Alistair MacLeod Dies 77

Hello Gentle Reader

The Canadian short story writer, and novelist, Alistair MacLeod has recently passed away at the age of seventy-seven. MacLeod is one of those quintessential Canadian authors. Though he like Jacques Poulin, and Nobel Laureate in Literature Alice Munro, often flew under the radar; or were overshadowed more well-known Canadian authors like Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje; MacLeod had found his niche in writing, and in the Canadian literary scene. Much like Huron County was to Alice Munro; so was Cape Breton to Macleod. Though MacLeod taught English and creative writing for forty years, at the University of Windsor; he had always returned to his cabin in Cape Breton every summer – which faced Prince Edward Island; and it was there that he did his writing. MacLeod often chronicled the lives of those that lived in Cape Breton; and for his only novel “No Great Mischief,” won the Impac Literary Dublin award and the Trillium Book Award.

MacLeod was born in the prairies of Canada – Saskatchewan to be exact; not as exotic as it sounds; at the age of ten MacLeod, moved with his family to Nova Scotia. It is at Dunvegan, Inverness County, Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, that a love affair of the landscape was born, and the literary love affair with the culture and the people was formed. To discuss MacLeod in his literary obsessions, and emotional attachments; one had best quote Irene Guilford:

“Alistair MacLeod's birthplace is Canadian, his emotional heartland is Cape Breton, his heritage Scottish, but his writing is of the world.”

I may not have read any of MacLeod’s books, but his writing is something, that many Canadians read, and often admit: he gets what it means to write about a place that is exemplary: ‘Canadian.’ How such a small part of a vast country reflects, the greater whole, only comes to showcase, the literary provinciality of Canadian Literature – and how it communicates with itself throughout its fragmented nature. That is what makes MacLeod a great writer, and a literary champion of this country.

Rest In Peace Alistair MacLeod.

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M. Mary

Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo,” Passes Away

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One of the giants of the Latin American Boom; and one of the greatest practitioners of the ambiguous literary style ‘magical realism,’ has passed away, at the age of eighty-seven. Marquez is a Nobel Laureate; and most famous for his masterpiece, “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a novel that has gone on to influence a generation of writers. To this day the novel is read, and herald as a fine piece of literary craftsmanship. Marquez (affectionately referred to as Gabo) had written many novels since. Those novels include: “A Chronicle of Death Foretold,” “Love in the Time of Cholera,” as well as “The Autumn of the Patriarch.” However Marquez, was also an accomplished short story writer; find both literary modes of writing, adequate, in order to explore his literary world view. He has been referred to as the greatest, predecessor of Cervantes, according to the late Carlos Fuentes. It is obvious from numerous articles, tweets and speeches; that the literary world is in mourning for this giant of literature, however it has been stated: such giants of literature; never truly die. I suspect this will be proven as true. May Marquez rest in peace, and he will never be forgotten in the Latin American world – or the South American world either. He will be recognized as a writer, not only for his talents in conveying a story, with a style; but also for his political work: befriending Castro; as well as helping shape negations between guerilla’s and the Colombian government. With his work Marquez brought Latin America out of its solitude, and offered the world a glimpse into the identity of the world, often overlooked.

Rest in Peace Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo.”

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
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M. Mary

The Impac Literary Dublin Award Shortlist

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It has been a rather hectic week; and I have not been able to stay on top of the literary news of the world. Because I knew when the Best Translated Book Award Shortlist would be announced, I was able to remember. However I completely missed the most lucrative literary prize for a single piece of fiction: The Impac Literary Dublin Awards shortlist.

A common person with the shortlists right now is one name; the Norwegian autobiographical-fiction writer: Karl Ove Knausgaard. Other writers include, Gerbrand Bakker, going for another win, after his debut novel “The Twin,” had won; as well as two debut novelists Donal Ryan and Patrick Flanery.

