Hello Gentle Reader
In this collection of what appears to be essays, or memoires, or short fiction – Giedra Radvilavičiūtė has accomplished an interesting, feat. As a baker takes apples, dough – this is made of eggs and flour and water – and combined it with sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and other ingredients, to create a pie or a pastry. So has Giedra Radvilavičiūtė taken aspects of her own life, and that around her, and combined it with fiction, and satire, to create a book that is very engaging, but ambiguous. As the tongue, slides over the food, the combination of ingredients becomes, difficult to distinguish. It’s an enjoyable pleasure – yet the tongue can’t quite place what it is. The ingredients become a harmonious symphony; played accurately on the taste buds. This is exactly what Radvilavičiūtė has done with, text and language. She has obliterated the normal conventions of a story. Buried them in the garden next to the roses. What is left is something entirely unfamiliar, and engagingly welcoming. What has been, disposed of, has left behind, a new sense of literary freedom; one in which Radvilavičiūtė exploits and excels at. Giedra Radvilavičiūtė takes everyday occurrences and weaves a story that blurs the line between fiction and memory. What, could be read as a columnists autobiographical sketch, on the stories and histories of a life, that the everyday reader can come to engage and sympathize with. These readers are everywhere. The man on the bus, reading the paper on his way to work; if only to pass the time. The woman in the kitchen, who got distracted by the columns heading, rather than the continual search for the crossword puzzle; and the answers of last week’s puzzle. That lonely old man drinking coffee in the cafe, and reading the weather forecast only to stumble on it. Such is the act of communication; and the art of understanding.
Many readers will be unsure of the perspective of this book. Is it, in fact a book of short stories, or are they in fact a book of essays? Even the publisher is unable to fully agree, or completely explain with the utmost clarity, as to exactly what kind of state this book exists. Or is it in fact some alchemical abnormality? Could it be that it’s a chimera of the short story and the essay? Some experiment of breeding two different literary species; or grafting to literary types, into some Frankenstein creation. Whatever they are, they are enjoyable. They are odd little creations. They are a breath of fresh air. Radvilavičiūtėhas burst open the windows. She shoo’s out the dust bunnies, brings forth the sun into the room, and as the stale air of literary claustrophobia glides out the open window; a new day rushes into the room. The palace of dust has blown away in just one gentle brush of an afternoon breeze.
Yet still something about the work itself gnaws away on the reader. Are these narcissistic stories, in the fashion of auto-fiction? Or are they simply essays, which stretch the truth, for the sake of a sentimental punch? It’s hard to say. I wondered myself if Giedra Radvilavičiūtė received a piece of wood, burned with the picture of a house, and a sparrow. Did the young boy grow sick – and did they never see each other again after that. For Radvilavičiūtė had been moved to another school; only to see the boy once again, in his blue jeans as an adult, thumbs in his tight pockets, with his wife. Was this truth? Or was it truly, a dream. A desire; a memory infected with imagination, of how we wish the past was, rather than what it had become.
All of the uncertainties of this collection of essays, memoirs, diary entries, autobiographical columns; do not affect the quality of this work. Radvilavičiūtė’s work is enjoyable.Her prose is well written; lyrical and has a dash of satire to it; combined all the ingredients – one is left with an entertaining book. Radvilavičiūtė may have done away with the normal conventions of, story, but in its place, she has filled the void with the same amount of entertainment. Radvilavičiūtė ponders exile, autumnal people verses their sporting counter parts; the old fashioned versus the modern. She discusses the fears and inabilities, of being unable to feel that she could write a novel. She discusses, being a parent and the difficulties and challenges of being a mother – but also an attempt at being an individual, with the responsibilities of taking care of someone else other than herself. One of the greatest parts of this book by Radvilavičiūtė was her discussion on home and exile. Her childhood curiosity with a place called “America,” – a place of blue jeans, and hot dogs – the kind of fairy-tale kingdom that she was not sure where it existed; but was well aware that it was spoken in nostalgic and dreamy tones. However Radvilavičiūtė also discusses the fears of where she lived. Perhaps not outright but she describes the situation in matter of fact journalistic format. She describes how her mother informed her to speak in a whisper, and that the blinds were shut; when the soldiers came into town. There is the description of how their bayonets ripped her pillows, and the mattress. However Radvilavičiūtė fell into sentimental cliché here – or the translation did. The feathers are described; from the mind’s eye of her childhood herself – to have fallen like snow. The soldiers however are not described as Jack Frost, or like Santa Claus.
