily Dickinson scholar, and professor of translation studies at a university within the Netherlands. Dickinson also makes repeated visits within the novel, with lines of her verse, populating it. This often gives the novel a poetic flare. The fact that the main character, is a Dickinson scholar, and is often reminded of lines of her verse, gives the main character an often interesting characterization. One line of verse that stood out for me was, from the poem “These Are the Days When Birds Come Back,” and the lines:
“These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.”
The line: “a blue and gold mistake,” is a striking image, mixed with the mild weather of Wales, in which ‘Emilie,’ finds herself. The way Bakker provided the line, in comparison to the November was poignant. Bakker’s prose is cool. It’s minimal and it is detached. It moves not by action, but by its own pace, which is based around daily activities; that along with the constant, threat of an underlying menace.
Bakker’s previous and debut novel “The Twin,” won the IMAPAC Literary Dublin Award; the most lucrative prize for a single piece of fiction (novel). The two novels share common similarities with style, Bakker’s trademark; cool and unadorned prose. Yet his sense of detail is precise. It is with these details that Bakker can create the most interesting tale. Bakker’s acute sense of environment and its relation to its characters is also a key component of both novels. With “The Twin,” the farm is both home, and hell. A constant reminder of poor memories, a troubled past, and a failed future, and depleted present. Helmers life abruptly ended, with the death of his twin, Henk. Helmer is then forced to abandon his own future, to take up the one destined for Henk. The Welsh countryside, in “The Detour,” achieves the same purpose. Wales becomes a strange and foreign land. A place populated by elusive living badgers and dead badgers. It’s scarcely populated. With many local residents, remarking that in the future all that will remain are badgers. That along with a stone circle, grazing sheep, and strange if somewhat incompetent residents, give the impression that Emilie is truly in a foreign land. Daily life is also paramount of these novels. Neither one of the novels, are filled with magical quests, or anything out of the ordinary. Both novels are filled with daily meditations and transactions. Strangely enough Bakker is able to; imbue these chores with a sense of rhythm. The novels begin to be pulled along by this rhythmic repetition of images and actions. Putting wood on the fire, cooking supper, walking, exploring, feeding the geese. All of these begin to carry their own weight. They eventually begin to hint at larger pictures.
“The Detour,” is not a novel that one reads, and is done with. This alone makes it difficult to review. It appears that any shred of information let lose, or given prematurely will upstart the delicate balance that Bakker has strived to achieve. This novel is far more opaque, then “The Twin,” was. It’s ethereal and compact. It leaves a lot unsaid, a lot of red herrings, and questions unanswered. Bakker gives hints to what is going on, but that is about, all that Bakker gives in regards to this novel. You do not know what is killing the geese, other than presumed fox or badger. The relationship between Rhys Jones and his estranged son Bradwen is not entirely clear. Neither is their reason for their estrangement. Then there is of course, ‘Emilie,’ fleeing her, husband and the Netherlands, after an abrupt end to an affair. This leaves her husband unsure about the relationship between himself and his wife; and his own strange relationship that forms, after he tries to set her office on fire, after learning about the affair and her abrupt disappearance. Then of course comes the, menace that lurks behind every page of the novel. What is wrong with ‘Emilie,’? She pops pain killers as if they were candy; and smells things, that rationally are not produced within the environment. After seeing two badgers – quiet shy and lumbering animals; fight, and retreat back into the bush; she smells coconut in the air. Then the fact that, her husband realises something medically is wrong with ‘Emilie;’ though their doctor is not sharing the information. Though it is safe to presume, that whatever it is, is terminal. This explains ‘Emilie’s,’ inability to pay much mind to time itself. Openly disregarding its presence entirely.
