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
