Hello Gentle Reader
Last year saw the pilot project for The Man Booker Prize’s new venture – that is the inclusion of American writers to compete for the prize. It was considered quite a success by many. Yet there is still no word, on when the Pulitzer Prize, will open its borders up to other English language nations to, compete for it. In all though, last year’s judges, did the tightrope act, as the longlist and subsequent shortlist, would be under severe scrutiny by many. Both the longlist and the shortlist would have to be ‘balanced.’ The prize could not be too UK-centric nor could it lean to favourable to the American side either; and then it would not ensure that proper representation from other countries were equally given consideration. In the end, the judges succeed in playing the sides perfectly, and giving fair opportunity to each writer and novel. Yet the change is still new, and there is still apprehension over this inclusiveness, as the Booker Prize attempts to retain relevancy in an ever changing literary world. The longlist below is as depicted on “The Guardian,” website (a link will be provided at the end of this post). The list is compose as follows: Writer’s name – Book – Country
The Booker Prize Longlist:
Marlon James – “A Brief History of Seven Killings,” – Jamaica
Anne Tyler – “A Spool of Blue Thread,” – America
Anuradha Roy – “Sleeping on Jupiter,” – India
Chigozie Obioma – “The Fisherman,” – Nigeria
Bill Clegg – “Did You Ever Have a Family,” – America
Anne Enright – “The Green Road,” – Ireland
Laila Lalami – “The Moor’s Account,” – America
Tom McCarthy – “Satin Island,” – United Kingdom
Andrew O’Hagan – “The Illuminations,” – United Kingdom
Sunjeev Sahota – “The Year of the Runaway,” – United Kingdom
Anna Smaill – “The Chimes,” – New Zealand
Hanya Yanagihara – “A Little Life,” – America
Marilynne Robinson – “Lila,” – America
There it is Gentle Reader, The Booker Prize Longlist. On it there are:
5 – American
3 – United Kingdom
1 – New Zealand
1 – Jamaican
1 – Nigerian
1 – Indian
1 – Irish
Thirteen writers and books in total Gentle Reader. This year’s Booker Prize has been called diverse, and has shown the judges to engage with both established talents, and writers currently establishing themselves into the literary scene. Some have noted a more openness to racial differences. It may turn out to be an interesting year for the Booker 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 Booker Prize Longlist depicted on "The Guardian."
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/jul/29/man-booker-prize-2015-the-longlist-in-pictures
Article via "The Guardian," discussing the diversity of this years award:
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/jul/29/man-booker-longlist-new-diverse
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
Thursday, 23 July 2015
Out of The Dark
Hello Gentle Reader
The nights are young. Therefore they are designed for the young. Yet it always appears that the nights are adulterated by the old. Such poor souls: aimless and wandering through the streets, in search of sleep and dreams; only to never find them. They can look under street lights, wall lights, porch lights. They peer around building walls; and into dark windows. Where could the sands of sleep be hidden? The same could be said for exhausting attempts at exhumation and excavation, of the past – especially a past wrapped in gauze or gossamer like fog. There are many pearls of wisdom, that are strung around the necks of scholars and sages, that reference the poetics of life; those simplistic guarantees. One: life (or the landscape of it) are guaranteed to change; Two: life goes on, with our without you. It is starting to understand and comprehend, that such simplistic terms and concepts, cause such large impacts. Personally I find myself blindsided, by emergences of the past. Coming across people from the past – acquaintances and friends, is at times a challenging experience. Where there was once common ground, has grown frail and weak with time. The slaying of imaginary dragons is a young man’s game; and certainly not up to either one of us, to participate in our dress shoes or heels; nor would it be considered appropriate to: ‘get down and dirty,’ in our slacks or skirts. Conversations are now, filled with discussions of: ‘where we are now?’ Polite conversations or small talk. All of which ends with the departing remark: ‘it was good to see you again.’ There is no denying, that our eyes betray us. More specifically our gazes do. They are absent and glossed over; as if we are fulfilling some duty bound obligation, to register each other’s existence. That is, if by chance, one of the two parties approach the other; and approaching the second party often, results in a slow timid saunter, wrapped in uncertainty and the smallest sense of guilt. Guilt with preconceived apologetic remarks: ‘sorry for not keeping in touch,’ ‘sorry it’s been so long,’ ‘sorry I haven’t contacted you lately.’ – Yet despite the admittance of ones guilt and the amends attempted, there are always rationalizations: ‘I’ve been busy,’ ‘You know me, living out of a suitcase, always traveling,’ ‘There just is never enough time in the day,’ or the best: ‘I was just thinking of you.’ Presumptuously I find my solution to be the best. It is best not to saunter over, or approach the corresponding party – even if they have noticed you. Do not linger too long, in such a shared presence; and it is high recommended to depart before recognition takes hold or immediately after. Still the hardest aspect about moving forward is the changing landscape. Where childhood hide ways are torn down or ripped out. Family homes sold. These are the most wistful and melancholic realizations that one’s own past, is slowly being erased, by time and age. This all becomes quite prickly and problematic, when one searches their own past; for hints and inclinations of their character, or who they are. Vantage points are removed. Decrepit landmarks torn down. Former allies of a shared past, departed and never heard from again. The names of residencies change. Suddenly the familiar becomes foreign.