The shortlist reads as follows:

Gerbrand Bakker: “The Detour,” also published as: “Ten White Geese,”
Tan Twan Eng: “The Garden of the Evening Mists,”
Donal Ryan: “The Spinning Heart,”
Juan Gabriel Vásquez: “The Sound of Things Falling,”
Marie NDiaye: “The Strong Women,”
David Park: “The Light of Amsterdam,”
Patrick Flanery: “Absolution,”
Michelle de Kretser: “Questions of Travel,”
Andrés Neuman: “Traveller of the Century,”

As, it has always been stated prior to all authors on other shortlists: good luck. Though must wonder, will Knausgaard find himself with a three of a kind, picking up:

The Best Translated Book Award
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize
[and]
The Impac Literary Dublin 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

Best Translated Book Award Finalists

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The Best Translated Book Award, has released its finalists, for both fiction and for poetry. The fiction finalists have omitted, both Nobel Laureates: Elfriede Jelinek, and her hybrid work of fiction or dramatic work: “Her Not All Her.” I presume on the grounds that it is, difficult to define, and its avant-garde style may alienate readers. As jury members, need to consider they needs to consider the works on its literary and artistic integrity; but also on its ability to resonate and create some empathetic bond with the reader. Mo Yan with his novel “Sandalwood Death,” has also been omitted. Here are the lists finalists:

“Horses of God,” by Mahi Binebine
”Blinding,” by Mircea Cărtărescu
“The Story of a New Name,” by Elena Ferrante
“Tizra,” by Arnon Grunberg
“Seiobo There Below,” by László Krasznahorkai
“A True Novel,” by Minae Mizumura
“The African Shore,” by Rodrigo Rey Rosa
“Leg Over Leg Vol 1,” by Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq
“The Forbidden Kingdom,” by Jan Jacob Slauerhoff (J. Slauerhoff)
“My Struggle Book Two,” by Karl Ove Knausgaard

Now the poetry contenders. I may not being a adamant reader of poetry, I do however, recognize some of the poetry collections listed below:

“The Guest In The Wood,” by Elsa Biagini
“Relocations: 3 Contemporary Russian Women Poets,” by Polina Barskova, Anna Glazova, and Maria Stepanova
“The Unknown University,” by Roberto Bolano
“White Piano,” by Nicole Brossard
“Murder,” by Danielle Collobert
“In the Moremarrow,” by Oliverio Girondo
“Paul Klee’s Boat,” by Anzhelina Polonskaya
“Four Elemental Bodies,” by Claude Royet-Journaud
“The Oasis of Now,” by Sohrab Sepehri
“His Days Go By the Way Her Years,” by Ye Mim

The poetry collections I do recognize are: “The Guest In The Wood,” by Elsa Biagini; ““Four Elemental Bodies,” by Claude Royet-Journaud; as well as “The Oasis of Now,” by Claude Royet-Journaud. I had heard of “The Unknown University,” by Roberto Bolano. Every time one of Bolano’s back catalogue books are released, there seems to be a stir in the wind; and a ripple in the water.

What will it be Gentle Reader? Will László Krasznahorkai go for a second consecutive win? Perhaps, it will be the Norwegian Proust: Knausgaard; whose confessional books; have become a literary firestorm; as he plays with fire in his books, of personal struggles and achievements. Really it is anyone’s guess Gentle Reader. It truly is.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
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Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize: Shortlist

Hello Gentle Reader

Karl Ove Knausgaard is a name one will recognizes a lot when discussing translated novels, and other works of written works. He is the contemporary Proust in some regards. His literary saga – confessing everything of a tumultuous life; of highs and lows, has gripped the literary scene not only in his native Norway, but also through the rest of the world. Knausgaard has become something of a literary pop celebrity. Now he finds himself on the shortlist for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, alongside other authors ranging from Europe to Iraq to Japan.

The shortlisted reads as follows:

Karl Ove Knausgaard “A Man in Love,”
Hassan Blasim “The Iraqi Christ,”
Yoko Ogawa “Revenge,”
Birgit Vanderbeke “The Mussel Feast,”
Hubert Mingarelli “A Mean in Winter,”
Hiromi Kawakam “Strange Weather in Tokyo.”

