Hello Gentle Reader
Reading books from different countries, continents, border states, parts of the world; is akin to me, the experiencing of traveling. The difference being is one is not physically there, at these unknown locations, or noted or even well known locations. The trips are not all inclusive. There are no resorts, or spa days. No real sightseeing. What there is however, is one begins to see parts of the world that are lost or have been forgotten. One experiences events, not through their own; but through the writer and the fictional means in which they disclose the experience they are writing about. Some writers are great landscape depicters. They know just how to form a landscape just from ink and paper, and words. These writers describe the lesser known parts of their cities, or their part of the world. They show the realities behind the window dressing. The small apartments or the daily shared family meals. They describe, how the rain can be heard gushing out old down spouts, or how it seeps into the brick. How the roof leaks and the ping and the pang, become lullabies at night. They tell of secret childhood getaways. Places where there first kisses were shared. Where friends were made, and games were played. It is amazing, to see how the experiences can at times be so similar, despite the sense and perspective of being worlds apart, from one another. This is however the writers specialty, be it poetry or prose. The writer writes of the shared experience of all human beings. The loves that are experienced; the unforeseeable break ups, and the love that is renewed time and time again. From childhood to adulthood, to memory and age; the world is filled with different experiences. Their landscapes and their scenery maybe different, but it is general human experiences of longing, of lusting, or desiring, repentance, and the penance each of us confesses to ourselves. “To The Spring By Night,” by a Kurdish poet turned prose writer, is one such novel that takes a foreign landscape, and showcases how experience – in the form of childhood; transcends language and countries. Despite its setting and location, the different customs and hardships that are experienced, the experiences of growing up, the wonder and the awe of the world, that is both known and unknown.
Seyhmus Dagtekin is a Kurdish poet, who has written eight collections of poetry; and is renowned for his poetry. He writes in Kurdish, Turkish and French. He is a leading figure in revitalizing French poetry. “To The Spring By Night,” is a, homage to Dagtekin’s roots and his home in his village, located in eastern Turkey. Despite the lack of a defined homeland for the Kurdish people, their roots and their identity is strong where they have settled and continue to inhabit. Seyhmus Dagtekin writes of the alienation and isolation of the Kurdish people in his home village. He discusses their severance from the rest of the world, which is filtered through the tales of smugglers and the men who have done their military service. The world beyond the mountains that surround, the village shield it from the unknown world beyond their borders; but it also ensures that the villages stays stagnant, and is left to its own beliefs, folk tales and oral traditions to understand the world around them. As time passes through the rest of the world, this small pocket appears to have been left untouched.
“I was small. And my village was small; I came to know that in time. But when I was small it was big for me, so big that when I had to cross it from one end to the other, I was afraid.”
It’s funny, that no matter how small the village, the town or the hamlet – I grew up in a hamlet of barely six hundred people; that when you are smaller then it, it appears big and foreboding. I remember how afraid I was the first time I walked home on a sunny winter day, all by myself. The trip itself had been done, a hundred times or more, with my mother, taking me to preschool. But now it was my turn to do it by myself. The familiar had become unfamiliar. Everything was safer before, hand in hand when we crossed the road, or casually walked down the sidewalk. But without that other presence, fear lurked in my mind. Apprehension was a pit in my stomach, and yet I had to make the journey myself. It only took five minutes, and when I entered our home, I was happy and relieved. My mother was proud of my first journey home by myself. I was proud too; but more thankful to have made it home. When I had read that first passage, in this book, I realized that despite the foreign lands in which both of us had grown up, and had become accustomed too, that this was a book that would resonate with experiences already felt and still lingering in the back of my mind, waiting to evoked and excavated.
“To The Spring By Night,” is a lyrical novel. It is a novel made up of experiences both personal and shared. The inclusiveness of the pronouns “us,” and “we,” is used often throughout this spare novel. The experiences of our narrator – a young boy; is often interlaid with the shared experiences of others. Each one is fascinated by the world that surrounds them. Every star and stone has a name and a story with it. Yet what truly keeps the novel going, is its tales that are within it, wrapping up each experience with a tale already told; tales of sorrow, stories of remorse; legends that inspire wonder, and fear; anecdotes that reveal the nature of things, and their purposes both divine, and earthly. The oral stories that are recounted along with personal experience make up this book. They discuss fear, hope, love, and the hardships of life. They fill the natural world, both known and unknown with hope and trepidation:
“Like the spring that were spread around the village in three directions, encircling it and becoming the lairs of djinns, dragons and monsters thanks to the grownups’ tales, these rocks and caverns surrounded our village and became, depending on the circumstances, hideaways where our hopes could prosper, or fountainheads for our fear.”
The world of “To The Spring By Night,” is its own world. It is a world where animism is still, quite clear in the personification and legends of objects, and natural wonders. Where the people of the citadel (I presume the dead of the ‘infidels,’) could capture the moon, and cut it into smaller shards and fragments, to disperse into the night sky, to form new stars. This was a place where a rock, became a reminder and symbol of bloodshed, slaughter, of raids and invading armies. It is a land of tortoises who lived for ages upon ages, because of their slower pace, and proximity to the earth. Yet despite their lives being a steady flame, in comparison to the dwindling match spark of a humans life; they were murdered and disposed of. More often than not blamed for vandalism to a grape crop. In this land the seasons would come and they would go. Yet their passing’s brought greenery and life; heat and work; orange and harvest; and white and hunger.
Seyhmus Dagtekin is not a magical realist. He is just a writer of magical talent. “To The Spring By Night,” is a novel that is interwoven with years upon years of oral traditions of storytelling. Superstitions still reign supreme. Suras and prayers become incantations; in a world of personified objects. This is not a novel about ghosts inhabit homes. It is not a place where demons are seen firsthand; but rather only heard of. Yet it is also a place where the hardships of lives, take their own. This is a world that still suffers from the broken heart, and changing hearts; it is a world that is human even if it is protected from the outside world. Places of tragedy are both foreboding and fascinating and at the same time, completely incomprehensible in a child’s eyes:
“From the two sides, east and west, the village and our house opened on to the unknown world of the trees and the earth. The world of the people and the village, the stream once crossed, was for the children, and there was the obscure world of the hangings and their swaying one way, and then another.”