The novel thrives off this menacing atmosphere. The atmosphere gripes the reader, the daily transactions move the narrator, and the strand relationships of the characters, keep the drama intact. No matter how quiet it is. It is no wonder why it won the “The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.” It’s a quiet novel. A novel that thrives on its desolate landscape that is strikingly beautiful, and ridden with despair. The characters hold more to themselves then they do share. Their relationships strained or their contact and knowledge of each other, minimal to non-existent. The judges themselves were won over by its themes of exile, infidelity, and isolation – seen through misted windows; making sure that not all secrets are entirely shared. It moves swiftly. It does not waste a word. Everything is carefully chosen. The words are precise and the imagery lush and spare. The book itself lingers. It lingers in the mind like unswept corners and dusty chinks of the house. They are there. They are out of sight. Yet their existence is there. That existence alone is what lingers in the mind. Such is what “The Detour,” is like. A mistaken turn, that leads one down a foreign and beautiful, desolate world.
“The Detour,” is a striking novel. A novel of mundane oddities. Geese that go missing. A dead former owner whose scent fills the house. Strange residences, who know more then they let on. To compare “The Detour,” and “The Twin,” is unable to do either justice. Bakker has delivered a novel that is readable, mysterious and extremely opaque. It’ll take some re-reading to understand, and see the hints and the hints that are missed the first time around, in order to fully understand the novel. It’s a quiet read; but not entirely straightforward. Incredibly atmospheric; and rather interesting. Bakker delivered what he offered in “The Twin,” in a repackaged novel, which is a bit more eccentric, in its literary tastes.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Sunday, 8 December 2013
Dear Life
( My Dearest Gentle Reader: Due to some unforeseen circumstances -- in regards to personal illness, I was unable to post these past few weeks. I greatly apologize, and plan on getting back to the usual routine. In honour of Alice Munro's Nobel Lecture I post this review of her latest and possibly last short story collection: "Dear Life." )
Hello Gentle Reader
The title of the new Nobel Laureate in Literature, Alice Munro’s, latest and possibly last collection, brings to mind, two thoughts: an exasperated burst of resentment of one’s own life of regret. On the other hand, the title brings to mind, a formal letter one would write to their own life – a letter that one may write, and tuck away for years, only to come back to it, later and look back on it. When Alice Munro was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature, there was no sarcastic “who?” or complaint, that the Swedish Academy is Eurocentric. With Alice Munro, the Swedish Academy had awarded the prize to a Canadian – the first time the accolade, was given to a Canadian writer; but also a woman. However, to say that Alice Munro achieved the accolade, solely because she was a Canadian and a woman would be patronizing. Mrs. Alice Munro won the award on her own merit. Alice’s career spans six decades; and is comprised completely of short stories. A form often looked down upon. It is often seen as the poor cousin or compatriot of the novel; which is something that more serious authors write. However Alice Munro has shown the capacity for the short story to reflect on the human condition. The only difference between the short story and novel is length. Alice’s stories share the same breadth, as the novel. The only difference is that they are paired down, and stripped of unessential ornamentation, and get to the point in the most essential details. What is not necessary is implied. Along with Chekhov, Munro has shown her ability to reflect, and understand the human condition. Focusing her stories on epiphany moments, Munro shows the extraordinary in the mundane lives of people, trapped in small backwater communities, of south eastern Ontario. These people do their best to navigate their lives. Their lives are riddled with mistakes, missed opportunities and regrets. Yet their lives are theirs alone; and for that, they are left to navigate them alone.
The stories in the collection “Dear Life,” are the stories of women. The stories of men revolve around women. This is not a slight on Alice Munro’s part. She herself empathises with the lives of girls and women, as that is the life she herself has lived. One often writes about what they know. However do not expect to find Alice Munro in the romance section of some bookstore. She’s not a sentimental author. She does not gush or idealise the world her characters inhabit. She does not write of passion. Sex and love, happens like a daily occurrence; much like peeling potatoes or chopping carrots. Romance and sex, is simply the trajectory of the lives of the characters. However Alice Munro is not interested in romance or sex as intimate communication. Munro is far more interested in human companionship. Infidelity and heartbreak happens. But they happen like breaking a dish. It’s an unfortunate occurrence, which one just quickly picks up the large pieces, before sweeping up the shards and fragments.