Good luck to all the authors, on the shortlist. The Best Translated Book Award, will be announced come this Friday, and will include the poetry finalists as well. My hope is that we will see “Her Not All Her,” by Elfriede Jelinek on the shortlist as well as “The African Shore,” by Rodrigo Rey Rosa and “The End of Love,” Marcos Giralt. I hope that László Krasznahorkai makes the shortlist as well; but I do not think the book warrants it to win again. As much as “Seiobo There Below,” had its moments of glint and true beauty, it also became monotonous in its reading as well. I hope that Mo Yan’s “Sandalwood Death,” also is omitted all together. Of course that’s just personal held beliefs. In the end the shortlist for both awards, should be interesting and the winner, will hopefully be well deserved, after debates and deliberations.

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

Border State

Hello Gentle Reader

Confessions, they are a act of trust. It’s divulgence. It is something we dare not do even with ourselves. We cannot admit our failings our shortcomings, our crimes to our own reflections. However in the end each of us finds someone in who we can deposit our crimes with. Someone who will place them in a box, or a case. That very person will then take them away. We dream of them burying that box in the backyard. Though each of us know that is unlikely. We suspect that these boxes are placed in attics. In the hollowed skulls of homes. There they age and yellow; amongst family photographs and unpolished silverware. When they are rediscovered the contents have all but dissolved to ash. Such is the Estonian authors Tõnu Õnnepalu’s novel, “Border State.” A book of confessions and observations.

Tõnu Õnnepalu has one of the greatest, distinctions as a writer. His novel “Border State,” is a small and short, but poetically intense narrative; and is one (if not the most) translated title from Estonia. Upon its original publication “Border State,” garnered the author, international recognition, and received the Baltic Assembly Prize for Literature in nineteen-ninety four. In two thousand six Tõnu Õnnepalu was voted the best author of Estonia, since the restoration of the Estonian Republic.

“Border State,” is interesting that it was not originally published under Tõnu Õnnepalu’s own name. It was written under the pseudonym Emil Tode. This is not Õnnepalu only, other name. He has also written under the name: Anton Nigov. It is only recently with his novels “Paradise,” in two-thousand and nine that he has started to publish under his own name. Õnnepalu first came to attention in the Estonia literary scene with his poetry, in nineteen-eighty five. After three collections of poems, he wrote “Border State,” his debut work in prose. One can clearly see Õnnepalu poetic flare for language and unique sing song desire in verbosity. This is what makes the novel so interesting. The intensity of its scope is microcosm, and introspective search for what is fleeting.

“You’re nobody special, no one in particular. That’s the only reason I dare turn to you.”

So would begin Tõnu Õnnepalu’s novel in a sense. In a series of one sided letters, by an unnamed Baltic man, to his acquaintance, who we only know by the name of Angelo. In these letters we, learn of our unnamed narrators uncertain past; from a place that appears to be not only countries away, but metaphorically centuries away, lost in an era of stagnant seconds and minced minutes, in forgotten hours, in a neglected country. This very place our narrator despises, and yet does not deny that it is his home. The small apartment where the windows remained shut, by order of his grandmother. This homeland, forgotten and without a name in this novel – though one could presume Estonia; at times comes off in a fairy-tale like fashion. A place that is so forgotten and bizarre that its existence is brought into question.

“When a person senses death nearing, he gathers his last strength and drags himself into the woods to lie down on the hardened roots of spruce trees, where even lichen doesn’t grow. Pounced needles cover the ground and keep the iciness of winter alive through the summer. Decomposing slowly, they exude a bitter cold smell of death. It’s said that out here human souls turn into tiny birds called tomthumbs. They are always chirping away, faintly, in the spruce trees. But no one has seen them. What happens to the physical remains is never mentioned. Does it matter? Animals probably drag them away.”

As details become clearer about our unreliable narrator, we learn that he is living in Paris, but is well aware of his outsider status. This narrator translates works of French literature into his own native language. Something that Õnnepalu has done. From there our narrator takes on an introspective journey through museums, café’s, streets, and rooms – to offer his own commentary on the world around him. A world surrounded in excess. A world that shines with light and glass. But glass can never be perfectly cleaned. Our cynical narrator observes early on:

“All Eastern Europe has become a prostitute. From governments and university professors on, to the last paper boy, they are all ready to listen to wonderful speeches about democracy, equality, whatever you please, whatever the customer wishes! As long as he pays.”