The signing revolution that had spread, through the Baltics during the late eighties – from Estonia to Latvia – and to Radvilavičiūtė’s homeland of Lithuania; had been described as stressful and fearful – though a sense of underlying hope was also there. Where people boldly went out into public places, defying the military might whose presence alone, was to quell and subdue the people, into silence. However it did not. The Baltics were some of the first Soviet Satellites, to receive and declare independence. Sąjūdis is what the reform movement was called. During this time, Lithuania was able to change the language laws – having the official language changed to Lithuanian. The other most significant change of this period in Lithuanian history was the ability to fly the former National Flag of the Independent Lithuania. This all eventually led to Lithuania breaking free from the Soviet Union, which in turn, helped dissolve the Soviet Union.
Radvilavičiūtė discusses exile; and what it means to lose your home:
“[. . .] it takes a long to make a stranger one’s own again.”
Radvilavičiūtė continues discussing one’s homeland, as a nostalgic souvenir. The kind of gift shop parting trinket, which one places on their mantle place or on the dresser. Sometimes they wind up, with a tune. Other times they just look delightful. Reminding the beholder, of days that are passed; days that never can be again; that exist in memory alone.
“When you live in exile for a long time (even by choice), your native land becomes a souvenir. A tiny house in water under a glass dome. When you shake the dome, plastic snow falls (like real snow) on the cottage. A souvenir in a room (in memory) should have a strictly assigned spot; otherwise it begins to get in the way. Sometimes people, not knowing how to live in the present tense as animals, do move in under that dome themselves.”
This book is wonderful. However it can come across a bit intimate. For some readers the closeness of this confessional divulgence – maybe uncomfortable. Thankfully satire and humour are used to quell that confessional format. Radvilavičiūtė is not a philosopher. Her essays or stories are more like columns. Thoughts, memories, questions, and characters all appear. She does not question the meaning of life. Radvilavičiūtė looks around at the domestic and microcosm universe of the mundane, and from there is able to relate the most basic duties of daily life, into the scheme of larger issues of the macrocosm of the human condition in general. However, the greatest upset with this book is not that, it’s entertaining and well written. The issue is, that it is not quite clear what kind of book one is expecting. Admittedly this did draw me into the book, in the beginning. After a while the book appeared like it was beginning to repeat itself, running around on ground that had already been crossed on.
In the end the book is good. Radvilavičiūtė is a humorous author. She can write compellingly, and interestingly. Her discussions on the mundane, are startling and revelatory about what the daily actions of our lives, reveal about us. Her high powered, introspective perception is turned on herself and others; in the discussion of people of the autumn and the people of spring. No subject it appears is off limits. She discusses her cat. His skill at playing with the computer mouse. The challenge now: batting the device with his eyes closed. She discusses raising her daughter; living with her daughter. Howe we all age without giving consent; and how the world never slows down, even if we do. In all it’s an empathetic book. Despite its quirks its wroth the read.