It is a lyrical novel. What is lacking in a unified traditional story, of plot, rising action, falling action and conclusion, survives on the lyrical prose, and the experiences and the stories within the experiences that are told. Fear and hope are two sides of the same sword; and throughout the novel the sword swings both, ways, offering hope and delivering fear. The book itself sums it up best, itself with the following passage:
“Fears are a bit like fog, as are memories. On the one hand, one dreads to go forward and plunge into a future without end, and on the other, one is afraid to retreat into the past and lose oneself in a plethora of events and tales.”
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 April 2015
Thursday, 16 April 2015
Things Look Differently In The Light
Hello Gentle Reader
One of the greatest aspects of the short story form is how it is a requirement that the short story – though a prose form by definition; must straddle the line between both prose and poetry. A short story does not necessarily need to be a novel in a miniaturized form. Nor does a short story need to act like a chapter in a symphony for a larger piece of work. Short stories can be very poetic and expressionistic. Despite their deceptive lengths, they can envision and display the questions that are held on the lips of sentient and conscious beings. A great writer sees the unasked questions on an individual’s lips; and understands that they have been asked; but never answered. A mediocre author arrogantly attempts to answer these questions. Where an author of some master like qualities understands that there is no such thing as complicated questions; just complicated answers. Yet will be the first to admit that some questions are beyond answers – at least for the time being. This same author will be the first to lament the eventual dwindling of excitement in the everyday; once these questions are answered – if ever. Once the most profound questions have been answered and the puzzle of life, can be loosely termed: ‘defined,’ it means no more questions will weight so heavily; and life turns to existence .Without the need to ponder these questions that have lasted so many centuries – and were engraved on human lips and minds, when the first syllable was articulated into a letter; existence falls into the mundane, which borders on apathy. Life will be rendered to its own explained realities. Reality will lose its surreal tastes and its own brand of anarchic magic. Reality becomes governed by its own natural laws; where our reality becomes governed by our laws. Yet for the time being, these questions remain unanswered. The archaic magic remains intact in the real world; and life spins on its own surreal axis. This is the world that Medardo Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely set in the everyday and the ordinary, and yet has a dash of surreal magic to it.
Medardo Fraile was one of Spain’s most eminent writers; and one of Spain’s greatest practitioners of the short story form. His first foray into writing in a professional sense was in experimental theatre. He belonged to an experimental theatre group that also included the Spanish playwrights Alfonso Sastre and Alfonso Paso. In this time period Fraile wrote a play “The Brother.” Both Sastre and Paso, had gone onto become very important dramatists; but Medardo Fraile’s interest in his chosen literary mode, had shifted away from the theatre, and into the short story format. After a few short story collections were published in Spain, Fraile became recognized as a rising writer; in a form that at the time had little value in Spain at the time. Yet with the work that Fraile had done, and the recognition that he achieved as a writer primarily of short stories, the reputation of the short story form in Spain and the Spanish language, had increased and gather more value and respect. Medardo Fraile lived in Madrid during the siege of the city during the Spanish civil war, and once Franco had come into power, and left the country and lived in Scotland for the remainder of his life. He worked as a university professor at Strathclyde; and had a fondness for Scotland. Fraile had retired from his teaching however in nineteen-eighty six, and devoted himself full time to writing. He remained in contact with Spain, by writing articles for small provincial newspapers; and was a frequent visitor to the Big Book Fair in Madrid, and often was invited to host events and seminars on short story writing.
Fraile’s short stories did not follow the fashionable social realism of the fifties and sixties. His approach to the short story form was gentle but subdued; to the point of being illusory minimalistic in its approach. His short stories are incredibly short, but cover a lot of ground in the few pages in which his work is contained. He did not use intricate plotting in order to showcase the lives of the characters. Fraile’s stories are more like Polaroid’s. They capture the moments of the characters lives in their instants. Yet Fraile’s stories were not instantly written. They were re-worked continuously like bread. He continued to polish and pull out words that did not belong in the text that he was writing, which often gives his works a deceptive simplicity.. Medardo Fraile was a writer that showcased through suggestive images; rather than outwardly explaining; and each of his characters were tenderly observed and written with gentle melancholy that was lightened by a wry sense of humour. His characters and subject matter were often vulnerable individuals, and humble folk. They were written in a practical manner; and spoke in colloquial speech, that would be found in their homes, spoken in the cafes they visited, and on the streets they walked. Yet each story gently conveys the surrealistic realities of the everyday life and occurrences. How a typist office queen falls from her grace; or how two old spinsters, collect and assemble more lights to the chandelier as an attempt to ward off old age; or how a lemon drop candy brings a man back to the world of his childhood. This is the world that Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely the same, in every which way as a reality elsewhere to some degree; but yet looks differently in the light that Fraile showcases it with.
This review is of course obscenely short, if only because when I read “Things Looks Differently in the Light,” I read it through intervals and moments of quiet time, when the act of reading as a pass time could commence. Such as riding the bus, or while having a cigarette, or waiting in a café, for a friend to have coffee. I read the collection at first, as if I were to read a novel; but then decided to pick and choose by title – much like picking a chocolate from a box of pot of gold, by the discriminating information provided, by the manufacturer. What should be said about this book is, that it is meant for such moments when the luxury of reading in the day can be afforded, by such moments like a bus ride, or a train ride, or at lunch break. It is these moments where one can quickly search through the titles, pick one and read the snapshot story that has been presented by the Spanish writer. His works detail the everyday individual and their humble circumstances, and write of their own quiet extraordinary lives; how they attempt to ward off ennui, or defy natural laws, or even defy ageing and death only to glow long after. These stories offer wry humour with the hum drum melancholy of the everyday, and make light of the absurdities and surreal nature of the everyday life of individuals in a society.
This is Medardo Fraile’s first collection short stories to be published in English, and many thanks should be given to Pushkin Press for this. Pushkin Press, also happened to make sure the book was miniaturized in size to fit into ones coat pocket and could be readily grasped for those routine bus journeys, in the grey light of winter.