The term ‘border state,’ perfectly describes the situation of the narrator. That peculiar person lost into a wider world; and who in the process lost his own home.The narrator is a homosexual man, and leads too many thoughts on such discussions as loneliness, for it seems gay men are to be forever alone. Other discussions are the homoeroticism of the relationships, the power of the relationships, as well as their exploitive nature. Yet from this small shred and shard of our narrators identity; it brings to mind questions and thoughts on what identity is, and how it is conceived. The homeland of our narrator is discussed in the briefest of passages, in the quickest passing glances. Õnnepalu reveals by ways of a mysterious priest, the thoughts of nations and our inability to escape them.

“Nations are born and destroyed, and there are many world, and you pass through them all, for is no escape anywhere.”

What is revealed about this old and lost country is that, it was under communism. That the young narrator; read a magazine of communist propaganda out loud, to his domineering grandmother. As the narrator explains to Angelo, he was expected to believe what was written – and his grandmother had him read it out loud so she could pretend to believe what was written, in order to avoid another stint in Siberia. This is as political as the work gets in regards to its reference to the purges or Stalin or to former communist states of Eastern Europe. However, our narrator has a lot to say and contemplate in regards to the new world that has been opened up to him, and which he explores; no longer with delight, but with tedium. Our narrator is a self-interested creature. Easily bored, and quickly amused, only to be bored once again – he finds ways to amuse himself. From a flirtatious exploit, to daydreaming, to even these letters, that one questions whether or not they are sent to the designated receiver; who may or may not exist. In the end these letters form a dairy. A mismatched, diary of fantasy and reality. Of existential boredom, and philistine commentary. This narrator remarks on daydreams. He recounts journeys of no importance, and reveals his own emotional crippled condition. This emotional strain is what awaits all Eastern Europeans, who eagerly go out to taste the fruits denied to them. This escape from a Soviet paradise, in turn becomes plagued by nostalgia, and yet a bitter desire not to return.

The novel in its initial publication asked a lot of existential questions in regards to the former Soviet bloc states. The novel asks questions that many at the time of the political upheaval, asked themselves. One of the most important questions of the time was that of identity. Who was one from the former communist east, and their own place in the world; but also how the wider world saw you.

“When they hear you’re from Eastern Europe they look on you with pity and speak with hollow words, as if you were a dead relative.”

Õnnepalu’s novel is a collage of fictional letters that may never have been sent. They pave a narrative that is abstract, and formless. Yet all the same, this novel is appears to be written by a poetic madman, or a prose genius. It’s lyrical and strange. The novel does not move with action or with a traditional narrative plot. It moves with language, ideas and imagery. This in many ways is why it is thankful that the novel clocks into just one hundred pages; and why it is successful. Õnnepalu knew the limitations to his narrator. No one would tolerate a self-centered aimless, wanderer of a narrator for six hundred pages. Nor would the general reader, tolerate the languages – however beautiful; for six hundred pages either. Õnnepalu was wise enough to ensure that he was able to call it quits with this book without making it feel rushed. The book is full of questions, lush imagery, beautiful lyricism, and acute observations of a political climate, that was changing, and a world that was moving to a newer world; whose future seemed bright; like a retail display case – with its finger print smeared glass. Sill what is challenging about “Border State,” is that it defies conventional descriptions. It’s not an epistolary novel. It’s not a monologue. It’s not a fragmented prose poem either. It’s a novel that works, based on its own ideas. It’s lyrical and profound. But there is no plot in which to speak of. It borders fantasy and reality. It borders madness and genius. In a sense the entire novel is one mans, testimony. The story that the testimony involves may or may not be true. Angelo may never receive the confession or the observations. It’s a beautiful testament of one man striving to realize his own existence, despite himself being invisible, because he exists in two worlds – neither being full heartedly in one or the other; and in the process becoming lost in the space between.

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