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, 30 January 2014
Thursday, 23 January 2014
In Literary News -- Translations and Global Literary Culture
Hello Gentle Reader
(I)
Small presses like Archipelago Books, And Other Stories Press, Peirene Press; as well as larger publications like Dalkey Archive Press and New Directions Books; as well as literary publications like Three Percent Review, affiliated with Open Letter Books, and The Best Translated Book Award; are champions of the other languages. English language countries have a cold attitude and distrusting feelings towards, other languages and their literary works. The common argument is what is a book from Finland about artificial intelligence, becoming conscious and aware, have any relevancy towards an English speaking reader; what about a Romanian authors surreal tale of the stifling life under Communism? The truth is this is a small and flawed argument. Global literature is literature surpassing the defined boundaries and borders of cultures, and traversing the confusing world of translation, and becoming available for a new readership, in a new language, in a new country. It’s about the dialogue and sharing of ideas. Yet in today’s world, writers and authors are expected to be like, pop stars and other manufactured forms of people – where their persona and their life is far more important than that of their literary work. People are not interested in a book by an Estonian writer, and his poetic epistolary novel, written with beautiful language and surreal imagery, shows the fall of communism, and the overpowering consumption of a consumerist society. Nor are people interested in, a Lithuanian author’s strange short stories or columns or essays; about autobiographical depictions of life that may have changed from memory to dream to embellished fiction. Quite the contrary. People want the next Nora Roberts book. Some quick read: girl meets boy, boy and girl don’t like each other; then girl loves boy, and boy loves girl. It appears that readers want what they know – what they are comfortable with. They do not want a surprise punch. In a sense publish in English language countries have done away with literary merit, in favour of catering to less serious works of fiction, and passing it off as the next big thing. This was fine at one point. That is why there are publishers like Harlequin Enterprise and Kensington Books. However gone are the days when the fiction of the English language was innovative; such as Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett and James Joyce. This Modernist revolution eventually fell into Postmodernism, which in a lot of cases with American authors has become a bloated satirical caricature of itself; and some author have turned to kitchen sink realism. Other countries continued to develop and move into newer territories in their literary works. Why did the English language publications suddenly go stale? I personally can’t say for certain, when it happened or how it happened; but can be seen is that the works these publishers are doing, is changing the literary landscape of the bloated English language publishing sphere, into something more open to the wider world. It is proving to be no easy task; however, these publishers are finding a way to connect with their readers, and to make their publications more known and heard about, building a reputable reputation; and allowing those readers interested in, international fiction and literature, a chance to experience the wider world.
(II)
At the Jaipur International Literary Festival, a panel of writers that included: Xiaolu Guo, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Jonathan Franzem; discussed the Global Novel. The discussion soon turned to the lack of translation, and the warped reading habits of the general reader. In short Xiaolu Guo has called the work “over rated.” An audacious assertion, but a correct assessment. Guo points out that:
“For example I think Asian literature is much less narrative … but our reading habit is more Anglo-Saxon, more American … Nowadays all this narrative [literature is] very similar, it's so realism, so story-telling driven … so all the poetry, all the alternative things, have been pushed away by mainstream society.”
Guo is correct. When I go into a bookstore, I read the write up, the first thing that one will notice, is that, a lot of the books are family sagas. The drama or action takes place between the characters interactions as a family unit, and how the past continues to haunt the present. It is always filled with the odd characters – racial grandmother; eccentric world traveling aunt; disappointed mother, drug addict brother; successful sister – the usual archetypes. It’s incredibly boring and it’s over done with, much like young authors trying to be the next Hemmingway. All literary ingenuity is extinct; it appears in Anglo-American fiction – mostly American. The lack of translations that each country (Canada included as Anglo), is surprisingly disappointing; and is noted by Lahiri who noted in Italy, that in a news papers ten books of the year, that seven of them were by American authors. Either this is cultural imperialism or Italy and other countries are more open to foreign fiction in their marketplace.
On the flipside as pointed about the small presses, and the readerships that they are gathering and maintaining are proving to shift the publishing worlds, perspective on translation. Before big named translated book consisted of Stieg Larsson and Haruki Murakami; crime fiction and then a Japanese author, heavily influenced by American culture and pop culture, whose Japan becomes to resemble not a Japan but a shifting state of lacking a identity; and is comfortable for Anglo-American readers to read, because it’s reminiscent of their own home – it’s not too foreign.