The stories of “Dear Life,” are pared down. Many critics have praised Alice Munro’s past work, for their long, detailed naturalist style. The work of “Dear Life,” is far more expressionist in their style. Backstories are sketched, if necessary – leaving a lot for the reader to ponder and theorize. The stories are also built with abrupt departures, reversals, and moments of poor judgement and coincidence. Like Greta whose lapse in judgement allowed her to leave her daughter sleeping alone in train carriage, while she slipped off for tryst with a stranger. The outcome makes our stomachs slightly lurch, and our minds believe that such actions have consequences. Yet despite the pared down, style of these stories; as readers, each of us gets quite comfortable with our strange and shadowy travelers. They sit next to us on the train; or the bus. These people sit on the bus stop bench with us. We walk away from them in the morning. We stand behind them at the till in the evening. They quietly read their newspaper, or their book. Perhaps they play Sudoku. They mind themselves; as we keep to ourselves. Still their ordinary; if a bit banal lives, are just as extraordinary as any other. Theirs stories of past family indiscretions. How a child born out of wedlock, was given to an aunt, or distant relative to be raised; and be ignorant and unaware of its origins. Secret youthful engagements; when we thought we could love not another; only to be turned down at the last minute. These are our secrets. They are the secrets of fellow passengers, and our own. Each of us keeps to ourselves, out of politeness and a secret desire to be invisible. In these regards, we become shadows, faceless and transparent. When our stops arrive, each of us gets up. Our eyes are downcast as each of us get off at the designated stop. Yet one amongst us – Alice Munro; see’s the secrets of our lives, and turns them into her stories. That is why Alice Munro stories are cherished and loved by so many. She writes of the mundane and the banal; but also the secrets that tie each of us together. Hidden transgressions, which we would rather, not reveal even to ourselves. This is what makes Alice Munro a finely tuned story teller. She can write about the ordinary; but make it appealing and interesting; and on the flip side; she can make the extraordinary tame; putting it in its place, amongst the cutlery, the dishes or the inherited china.
Though Munro often could be seen as reusing her material continuously – and therefore would be called a master of variations on the same theme; it does appear to work for her. Each story holds the weight of the sliver of a life we are observing. At the same time, the story, tell us of the different paths and variations the story could have gone. Just like how Greta’s husband Peter and his mother “Too Reach Japan,” escape Soviet Occupied Czechoslovakia. Though Greta cannot remember the name of the mountains that Peter was carried over, it shows the ambiguity of life itself, and how decisions birth or destroy our futures:
‘“I’ve read stories like that,” Greta said, when Peter first told her about this. She explained how in the stories the baby would start to cry and invariably had to be smothered or strangled so that the noise did not endanger the whole illegal party.”
Though Peter states he never heard such stories, and cannot believe his mother would do such an act; it goes to prove that if such stories did exist, the act itself, would have meant children like Peter would not have survived; and therefore would not go on to marry Greta. Greta then would have found another – or perhaps she would not have married at all. What would come of their daughter Katy then? It is these unanswered questions these variations, these bends and forks in the roads that Munro thrives on.
“Amundsen,” is one of my personal favourites. The title itself, made me think of some small community or village in the Netherlands. Curiously enough it also brought to mind Knut Hamsun to mind as well. Still both thoughts were completely irrelevant, and based solely on the title. However the description that Alice gives, to match this strange world, that our heroine is about to enter, shows the brutality of the weather of the countryside; as well as World War II haunting behind the story itself.
“Then there was silence, the air like ice. Brittle-looking birch trees with black marks on their white bark, and some kind of small untidy evergreens rolled up like sleepy bears. The frozen lake not level but mounded along the shore, as if the waves had turned to ice in the act of falling.”
“Leaving Maverley,” is one such story that Alice Munro has a male characters story orbit around a woman. It is a story of a police officer, who cares for his ailing wife – and becomes obsessed with a religiously obsessed young woman; who in tragic circumstances goes missing in a blizzard. This woman becomes the man’s obsession. By happenstance or extraordinary circumstances, when our police officer, now working as a janitor in a hospital he once again encounters the lost blizzard bible clutching girl. Once again Munro focuses on companionship between men and women that appear to transcend time itself. That being said, Munro is not an author who makes her punches bold and aware. The drama of these stories creeps up and slips by. Munro is a poet of the understatement, and completely, makes sure nothing appears campy or over the top. Everything comes and falls down, and settles; like snow in place.