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
One of the greatest aspects of the short story form is how it is a requirement that the short story – though a prose form by definition; must straddle the line between both prose and poetry. A short story does not necessarily need to be a novel in a miniaturized form. Nor does a short story need to act like a chapter in a symphony for a larger piece of work. Short stories can be very poetic and expressionistic. Despite their deceptive lengths, they can envision and display the questions that are held on the lips of sentient and conscious beings. A great writer sees the unasked questions on an individual’s lips; and understands that they have been asked; but never answered. A mediocre author arrogantly attempts to answer these questions. Where an author of some master like qualities understands that there is no such thing as complicated questions; just complicated answers. Yet will be the first to admit that some questions are beyond answers – at least for the time being. This same author will be the first to lament the eventual dwindling of excitement in the everyday; once these questions are answered – if ever. Once the most profound questions have been answered and the puzzle of life, can be loosely termed: ‘defined,’ it means no more questions will weight so heavily; and life turns to existence .Without the need to ponder these questions that have lasted so many centuries – and were engraved on human lips and minds, when the first syllable was articulated into a letter; existence falls into the mundane, which borders on apathy. Life will be rendered to its own explained realities. Reality will lose its surreal tastes and its own brand of anarchic magic. Reality becomes governed by its own natural laws; where our reality becomes governed by our laws. Yet for the time being, these questions remain unanswered. The archaic magic remains intact in the real world; and life spins on its own surreal axis. This is the world that Medardo Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely set in the everyday and the ordinary, and yet has a dash of surreal magic to it.
Medardo Fraile was one of Spain’s most eminent writers; and one of Spain’s greatest practitioners of the short story form. His first foray into writing in a professional sense was in experimental theatre. He belonged to an experimental theatre group that also included the Spanish playwrights Alfonso Sastre and Alfonso Paso. In this time period Fraile wrote a play “The Brother.” Both Sastre and Paso, had gone onto become very important dramatists; but Medardo Fraile’s interest in his chosen literary mode, had shifted away from the theatre, and into the short story format. After a few short story collections were published in Spain, Fraile became recognized as a rising writer; in a form that at the time had little value in Spain at the time. Yet with the work that Fraile had done, and the recognition that he achieved as a writer primarily of short stories, the reputation of the short story form in Spain and the Spanish language, had increased and gather more value and respect. Medardo Fraile lived in Madrid during the siege of the city during the Spanish civil war, and once Franco had come into power, and left the country and lived in Scotland for the remainder of his life. He worked as a university professor at Strathclyde; and had a fondness for Scotland. Fraile had retired from his teaching however in nineteen-eighty six, and devoted himself full time to writing. He remained in contact with Spain, by writing articles for small provincial newspapers; and was a frequent visitor to the Big Book Fair in Madrid, and often was invited to host events and seminars on short story writing.
Fraile’s short stories did not follow the fashionable social realism of the fifties and sixties. His approach to the short story form was gentle but subdued; to the point of being illusory minimalistic in its approach. His short stories are incredibly short, but cover a lot of ground in the few pages in which his work is contained. He did not use intricate plotting in order to showcase the lives of the characters. Fraile’s stories are more like Polaroid’s. They capture the moments of the characters lives in their instants. Yet Fraile’s stories were not instantly written. They were re-worked continuously like bread. He continued to polish and pull out words that did not belong in the text that he was writing, which often gives his works a deceptive simplicity.. Medardo Fraile was a writer that showcased through suggestive images; rather than outwardly explaining; and each of his characters were tenderly observed and written with gentle melancholy that was lightened by a wry sense of humour. His characters and subject matter were often vulnerable individuals, and humble folk. They were written in a practical manner; and spoke in colloquial speech, that would be found in their homes, spoken in the cafes they visited, and on the streets they walked. Yet each story gently conveys the surrealistic realities of the everyday life and occurrences. How a typist office queen falls from her grace; or how two old spinsters, collect and assemble more lights to the chandelier as an attempt to ward off old age; or how a lemon drop candy brings a man back to the world of his childhood. This is the world that Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely the same, in every which way as a reality elsewhere to some degree; but yet looks differently in the light that Fraile showcases it with.
This review is of course obscenely short, if only because when I read “Things Looks Differently in the Light,” I read it through intervals and moments of quiet time, when the act of reading as a pass time could commence. Such as riding the bus, or while having a cigarette, or waiting in a café, for a friend to have coffee. I read the collection at first, as if I were to read a novel; but then decided to pick and choose by title – much like picking a chocolate from a box of pot of gold, by the discriminating information provided, by the manufacturer. What should be said about this book is, that it is meant for such moments when the luxury of reading in the day can be afforded, by such moments like a bus ride, or a train ride, or at lunch break. It is these moments where one can quickly search through the titles, pick one and read the snapshot story that has been presented by the Spanish writer. His works detail the everyday individual and their humble circumstances, and write of their own quiet extraordinary lives; how they attempt to ward off ennui, or defy natural laws, or even defy ageing and death only to glow long after. These stories offer wry humour with the hum drum melancholy of the everyday, and make light of the absurdities and surreal nature of the everyday life of individuals in a society.
This is Medardo Fraile’s first collection short stories to be published in English, and many thanks should be given to Pushkin Press for this. Pushkin Press, also happened to make sure the book was miniaturized in size to fit into ones coat pocket and could be readily grasped for those routine bus journeys, in the grey light of winter.
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
International IMPAC Literary Dublin Award Shortlist
Hello Gentle Reader
The IMPAC Literary Dublin Award is one of the most lucrative prizes for a single novel published in English (including translations), past winners include: Herta Müller, Orhan Pamuk, and Gerbrand Bakker. The following list, is the ten shortlisted authors, in no particular order.
Colum McCann – “TransAtlantic,”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – “Americanah,”
Mahi Binebine – “Horses of God,”
Jim Grace – “Harvest,”
Richard Flanagan – “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,”
Hannah Kent – “Burial Rites,”
Bernardo Kucinski – “K,”
Andreï Makine – “Brief Loves That Live Forever,”
Alice McDermott – “Someone,”
Roxana Robinson – “Sparta,”
It is interesting to note, that the only Irish author, on this year’s shortlist is Colum McCann. Good luck to each of the authors, shortlisted for this year’s one-hundred thousand euro prize.
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
The IMPAC Literary Dublin Award is one of the most lucrative prizes for a single novel published in English (including translations), past winners include: Herta Müller, Orhan Pamuk, and Gerbrand Bakker. The following list, is the ten shortlisted authors, in no particular order.