However this problem appears to be diagnosed and treatment appears to be on the way. With small publishers, translators, literary publications, and anthologies like “The Best European Fiction,” it’s going to show that, the global literary world is opening up, slowly, but headway is being made.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
(I)
Small presses like Archipelago Books, And Other Stories Press, Peirene Press; as well as larger publications like Dalkey Archive Press and New Directions Books; as well as literary publications like Three Percent Review, affiliated with Open Letter Books, and The Best Translated Book Award; are champions of the other languages. English language countries have a cold attitude and distrusting feelings towards, other languages and their literary works. The common argument is what is a book from Finland about artificial intelligence, becoming conscious and aware, have any relevancy towards an English speaking reader; what about a Romanian authors surreal tale of the stifling life under Communism? The truth is this is a small and flawed argument. Global literature is literature surpassing the defined boundaries and borders of cultures, and traversing the confusing world of translation, and becoming available for a new readership, in a new language, in a new country. It’s about the dialogue and sharing of ideas. Yet in today’s world, writers and authors are expected to be like, pop stars and other manufactured forms of people – where their persona and their life is far more important than that of their literary work. People are not interested in a book by an Estonian writer, and his poetic epistolary novel, written with beautiful language and surreal imagery, shows the fall of communism, and the overpowering consumption of a consumerist society. Nor are people interested in, a Lithuanian author’s strange short stories or columns or essays; about autobiographical depictions of life that may have changed from memory to dream to embellished fiction. Quite the contrary. People want the next Nora Roberts book. Some quick read: girl meets boy, boy and girl don’t like each other; then girl loves boy, and boy loves girl. It appears that readers want what they know – what they are comfortable with. They do not want a surprise punch. In a sense publish in English language countries have done away with literary merit, in favour of catering to less serious works of fiction, and passing it off as the next big thing. This was fine at one point. That is why there are publishers like Harlequin Enterprise and Kensington Books. However gone are the days when the fiction of the English language was innovative; such as Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett and James Joyce. This Modernist revolution eventually fell into Postmodernism, which in a lot of cases with American authors has become a bloated satirical caricature of itself; and some author have turned to kitchen sink realism. Other countries continued to develop and move into newer territories in their literary works. Why did the English language publications suddenly go stale? I personally can’t say for certain, when it happened or how it happened; but can be seen is that the works these publishers are doing, is changing the literary landscape of the bloated English language publishing sphere, into something more open to the wider world. It is proving to be no easy task; however, these publishers are finding a way to connect with their readers, and to make their publications more known and heard about, building a reputable reputation; and allowing those readers interested in, international fiction and literature, a chance to experience the wider world.
(II)
At the Jaipur International Literary Festival, a panel of writers that included: Xiaolu Guo, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Jonathan Franzem; discussed the Global Novel. The discussion soon turned to the lack of translation, and the warped reading habits of the general reader. In short Xiaolu Guo has called the work “over rated.” An audacious assertion, but a correct assessment. Guo points out that:
“For example I think Asian literature is much less narrative … but our reading habit is more Anglo-Saxon, more American … Nowadays all this narrative [literature is] very similar, it's so realism, so story-telling driven … so all the poetry, all the alternative things, have been pushed away by mainstream society.”
Guo is correct. When I go into a bookstore, I read the write up, the first thing that one will notice, is that, a lot of the books are family sagas. The drama or action takes place between the characters interactions as a family unit, and how the past continues to haunt the present. It is always filled with the odd characters – racial grandmother; eccentric world traveling aunt; disappointed mother, drug addict brother; successful sister – the usual archetypes. It’s incredibly boring and it’s over done with, much like young authors trying to be the next Hemmingway. All literary ingenuity is extinct; it appears in Anglo-American fiction – mostly American. The lack of translations that each country (Canada included as Anglo), is surprisingly disappointing; and is noted by Lahiri who noted in Italy, that in a news papers ten books of the year, that seven of them were by American authors. Either this is cultural imperialism or Italy and other countries are more open to foreign fiction in their marketplace.