The last four pieces of this work are perhaps the most enlightening and interesting. As Alice points out to us in the short forward:
“The final four works in this book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last—and the closest—things I have to say about my own life.”
These following reflections, at the end of this book, are revelatory but at the same time inhabit a land in fiction, not entirely truthful, and not entirely fictitious. They are reflections, from memory that through process, went through the imagination – though not explicitly so. In the one memory fragment “Dear Life,” we see the protestant moral code of conduct take center stage. Alice, our reflective narrator, informs us, of how she went to another school – after war had been declared on Germany, and the old school house, where she was tormented, and threatened with being beaten up, and her lunch stolen. There she meets Diane; someone who would have become a friend. When Alice’s mother finds out where her daughter was, she honks the horn to summon her from the house. When Diane’s grandmother waves, Alice’s does not return the gesture. It is revealed that yes Diane’s mother was dead. But she was a prostitute; a crime that most likely haunted Diane through her more aware years. Alice’s mother in turn – much like all the others; we presume, shuns this house, and the daughter. They wish to keep their own children away from something tainted – or what they think is tainted, by immoral behaviour. Yet there are other more odd and gothic descriptions within “Dear Life,” the fragment. Such as the deranged and poor mad Mrs. Netterfield; who in some form or another always haunted Alice, ever since she spooked her own mother.
The fragments are some of Alice’s most tender writing, carefully constructed, and reflected upon. Their memories, are almost poetic, and their first person narration, offer that slight empathetic feeling of one’s ability to comprehend the world in which Alice has come from, and how much has changed since then.
In the beginning of Alice’s career, her work was often feared because it was ‘rough,’ for a women writer. The language was often seen as violent for the time; and even vulgar. That perception has changed a lot. As the years rolled on, Alice came be to seen more as a writer of lives lived, but lives filled with regrets and guilt. These were the lives, much like our own, full of naturalist storytelling and acute psychological realism; all written in a simple and clear way. As the age old prudishness has died down and died away, Alice’s stories showed themselves for being gentle in their depiction of sad and hardened lives, and the resilient nature of the people that live them. In person she is proper, quiet and much like her stories understated. It is this humility and modesty – and even shyness that makes, Munro a fascinating author, as well as person. When the Nobel was announced there was a collective sigh of relief of finally, and great cheers of excitement and happiness. The award will bring her attention to newer readers, who will travel down the back gravel roads of Huron County Ontario; sit in country stations waiting for the train or tram to come – and it may never come. They will see old farmsteads falling down; barns crumbling away; after such hard work had been put into it. Empty fields and bitter snowstorms. This is the world Alice inhabits; as well as her characters. They come from genteel poverty or lower middle class at best. Their communities are stifled with protestant morality. It’s a provincial and unique world all her own; and in those same regards, Alice Munro has brought them to the attention of the world.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Hello Gentle Reader
The title of the new Nobel Laureate in Literature, Alice Munro’s, latest and possibly last collection, brings to mind, two thoughts: an exasperated burst of resentment of one’s own life of regret. On the other hand, the title brings to mind, a formal letter one would write to their own life – a letter that one may write, and tuck away for years, only to come back to it, later and look back on it. When Alice Munro was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature, there was no sarcastic “who?” or complaint, that the Swedish Academy is Eurocentric. With Alice Munro, the Swedish Academy had awarded the prize to a Canadian – the first time the accolade, was given to a Canadian writer; but also a woman. However, to say that Alice Munro achieved the accolade, solely because she was a Canadian and a woman would be patronizing. Mrs. Alice Munro won the award on her own merit. Alice’s career spans six decades; and is comprised completely of short stories. A form often looked down upon. It is often seen as the poor cousin or compatriot of the novel; which is something that more serious authors write. However Alice Munro has shown the capacity for the short story to reflect on the human condition. The only difference between the short story and novel is length. Alice’s stories share the same breadth, as the novel. The only difference is that they are paired down, and stripped of unessential ornamentation, and get to the point in the most essential details. What is not necessary is implied. Along with Chekhov, Munro has shown her ability to reflect, and understand the human condition. Focusing her stories on epiphany moments, Munro shows the extraordinary in the mundane lives of people, trapped in small backwater communities, of south eastern Ontario. These people do their best to navigate their lives. Their lives are riddled with mistakes, missed opportunities and regrets. Yet their lives are theirs alone; and for that, they are left to navigate them alone.