Colum McCann – “TransAtlantic,”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – “Americanah,”
Mahi Binebine – “Horses of God,”
Jim Grace – “Harvest,”
Richard Flanagan – “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,”
Hannah Kent – “Burial Rites,”
Bernardo Kucinski – “K,”
Andreï Makine – “Brief Loves That Live Forever,”
Alice McDermott – “Someone,”
Roxana Robinson – “Sparta,”
It is interesting to note, that the only Irish author, on this year’s shortlist is Colum McCann. Good luck to each of the authors, shortlisted for this year’s one-hundred thousand euro prize.
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
Monday, 13 April 2015
Günter Grass Dies at the age of 87
Hello Gentle Reader
Günter Grass was one the moral compass of Europe. His best known work is “The Tin Drum,” the first in his celebrated Danzig Trilogy. The author went on to become a honoured Nobel Laureate in Literature with the citation: “whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history.” In the beginning of his career, Grass was the moral compass for Germany, encouraging the German people and politicians to accept the Nazi crimes, and forgive themselves, for such a self-induced insult on their past. However, in his later years, Grass had become a polarizing figure – especially as a writer who often made political comments. Grass however lost credibility, when he himself had revealed in his autobiography “Peeling the Onion,” that at the age of sixteen he had been conscripted by the Waffen-SS, a fact of the author’s life that had not been revealed. The public was outraged. How could someone tell them to repent and admit their own tragic and traumatic history, but not do the same themselves? Further controversy had landed on Günter Grass a few years later. With a poem titled “What Must Be Said,” Grass had criticized Germany’s military support of Israel, by the delivery of submarines to the country; which Grass had argued in his poem, could be used to attack and kill the Iranian people. The poem was quickly rejected by many, feeling that a author who had hid his own Nazi past, was in a vague manner showcasing anti-Semitic views. Fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller, criticized Grass for the poem:
“Günter Grass distorts reality. Iran is threatening Israel with annihilation, not the other way around,” and continued with the following statements, “In my opinion, he lost his moral credibility long ago, because over the course of decades he hid his affiliation with the SS.”
It were to appear that Günter Grass had become more of a political persona in his later years, than a writer; which had tarnished his reputation and many inquired about the authors integrity or lack thereof with his later in life confession of his affiliation with Germany’s Nazi past. However this does not mean that Grass’s work is not without its own literary merits, and should be judged on its own merits, not the writer who in his later years had become a political persona and a polarizing political figure. However with Grass's passing, many whom mourn the author, speak of a man who was far different then his public persona. Friends of the writer, speak of a humorous man, who thought deeply about people, and was perpetually fascinated by them.
Rest In Peace Günter Grass.
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
Günter Grass was one the moral compass of Europe. His best known work is “The Tin Drum,” the first in his celebrated Danzig Trilogy. The author went on to become a honoured Nobel Laureate in Literature with the citation: “whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history.” In the beginning of his career, Grass was the moral compass for Germany, encouraging the German people and politicians to accept the Nazi crimes, and forgive themselves, for such a self-induced insult on their past. However, in his later years, Grass had become a polarizing figure – especially as a writer who often made political comments. Grass however lost credibility, when he himself had revealed in his autobiography “Peeling the Onion,” that at the age of sixteen he had been conscripted by the Waffen-SS, a fact of the author’s life that had not been revealed. The public was outraged. How could someone tell them to repent and admit their own tragic and traumatic history, but not do the same themselves? Further controversy had landed on Günter Grass a few years later. With a poem titled “What Must Be Said,” Grass had criticized Germany’s military support of Israel, by the delivery of submarines to the country; which Grass had argued in his poem, could be used to attack and kill the Iranian people. The poem was quickly rejected by many, feeling that a author who had hid his own Nazi past, was in a vague manner showcasing anti-Semitic views. Fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller, criticized Grass for the poem:
“Günter Grass distorts reality. Iran is threatening Israel with annihilation, not the other way around,” and continued with the following statements, “In my opinion, he lost his moral credibility long ago, because over the course of decades he hid his affiliation with the SS.”
It were to appear that Günter Grass had become more of a political persona in his later years, than a writer; which had tarnished his reputation and many inquired about the authors integrity or lack thereof with his later in life confession of his affiliation with Germany’s Nazi past. However this does not mean that Grass’s work is not without its own literary merits, and should be judged on its own merits, not the writer who in his later years had become a political persona and a polarizing political figure. However with Grass's passing, many whom mourn the author, speak of a man who was far different then his public persona. Friends of the writer, speak of a humorous man, who thought deeply about people, and was perpetually fascinated by them.
Rest In Peace Günter Grass.
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 April 2015
Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Shortlist
Hello Gentle Reader
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize has released its shortlist. Interesting authors and some usual suspects. However, the prize itself, is promoting world literature, translated literature, and is a continued endeavor to hold dialogues and diplomacy through literature, and cultural exchanges.
The following is the Shortlist –
Jenny Erpenbeck – “The End of Days,”
Daniel Kehlmann – “F,”
Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel – “By Night the Mountain Burns,”
Tomás González – “In the Beginning Was the Sea,”
Erwin Mortier – “While the Gods Were Sleeping,”
Haruki Murakami – “Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage,”
Once again we find Haruki Murakami on the list. Yet once again, there is reason to suspect that Murakami will most likely walk away without the award, as it will most likely pass to another. With his reputation as an international readership; Murkami appears to be another that is both loved and admired by his devoted fans; but is a polarized figure towards other authors, who view him as a literary pop star, utilizing garden variety of magical realism, and the most liberally and loosely defined term of surrealism, to discuss aspects of alienation, and isolation and loneliness in contemporary Japan. In the end, good luck to the shortlisted authors; and many thanks to The Independent and this prize for its admirable efforts to welcome new authors to the English language markets.
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
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize has released its shortlist. Interesting authors and some usual suspects. However, the prize itself, is promoting world literature, translated literature, and is a continued endeavor to hold dialogues and diplomacy through literature, and cultural exchanges.