On the flipside as pointed about the small presses, and the readerships that they are gathering and maintaining are proving to shift the publishing worlds, perspective on translation. Before big named translated book consisted of Stieg Larsson and Haruki Murakami; crime fiction and then a Japanese author, heavily influenced by American culture and pop culture, whose Japan becomes to resemble not a Japan but a shifting state of lacking a identity; and is comfortable for Anglo-American readers to read, because it’s reminiscent of their own home – it’s not too foreign.
However this problem appears to be diagnosed and treatment appears to be on the way. With small publishers, translators, literary publications, and anthologies like “The Best European Fiction,” it’s going to show that, the global literary world is opening up, slowly, but headway is being made.
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, 17 January 2014
T.S Eliot Prize
Hello Gentle Reader
Poetry in some regards is a dying art form. Many would argue that poets, in today’s world no longer write for readers. They write for each other. The belief is that poets sit in their ivory tower, practicing their archaic art form – only to pass it along to their fellow brethren. Yet somehow poetry has its relevancy in today’s literary world. It’s small, elitist, and very exclusive – but there are poetry loves, and poets, who value the line over syntax. That being said, the poets who occasionally turn to prose, often showcase their powers of observation, mastery of language and stylistic ingenuity; and often create the most wonderful books of prose; which can be seen when David Constantine won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award for his collection “Tea at The Midland.” Constantine is known as a poet; and is a commissioning editor of Carcanet Press; which publishes primarily poetry. David Constantine has also been chief judge for the T.S. Eliot Prize; one of the most prestigious poetry awards.
Sinéad Morrissey is the Belfast poet Laureate; and with her collection “Parallax,” joins the likes of Derek Walcott, Seamus Heaney, Sharon Olds and Anne Carson as being a recipient of the T.S. Eliot prize. With this collection of poems, Morrissey explores concepts and ideas, of identity, motherhood, and gender; but goes beyond these themes, to explore the skewed perspectives and different angels in which these subjects can be looked at.
Congratulations to Sinéad Morrissey, as a poet she is in good company with this award.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Poetry in some regards is a dying art form. Many would argue that poets, in today’s world no longer write for readers. They write for each other. The belief is that poets sit in their ivory tower, practicing their archaic art form – only to pass it along to their fellow brethren. Yet somehow poetry has its relevancy in today’s literary world. It’s small, elitist, and very exclusive – but there are poetry loves, and poets, who value the line over syntax. That being said, the poets who occasionally turn to prose, often showcase their powers of observation, mastery of language and stylistic ingenuity; and often create the most wonderful books of prose; which can be seen when David Constantine won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award for his collection “Tea at The Midland.” Constantine is known as a poet; and is a commissioning editor of Carcanet Press; which publishes primarily poetry. David Constantine has also been chief judge for the T.S. Eliot Prize; one of the most prestigious poetry awards.
Sinéad Morrissey is the Belfast poet Laureate; and with her collection “Parallax,” joins the likes of Derek Walcott, Seamus Heaney, Sharon Olds and Anne Carson as being a recipient of the T.S. Eliot prize. With this collection of poems, Morrissey explores concepts and ideas, of identity, motherhood, and gender; but goes beyond these themes, to explore the skewed perspectives and different angels in which these subjects can be looked at.