The stories in the collection “Dear Life,” are the stories of women. The stories of men revolve around women. This is not a slight on Alice Munro’s part. She herself empathises with the lives of girls and women, as that is the life she herself has lived. One often writes about what they know. However do not expect to find Alice Munro in the romance section of some bookstore. She’s not a sentimental author. She does not gush or idealise the world her characters inhabit. She does not write of passion. Sex and love, happens like a daily occurrence; much like peeling potatoes or chopping carrots. Romance and sex, is simply the trajectory of the lives of the characters. However Alice Munro is not interested in romance or sex as intimate communication. Munro is far more interested in human companionship. Infidelity and heartbreak happens. But they happen like breaking a dish. It’s an unfortunate occurrence, which one just quickly picks up the large pieces, before sweeping up the shards and fragments.
The stories of “Dear Life,” are pared down. Many critics have praised Alice Munro’s past work, for their long, detailed naturalist style. The work of “Dear Life,” is far more expressionist in their style. Backstories are sketched, if necessary – leaving a lot for the reader to ponder and theorize. The stories are also built with abrupt departures, reversals, and moments of poor judgement and coincidence. Like Greta whose lapse in judgement allowed her to leave her daughter sleeping alone in train carriage, while she slipped off for tryst with a stranger. The outcome makes our stomachs slightly lurch, and our minds believe that such actions have consequences. Yet despite the pared down, style of these stories; as readers, each of us gets quite comfortable with our strange and shadowy travelers. They sit next to us on the train; or the bus. These people sit on the bus stop bench with us. We walk away from them in the morning. We stand behind them at the till in the evening. They quietly read their newspaper, or their book. Perhaps they play Sudoku. They mind themselves; as we keep to ourselves. Still their ordinary; if a bit banal lives, are just as extraordinary as any other. Theirs stories of past family indiscretions. How a child born out of wedlock, was given to an aunt, or distant relative to be raised; and be ignorant and unaware of its origins. Secret youthful engagements; when we thought we could love not another; only to be turned down at the last minute. These are our secrets. They are the secrets of fellow passengers, and our own. Each of us keeps to ourselves, out of politeness and a secret desire to be invisible. In these regards, we become shadows, faceless and transparent. When our stops arrive, each of us gets up. Our eyes are downcast as each of us get off at the designated stop. Yet one amongst us – Alice Munro; see’s the secrets of our lives, and turns them into her stories. That is why Alice Munro stories are cherished and loved by so many. She writes of the mundane and the banal; but also the secrets that tie each of us together. Hidden transgressions, which we would rather, not reveal even to ourselves. This is what makes Alice Munro a finely tuned story teller. She can write about the ordinary; but make it appealing and interesting; and on the flip side; she can make the extraordinary tame; putting it in its place, amongst the cutlery, the dishes or the inherited china.
Though Munro often could be seen as reusing her material continuously – and therefore would be called a master of variations on the same theme; it does appear to work for her. Each story holds the weight of the sliver of a life we are observing. At the same time, the story, tell us of the different paths and variations the story could have gone. Just like how Greta’s husband Peter and his mother “Too Reach Japan,” escape Soviet Occupied Czechoslovakia. Though Greta cannot remember the name of the mountains that Peter was carried over, it shows the ambiguity of life itself, and how decisions birth or destroy our futures:
‘“I’ve read stories like that,” Greta said, when Peter first told her about this. She explained how in the stories the baby would start to cry and invariably had to be smothered or strangled so that the noise did not endanger the whole illegal party.”
Though Peter states he never heard such stories, and cannot believe his mother would do such an act; it goes to prove that if such stories did exist, the act itself, would have meant children like Peter would not have survived; and therefore would not go on to marry Greta. Greta then would have found another – or perhaps she would not have married at all. What would come of their daughter Katy then? It is these unanswered questions these variations, these bends and forks in the roads that Munro thrives on.