The following is the Shortlist –
Jenny Erpenbeck – “The End of Days,”
Daniel Kehlmann – “F,”
Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel – “By Night the Mountain Burns,”
Tomás González – “In the Beginning Was the Sea,”
Erwin Mortier – “While the Gods Were Sleeping,”
Haruki Murakami – “Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage,”
Once again we find Haruki Murakami on the list. Yet once again, there is reason to suspect that Murakami will most likely walk away without the award, as it will most likely pass to another. With his reputation as an international readership; Murkami appears to be another that is both loved and admired by his devoted fans; but is a polarized figure towards other authors, who view him as a literary pop star, utilizing garden variety of magical realism, and the most liberally and loosely defined term of surrealism, to discuss aspects of alienation, and isolation and loneliness in contemporary Japan. In the end, good luck to the shortlisted authors; and many thanks to The Independent and this prize for its admirable efforts to welcome new authors to the English language markets.
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, 7 April 2015
Best Translated Book Award 2015 – Fiction & Poetry Longlist
Best Translated Book Award 2015 – Fiction & Poetry Longlist
Hello Gentle Reader
The Best Translated Book Award is one of those awards, that promotes translation and dialogue between cultures and languages, via translators. It is one of those literary awards, which wishes to see translated books of literary merit, to be pushed from three percent (hence “Three Percent Review,”) to a far more desirable percentage. One of the greatest aspects of The Best Translated Book Award, is that it is one of those novels that does not limit itself or shy away from complex narratives, and offers a complete feast for literary delights in its longlists and its shortlists. Without further ado, the following list(s) are the longlists for the Fiction and Poetry prize this year.
The Best Translated Book Award – Fiction longlist
“Things Look Different in the Light,” by Medardo Fraile (Spain)
“Paris,” by Marcos Giralt Torrente (Spain)
“Baboon,” by Naja Marie Aidt (Denmark)
“Pushkin Hills,” by Sergei Dovlatov (Russia)
“Letters from a Seducer,” by Hilda Hilst (Brazil)
“Harlequin’s Millions,” by Bohumil Hrabal (Czech Republic)
“Rambling On: An Apprentice’s Guide to the Gift of the Gab,” Bohumil Hrabal (Czech Republic)
“Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay,” by Elena Ferrante (Italy)
“Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires,” by Julio Cortázar (Argentina)
“Adán Buenosayres,” by Leopoldo Marechal (Argentina)
“Talking to Ourselves,” by Andrés Neuman (Argentina)
“La Grande,” by Juan José Saer (Argentina)
“Letters from a Seducer by Hilda Hilst (Brazil)
“Monastery,” by Eduardo Halfon (Guatemala)
“Faces in the Crowd,” by Valeria Luiselli (Mexico)
“Winter Mythologies and Abbots,” by Pierre Michon (France)
“Street of Thieves,” by Mathias Énard (France)
“1914,” by Jean Echenoz, (France)
“Works,” by Edouard Levé (France)
“The Author and Me,” by Éric Chevillard (France)
“The Woman Who Borrowed Memories,” by Tove Jansson (Finland)
“Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secret,” by Ondjaki (Angola)
“Our Lady of the Nile,” by Scholastique Mukasonga (Rwanda)
“Last Words from Montmartre,” by Qiu Miaojin (Taiwan)
“Snow and Shadow,” by Dorothy Tse (Hong Kong)
“The Last Lover,” by Can Xue (China)
The Best Translated Book Award – Poetry longlist
“Collected Poems,” by Rainer Brambach (Switzerland)
“End of the City Map,” by Farhad Showgh (Germany)
“Lazy Suzie,” by Suzanne Doppel (France)
“Openwork,” by André du Bouchet (France)
“The Posthumous Life of RW,” by Jean Frémon (France)
“Guantanamo,” by Frank Smith (France)
“Where Are the Trees Going?,” by Venus Khoury-Ghata (Lebanon)
“Nothing More to Lose,” by Najwan Darwish (Palestine)
“I Am the Beggar of the World: Landays from Contemporary Afghanistan,” Anthology (Afghanistan)
“Soy Realidad,” by Tomaž Šalamun (Slovenia)
“Compleat Catalogue of Comedic Novelties,” Lev Rubinstein (Russia)
“In Praise of Poetry,” by Olga Sedakova (Russia)
“Rain of the Future,” by Valerie Mejer (Mexico)
“Diorama,” by Rocío Cerón (Mexico)
“Diana’s Tree,” by Alejandra Pizarnik (Argentina)
“Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream,” by Kim Hyesoon (South Korea)
“Salsa,” by Hsia Yü (Taiwan)
So ends the longlists of The Best Translated Book Award. There are numerous writers and poets being longlisted for this year’s award. Judging from the fiction list, I have only read: ““Things Look Different in the Light,” by Medardo Fraile,” and ““Winter Mythologies and Abbots,” by Pierre Michon.” The list(s) compiled are interesting, and unique. Two books by the same author appear on the Fiction list, and an anthology of poetry by various poets and women, appear on the list for poetry. Popular writers like Elena Ferrante have beat out other popular names thrown around for such awards – Karl Ove Knausgård, and Haruki Murakami. Newly discovered books by well known writers, make their appearance: “Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires,” by Julio Cortázar. The true Chinese Kafka Can Xue, escapes honorable mentions this time wither novel “The Last Love.” And it were to seem that South America (Argentina in particular) has been an interest in the authors – or at least has shown its own rising literary qualities, as they make their way into the English language.
It is interesting to see a South Korean poet reach the longlist. As of late there has been more interest from South Korea to promote, translations of South Korean literature into other languages – the most coveted language: English. What is interesting to see the poet that has been shortlisted is Kim Hyesoon – the peculiar part; she is a woman. South Korea is incredibly patriarchal. Despite this Hyesoon was one of the few women to be published in the magazines: “Literary and Intellect,” and “Creation and Criticism.” Hyesoon is also the first women poet of South Korea to win the prestigious literary prizes: Midang Award and Kim Su-yŏng Conteporary Poetry Award. Two poetry awards named after two of the greatest contemporary poets of South Korea. However the poetry of Kim Hyesoon is not what is defined as ‘feminine,’ poetry. Her poetry is in fact, a resistance against the defined conventions outlined for her – and other women poets of South Korea. Language therefore changes, becomes surreal as well as grotesque but is a fantastic rebellion against confined conventions, in a quiet resistance that discusses the complexities of the female part of the human experience; one that goes beyond: daughter, mother, and grandmother. I can only wonder if Kim Hyesoon will now sit next to the perennial Nobel contender Ko Un, in the cultural dialogue of the Korean and English language – to ambassadors that discuss a similar country in different elements and ways.