Congratulations to Sinéad Morrissey, as a poet she is in good company with this award.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 9 January 2014
1963 Nominations Revealed
Hello Gentle Reader
As the years go by the Swedish Academy reveals its secret archives, of the nominated authors every slowly. Just as in nineteen-sixty one, it was revealed that J.R.R. Tolkien had been nominated, but was passed over. Then of course the refueled controversy over Steinbeck's accolade; as he was chosen as the best of the worst of all the candidates nominated. The secrecy behind the award, is slowly coming to light, and allows for a fascinating view into the procedures behind the award and the authors chosen. The year nineteen-sixty three has just been revealed. There were eighty individual suggested that year. Out of those eighty individuals, twenty two were new. However nineteen-sixty three was the year of the poet. The eventual winner was the first Greek writer and poet Giorgos Seferis. However on the long list in which Seferis competed it included:
W.H. Auden,
Pabulo Neruda
Samuel Beckett
Yukio Mishima
Aksel Sandemose
Out of these five only Pablo Neruda and Samuel Beckett would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda in nineteen-seventy one and Beckett in nineteen-sixty nine. Auden would die in nineteen-seventy three, and Mishima would commit his famous suicide in nineteen-seventy, two years after his mentor and friend Kawabata became the first Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Aksel Sandemose died two years later. This longlist was quickly shortened into a list of three chosen authors. Yukio Mishima was one of the new candidates and according to the Swedish Academy:
"was one of four Japanese nominees and it was decided that his authorship was not yet to be given preference in comparison with the other four from Japan."
Pushing Mishima out of the running. Aksel Sandemose was also pushed out of the running, because he had not yet fulfilled the requirements in his writing, for such an international prize. Beckett's work, was still misunderstood by some of the academy who worried that his work was more nihilistic, then it was idealistic.
This left three poets: Giorgos Seferis, W.H. Auden, and Pablo Neruda. Out of these three authors, only two would win the award. Auden would never receive the award. Why is currently unknown.
It is an interesting look into the award's history, and the eventual chosen authors. It raises debate for some, who was the better author: Mishima or Kawabata. I personally would chose Yasunari Kawabata over Yukio Mishima; though there is no denying that Mishma was a wonderful talent in his own right.
Thank-You for Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*
M. Mary
As the years go by the Swedish Academy reveals its secret archives, of the nominated authors every slowly. Just as in nineteen-sixty one, it was revealed that J.R.R. Tolkien had been nominated, but was passed over. Then of course the refueled controversy over Steinbeck's accolade; as he was chosen as the best of the worst of all the candidates nominated. The secrecy behind the award, is slowly coming to light, and allows for a fascinating view into the procedures behind the award and the authors chosen. The year nineteen-sixty three has just been revealed. There were eighty individual suggested that year. Out of those eighty individuals, twenty two were new. However nineteen-sixty three was the year of the poet. The eventual winner was the first Greek writer and poet Giorgos Seferis. However on the long list in which Seferis competed it included:
W.H. Auden,
Pabulo Neruda
Samuel Beckett
Yukio Mishima
Aksel Sandemose
Out of these five only Pablo Neruda and Samuel Beckett would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda in nineteen-seventy one and Beckett in nineteen-sixty nine. Auden would die in nineteen-seventy three, and Mishima would commit his famous suicide in nineteen-seventy, two years after his mentor and friend Kawabata became the first Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Aksel Sandemose died two years later. This longlist was quickly shortened into a list of three chosen authors. Yukio Mishima was one of the new candidates and according to the Swedish Academy:
"was one of four Japanese nominees and it was decided that his authorship was not yet to be given preference in comparison with the other four from Japan."
Pushing Mishima out of the running. Aksel Sandemose was also pushed out of the running, because he had not yet fulfilled the requirements in his writing, for such an international prize. Beckett's work, was still misunderstood by some of the academy who worried that his work was more nihilistic, then it was idealistic.
This left three poets: Giorgos Seferis, W.H. Auden, and Pablo Neruda. Out of these three authors, only two would win the award. Auden would never receive the award. Why is currently unknown.
It is an interesting look into the award's history, and the eventual chosen authors. It raises debate for some, who was the better author: Mishima or Kawabata. I personally would chose Yasunari Kawabata over Yukio Mishima; though there is no denying that Mishma was a wonderful talent in his own right.
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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