“Amundsen,” is one of my personal favourites. The title itself, made me think of some small community or village in the Netherlands. Curiously enough it also brought to mind Knut Hamsun to mind as well. Still both thoughts were completely irrelevant, and based solely on the title. However the description that Alice gives, to match this strange world, that our heroine is about to enter, shows the brutality of the weather of the countryside; as well as World War II haunting behind the story itself.
“Then there was silence, the air like ice. Brittle-looking birch trees with black marks on their white bark, and some kind of small untidy evergreens rolled up like sleepy bears. The frozen lake not level but mounded along the shore, as if the waves had turned to ice in the act of falling.”
“Leaving Maverley,” is one such story that Alice Munro has a male characters story orbit around a woman. It is a story of a police officer, who cares for his ailing wife – and becomes obsessed with a religiously obsessed young woman; who in tragic circumstances goes missing in a blizzard. This woman becomes the man’s obsession. By happenstance or extraordinary circumstances, when our police officer, now working as a janitor in a hospital he once again encounters the lost blizzard bible clutching girl. Once again Munro focuses on companionship between men and women that appear to transcend time itself. That being said, Munro is not an author who makes her punches bold and aware. The drama of these stories creeps up and slips by. Munro is a poet of the understatement, and completely, makes sure nothing appears campy or over the top. Everything comes and falls down, and settles; like snow in place.
The last four pieces of this work are perhaps the most enlightening and interesting. As Alice points out to us in the short forward:
“The final four works in this book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last—and the closest—things I have to say about my own life.”
These following reflections, at the end of this book, are revelatory but at the same time inhabit a land in fiction, not entirely truthful, and not entirely fictitious. They are reflections, from memory that through process, went through the imagination – though not explicitly so. In the one memory fragment “Dear Life,” we see the protestant moral code of conduct take center stage. Alice, our reflective narrator, informs us, of how she went to another school – after war had been declared on Germany, and the old school house, where she was tormented, and threatened with being beaten up, and her lunch stolen. There she meets Diane; someone who would have become a friend. When Alice’s mother finds out where her daughter was, she honks the horn to summon her from the house. When Diane’s grandmother waves, Alice’s does not return the gesture. It is revealed that yes Diane’s mother was dead. But she was a prostitute; a crime that most likely haunted Diane through her more aware years. Alice’s mother in turn – much like all the others; we presume, shuns this house, and the daughter. They wish to keep their own children away from something tainted – or what they think is tainted, by immoral behaviour. Yet there are other more odd and gothic descriptions within “Dear Life,” the fragment. Such as the deranged and poor mad Mrs. Netterfield; who in some form or another always haunted Alice, ever since she spooked her own mother.
The fragments are some of Alice’s most tender writing, carefully constructed, and reflected upon. Their memories, are almost poetic, and their first person narration, offer that slight empathetic feeling of one’s ability to comprehend the world in which Alice has come from, and how much has changed since then.
In the beginning of Alice’s career, her work was often feared because it was ‘rough,’ for a women writer. The language was often seen as violent for the time; and even vulgar. That perception has changed a lot. As the years rolled on, Alice came be to seen more as a writer of lives lived, but lives filled with regrets and guilt. These were the lives, much like our own, full of naturalist storytelling and acute psychological realism; all written in a simple and clear way. As the age old prudishness has died down and died away, Alice’s stories showed themselves for being gentle in their depiction of sad and hardened lives, and the resilient nature of the people that live them. In person she is proper, quiet and much like her stories understated. It is this humility and modesty – and even shyness that makes, Munro a fascinating author, as well as person. When the Nobel was announced there was a collective sigh of relief of finally, and great cheers of excitement and happiness. The award will bring her attention to newer readers, who will travel down the back gravel roads of Huron County Ontario; sit in country stations waiting for the train or tram to come – and it may never come. They will see old farmsteads falling down; barns crumbling away; after such hard work had been put into it. Empty fields and bitter snowstorms. This is the world Alice inhabits; as well as her characters. They come from genteel poverty or lower middle class at best. Their communities are stifled with protestant morality. It’s a provincial and unique world all her own; and in those same regards, Alice Munro has brought them to the attention of the world.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
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