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 Best Translated Book Award is one of those awards, that promotes translation and dialogue between cultures and languages, via translators. It is one of those literary awards, which wishes to see translated books of literary merit, to be pushed from three percent (hence “Three Percent Review,”) to a far more desirable percentage. One of the greatest aspects of The Best Translated Book Award, is that it is one of those novels that does not limit itself or shy away from complex narratives, and offers a complete feast for literary delights in its longlists and its shortlists. Without further ado, the following list(s) are the longlists for the Fiction and Poetry prize this year.
The Best Translated Book Award – Fiction longlist
“Things Look Different in the Light,” by Medardo Fraile (Spain)
“Paris,” by Marcos Giralt Torrente (Spain)
“Baboon,” by Naja Marie Aidt (Denmark)
“Pushkin Hills,” by Sergei Dovlatov (Russia)
“Letters from a Seducer,” by Hilda Hilst (Brazil)
“Harlequin’s Millions,” by Bohumil Hrabal (Czech Republic)
“Rambling On: An Apprentice’s Guide to the Gift of the Gab,” Bohumil Hrabal (Czech Republic)
“Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay,” by Elena Ferrante (Italy)
“Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires,” by Julio Cortázar (Argentina)
“Adán Buenosayres,” by Leopoldo Marechal (Argentina)
“Talking to Ourselves,” by Andrés Neuman (Argentina)
“La Grande,” by Juan José Saer (Argentina)
“Letters from a Seducer by Hilda Hilst (Brazil)
“Monastery,” by Eduardo Halfon (Guatemala)
“Faces in the Crowd,” by Valeria Luiselli (Mexico)
“Winter Mythologies and Abbots,” by Pierre Michon (France)
“Street of Thieves,” by Mathias Énard (France)
“1914,” by Jean Echenoz, (France)
“Works,” by Edouard Levé (France)
“The Author and Me,” by Éric Chevillard (France)
“The Woman Who Borrowed Memories,” by Tove Jansson (Finland)
“Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secret,” by Ondjaki (Angola)
“Our Lady of the Nile,” by Scholastique Mukasonga (Rwanda)
“Last Words from Montmartre,” by Qiu Miaojin (Taiwan)
“Snow and Shadow,” by Dorothy Tse (Hong Kong)
“The Last Lover,” by Can Xue (China)
The Best Translated Book Award – Poetry longlist
“Collected Poems,” by Rainer Brambach (Switzerland)
“End of the City Map,” by Farhad Showgh (Germany)
“Lazy Suzie,” by Suzanne Doppel (France)
“Openwork,” by André du Bouchet (France)
“The Posthumous Life of RW,” by Jean Frémon (France)
“Guantanamo,” by Frank Smith (France)
“Where Are the Trees Going?,” by Venus Khoury-Ghata (Lebanon)
“Nothing More to Lose,” by Najwan Darwish (Palestine)
“I Am the Beggar of the World: Landays from Contemporary Afghanistan,” Anthology (Afghanistan)
“Soy Realidad,” by Tomaž Šalamun (Slovenia)
“Compleat Catalogue of Comedic Novelties,” Lev Rubinstein (Russia)
“In Praise of Poetry,” by Olga Sedakova (Russia)
“Rain of the Future,” by Valerie Mejer (Mexico)
“Diorama,” by Rocío Cerón (Mexico)
“Diana’s Tree,” by Alejandra Pizarnik (Argentina)
“Sorrowtoothpaste Mirrorcream,” by Kim Hyesoon (South Korea)
“Salsa,” by Hsia Yü (Taiwan)
So ends the longlists of The Best Translated Book Award. There are numerous writers and poets being longlisted for this year’s award. Judging from the fiction list, I have only read: ““Things Look Different in the Light,” by Medardo Fraile,” and ““Winter Mythologies and Abbots,” by Pierre Michon.” The list(s) compiled are interesting, and unique. Two books by the same author appear on the Fiction list, and an anthology of poetry by various poets and women, appear on the list for poetry. Popular writers like Elena Ferrante have beat out other popular names thrown around for such awards – Karl Ove Knausgård, and Haruki Murakami. Newly discovered books by well known writers, make their appearance: “Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires,” by Julio Cortázar. The true Chinese Kafka Can Xue, escapes honorable mentions this time wither novel “The Last Love.” And it were to seem that South America (Argentina in particular) has been an interest in the authors – or at least has shown its own rising literary qualities, as they make their way into the English language.
It is interesting to see a South Korean poet reach the longlist. As of late there has been more interest from South Korea to promote, translations of South Korean literature into other languages – the most coveted language: English. What is interesting to see the poet that has been shortlisted is Kim Hyesoon – the peculiar part; she is a woman. South Korea is incredibly patriarchal. Despite this Hyesoon was one of the few women to be published in the magazines: “Literary and Intellect,” and “Creation and Criticism.” Hyesoon is also the first women poet of South Korea to win the prestigious literary prizes: Midang Award and Kim Su-yŏng Conteporary Poetry Award. Two poetry awards named after two of the greatest contemporary poets of South Korea. However the poetry of Kim Hyesoon is not what is defined as ‘feminine,’ poetry. Her poetry is in fact, a resistance against the defined conventions outlined for her – and other women poets of South Korea. Language therefore changes, becomes surreal as well as grotesque but is a fantastic rebellion against confined conventions, in a quiet resistance that discusses the complexities of the female part of the human experience; one that goes beyond: daughter, mother, and grandmother. I can only wonder if Kim Hyesoon will now sit next to the perennial Nobel contender Ko Un, in the cultural dialogue of the Korean and English language – to ambassadors that discuss a similar country in different elements and ways.
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, 2 April 2015
Winter Mythologies & Abbots
Hello Gentle Reader
Clio, in Greek mythology is the muse of history. Her name comes from the root Greek word κλέω/κλείω; meaning: ‘to make one famous,’ ‘to recount,’ or ‘to celebrate.’ In my childhood I was fascinated by Greek mythology. The ancient Greek Gods acted like mortals. They waged war; they loved not only each other but mortals – of the same gender at times; they were hurt; they felt jealousy and envy. In all the Greek gods were capricious creatures. Zeus was both a tyrant and a whoremonger; at times I had pitied his wife Hera, for her eternal sufferings of a unfaithful husband – but these sympathies were short lived; as she had turned out to be as erratic as her husband, releasing her wrath in the forms of cruel punishments, on those who were seduced by the God of lightning and storms. The other Olympians were no different. They loved, they fought, and they lusted and were hurt. Their stories befitted myths and legends. Then came lesser gods; Pan the patron god of shepherds and spring; Iris messenger of the gods; and the muses. At first glance the Muses struck me at the time as personifications of the arts. They were patrons of lyrical poetry, heroic or epic poetry, dance and theatre (both tragic and comedic). It was not until I came across Clio and Urania that I took the muses as more, then just Apollo’s fan girls. Clio and Urania stuck as me two personifications of more intellectual movements. They were not interested in writing love poems; nor were they interested in acting out comedies or tragedies; nor did they dance. Subjects that I am not overtly enthused over; or minimally enthused over at best. Urania, and her earthly globe, tracked the heavens above in ancient times. Those who were dearest to her, necks were sore from looking up to the night sky. Yet their thoughts and imagination carried them to the heavens. As I got older though, I realized the subject of the stars, was not something that I would be able to comprehend or grasp. Though my eyes continually gaze towards the sky: catching a glimpse of a shooting star, or spotting with the greatest concentration a constellation, my abilities to comprehend the physics and the actual scientific concepts that take place in the great void of space, are beyond me. Still the moon and I have a passionate love affair. Clio on the other hand was a muse that was near to my heart. History is a subject of the utmost interest to those that can get past the dryness of the facts and the dates. History has the word story in it. The story in history pertains to the battles fought – both won and lost; but also to the people that populate the times that have since passed. History is filled with righteous characters: Joan of Arc; stoic yet charming individuals of wit: Queen Elizabeth I (The Golden Age); idealist men whose dreams were birthed out of bloody revolutions: Lenin; but also monsters and darker creatures: Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler. Still history is populated by a variety of characters. They are human; they are flawed; and their lives are outlaid before us, both what has been documented, but also has been theorized and gossiped about. This is why writers and historians, both take up the pen and scour the past, for both creative purposes, and intellectual purposes, and discuss times now come and gone. They discuss our advancements, and how easily we fall back into beings no better than savages. As the saying goes: those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
Pierre Michon turns to the lives of others to write his books. In these endeavors he becomes not just a writer, but a chronicler, an archivist, a detective, and a historian, in order to write the portraits of the individuals he is writing about. From famous artists, to poets, to figures from a personal history; to now monks and abbots; who have since fallen into obscurity. Michon’s prose is sardonic, and intensely lyrical in often long and dense sentences. His works and narratives not concerned with the interior world; that other authors would be more focused on. His work is more focused on the details of the surface; and the secrets that hide below. This is where Michon deviates as a narrative prose writer, and becomes more of a portraitist in prose. His work is speculative about the people he writes about, and digressive; this is where the biographer and Michon deviate from the path of writing about individuals and the lives that they seek to write about. This makes Michon a difficult author to quickly categorize accordingly. His subject matter is remote, and at times even obscure and parochial. His sentences are dense, and intense in their vehement use of lyricism in his work. They are plotless, and often given no actual history lesson on the subject matter. As a reader, we just come into the episodes of these individuals’ lives, and as quickly as we have entered, we depart with jovial enthusiasm on a whirlwind of text and prose.
“The Eleven,” which is about a painter’s portrait of the eleven members of the Public Safety Committee, during the reign of terror, is one such example of the writers, intimidating remote nature of his subject matter. After a few tries at the novel, I was forced to call it quits, and decided it was not worth the try or the bother at the moment. One day perhaps I will go back to the novel and tackle it once again. At the moment it cannot be seen in the foreseeable future. Redemption between myself as a reader, and Michon as a writer came with his purely fictional novel “The Origin of the World,” which details a school teachers burning desire and lust for a local woman. The novel showed to me what Michon was capable as a writer and why he was highly regarded and respected by the French literary scene; and those that have read his works in English translation, and celebrate them.
“Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” has left me once again uncertain with Michon. It was less dense then “The Eleven,” on the surface; but it suffered the same drawbacks, which “The Eleven,” had as its own flaws. There is no history lesson with this book. I walked into the book knowing that the subjects discussed, were obscure monks, bishops, saints and abbots. What I had hoped and expected however, was a history lesson to some degree of these individuals. Instead as a reader, I was led through their times (when they were not entirely certain) and walked their paths, and had their meals. But beyond that there was nothing to say about them. It started off promising however with the short tale: “Brigid’s Fervor.” The tale recounts Brigid a young woman, recently introduced to Christianity and Catholicism by Saint Patrick. However, Brigid wonders increasingly about God, and when he will show himself. Saint Patrick quickly tells her that all mortal beings meet him in their death. Brigid, devote or curious beyond satisfaction, commits suicide in order to see her lord. The tale is quick and short. That being said in the few short pages, Michon covers more ground then most authors; and quickly disputes a need for verbosity. Rather he uses laconic style of writing with lyricism, to ensure that more meaning can be taken from the prose then just what is superficially bared.
As the book progresses however, the interest grows increasingly bare, and uncertain. Characters come and go without much of an introduction, nor do they leave much of an impression. To a degree I felt that in order to have fully understood or comprehended the book, I should have done some prior research into Church history as well as Martyrology or the legends and myths that engulf much of the earlier centuries of Church history. This however is also what interested me into this book. The myths the mythologies and legends of saints. The stories that surround these people of holiness. Where the heavens and the earthly realm, merge for only the quickest moments. Such as Saint Patrick cleansing Ireland of snakes. Still after reading “Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” I did not discover myths or anything new or exciting. I felt that after a while, I began to grow bored with the historical stories, that I was reading, and fact and fiction could no longer be separated. There is no doubt in my mind that Michon is a good or great writer. But his work is for the finely tuned. His portraits either interest a reader or do not. Which is unfortunate in this case; seeing as “Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” held such promise in the beginning. That being said it could use a second read or a third read before judgment can truly be passed on the book.
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
Clio, in Greek mythology is the muse of history. Her name comes from the root Greek word κλέω/κλείω; meaning: ‘to make one famous,’ ‘to recount,’ or ‘to celebrate.’ In my childhood I was fascinated by Greek mythology. The ancient Greek Gods acted like mortals. They waged war; they loved not only each other but mortals – of the same gender at times; they were hurt; they felt jealousy and envy. In all the Greek gods were capricious creatures. Zeus was both a tyrant and a whoremonger; at times I had pitied his wife Hera, for her eternal sufferings of a unfaithful husband – but these sympathies were short lived; as she had turned out to be as erratic as her husband, releasing her wrath in the forms of cruel punishments, on those who were seduced by the God of lightning and storms. The other Olympians were no different. They loved, they fought, and they lusted and were hurt. Their stories befitted myths and legends. Then came lesser gods; Pan the patron god of shepherds and spring; Iris messenger of the gods; and the muses. At first glance the Muses struck me at the time as personifications of the arts. They were patrons of lyrical poetry, heroic or epic poetry, dance and theatre (both tragic and comedic). It was not until I came across Clio and Urania that I took the muses as more, then just Apollo’s fan girls. Clio and Urania stuck as me two personifications of more intellectual movements. They were not interested in writing love poems; nor were they interested in acting out comedies or tragedies; nor did they dance. Subjects that I am not overtly enthused over; or minimally enthused over at best. Urania, and her earthly globe, tracked the heavens above in ancient times. Those who were dearest to her, necks were sore from looking up to the night sky. Yet their thoughts and imagination carried them to the heavens. As I got older though, I realized the subject of the stars, was not something that I would be able to comprehend or grasp. Though my eyes continually gaze towards the sky: catching a glimpse of a shooting star, or spotting with the greatest concentration a constellation, my abilities to comprehend the physics and the actual scientific concepts that take place in the great void of space, are beyond me. Still the moon and I have a passionate love affair. Clio on the other hand was a muse that was near to my heart. History is a subject of the utmost interest to those that can get past the dryness of the facts and the dates. History has the word story in it. The story in history pertains to the battles fought – both won and lost; but also to the people that populate the times that have since passed. History is filled with righteous characters: Joan of Arc; stoic yet charming individuals of wit: Queen Elizabeth I (The Golden Age); idealist men whose dreams were birthed out of bloody revolutions: Lenin; but also monsters and darker creatures: Joseph Stalin and Adolf Hitler. Still history is populated by a variety of characters. They are human; they are flawed; and their lives are outlaid before us, both what has been documented, but also has been theorized and gossiped about. This is why writers and historians, both take up the pen and scour the past, for both creative purposes, and intellectual purposes, and discuss times now come and gone. They discuss our advancements, and how easily we fall back into beings no better than savages. As the saying goes: those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
Pierre Michon turns to the lives of others to write his books. In these endeavors he becomes not just a writer, but a chronicler, an archivist, a detective, and a historian, in order to write the portraits of the individuals he is writing about. From famous artists, to poets, to figures from a personal history; to now monks and abbots; who have since fallen into obscurity. Michon’s prose is sardonic, and intensely lyrical in often long and dense sentences. His works and narratives not concerned with the interior world; that other authors would be more focused on. His work is more focused on the details of the surface; and the secrets that hide below. This is where Michon deviates as a narrative prose writer, and becomes more of a portraitist in prose. His work is speculative about the people he writes about, and digressive; this is where the biographer and Michon deviate from the path of writing about individuals and the lives that they seek to write about. This makes Michon a difficult author to quickly categorize accordingly. His subject matter is remote, and at times even obscure and parochial. His sentences are dense, and intense in their vehement use of lyricism in his work. They are plotless, and often given no actual history lesson on the subject matter. As a reader, we just come into the episodes of these individuals’ lives, and as quickly as we have entered, we depart with jovial enthusiasm on a whirlwind of text and prose.
“The Eleven,” which is about a painter’s portrait of the eleven members of the Public Safety Committee, during the reign of terror, is one such example of the writers, intimidating remote nature of his subject matter. After a few tries at the novel, I was forced to call it quits, and decided it was not worth the try or the bother at the moment. One day perhaps I will go back to the novel and tackle it once again. At the moment it cannot be seen in the foreseeable future. Redemption between myself as a reader, and Michon as a writer came with his purely fictional novel “The Origin of the World,” which details a school teachers burning desire and lust for a local woman. The novel showed to me what Michon was capable as a writer and why he was highly regarded and respected by the French literary scene; and those that have read his works in English translation, and celebrate them.
“Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” has left me once again uncertain with Michon. It was less dense then “The Eleven,” on the surface; but it suffered the same drawbacks, which “The Eleven,” had as its own flaws. There is no history lesson with this book. I walked into the book knowing that the subjects discussed, were obscure monks, bishops, saints and abbots. What I had hoped and expected however, was a history lesson to some degree of these individuals. Instead as a reader, I was led through their times (when they were not entirely certain) and walked their paths, and had their meals. But beyond that there was nothing to say about them. It started off promising however with the short tale: “Brigid’s Fervor.” The tale recounts Brigid a young woman, recently introduced to Christianity and Catholicism by Saint Patrick. However, Brigid wonders increasingly about God, and when he will show himself. Saint Patrick quickly tells her that all mortal beings meet him in their death. Brigid, devote or curious beyond satisfaction, commits suicide in order to see her lord. The tale is quick and short. That being said in the few short pages, Michon covers more ground then most authors; and quickly disputes a need for verbosity. Rather he uses laconic style of writing with lyricism, to ensure that more meaning can be taken from the prose then just what is superficially bared.
As the book progresses however, the interest grows increasingly bare, and uncertain. Characters come and go without much of an introduction, nor do they leave much of an impression. To a degree I felt that in order to have fully understood or comprehended the book, I should have done some prior research into Church history as well as Martyrology or the legends and myths that engulf much of the earlier centuries of Church history. This however is also what interested me into this book. The myths the mythologies and legends of saints. The stories that surround these people of holiness. Where the heavens and the earthly realm, merge for only the quickest moments. Such as Saint Patrick cleansing Ireland of snakes. Still after reading “Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” I did not discover myths or anything new or exciting. I felt that after a while, I began to grow bored with the historical stories, that I was reading, and fact and fiction could no longer be separated. There is no doubt in my mind that Michon is a good or great writer. But his work is for the finely tuned. His portraits either interest a reader or do not. Which is unfortunate in this case; seeing as “Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” held such promise in the beginning. That being said it could use a second read or a third read before judgment can truly be passed on the book.
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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