Patrick Modiano, who became the two-thousand and fourteen Nobel Laureate in Literature, has been hailed, as an archival cartographer of faded memories, destroyed histories, and the continual search for identity in a world inadvertently afflicted with amnesia. It would seem that only from the past, do we begin to understand our present situations. As Proustian as this may sound, and as foreboding as it may appear; Modiano is not a writer of complicated sentence structures. Patrick Modiano is quite the opposite (despite ironically the compassions to Proust), Modiano’s prose is lucid and deceptively simple. His work is matter of fact, clipped of poetics, has no remnants of postmodernism to his work. Modiano’s work is not interested in literary gimmicks and word play for the sake of word play; as it is far more concerned with its genuine preoccupations with the past, and the personal sense of identity loss and crisis. However, one should not mistake Patrick Modiano, as a writer of simple drug store novels. One should never confuse lucid, with formulated simplicity; or length with complexities or lack thereof. Patrick Modiano’s work is complex in the minimal. His novels are short, elusive and ethereal. The authors novels, are wrapped in a gossamer like gauze, narrated by narrators, who begin their searches into a past, that has all but faded, or been neglected into depletion and decrepit disrepair; or by outsider narrators, who try to understand the pasts of others, who they meet by chance meetings. Such characters exclaim or evade, attempts at inquiring in their pasts; as if somehow they never had a past, and they had always existed in a perpetual purgatory of the present; despite the haunting inclinations of the past, of abrupt departures and unanswered questions. The novels themselves are autumnal in the present – vague attempts at remembering the fleeting instant scents of spring, in a world presently on fire around them, with the oblivion seeping in through the cracks of fraying leaves. Modiano himself has stated that he appears to continue to write the same book over and over again – or to go a step further in many critical claims: each new novel is a new chapter, in a larger novel as a whole.
“Out of The Dark,” is what one might call a typical Modano-esque novel. It is written in the moody dream like inconsequential prose of the author. The plot concerns a couple of drifters in their youth, and their own flotsam or jetsam attitude towards life; they come in with the tide, and depart with the wave; and the short affair that sprouted, in the intermission between the chance arrival and the abrupt departures. The novel is narrated by a man (a writer), who searches the past, for an inclination or a spark that may have existed; or may simply reside in a space, in which we choose that it does. This is the shadow play of memory; and Modiano’s work: the shadow space of the past, of what is remembered and what had happened. This leads to the dream like quality of the prose.
The plot of “Out of the Dark,” is created by a chance encounter. A young man aimless, living on off of the money he can earn by selling off his art books, to bookstores. Then by chance he meets a couple, in a cafe playing pinball, and their worlds intertwine with one another. The young couple’s lives are equally unstable, as they make a living off of gambling; more specifically roulette. Yet the world of this couple, and the world the narrator finds himself equally invested in, is a world of dreams and far flung thoughts – and no plan on how to achieve it. Jacqueline the woman, is aloof, cold and distant (much like the ether in a blue bottle) – dreams along with her ‘boyfriend,’ Gerard, to move to Majorca where an American writer friend resides. However the plan on how to get there, and foresight into such a venture, is left in the ambiguous gambles of chance, luck, and fate. Yet the narrator finds himself, more embezzled in the dream of the youthful sense of word: Drapetomania – what exactly has caused the urge, the inclination – to seek greener fields and pastures, it never elucidated upon any further. Yet when the plan is set in motion, complications arise, by the Modiano departure; an understated abrupt closing of the door. A door that is never re-opened, nor located – though attempts to locate, unlock and walk through, to find the answers create the entire novel. Such are the existential-noirs of Patrick Modiano.
When the Swedish Academy Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature to Patrick Modiano, they had introduced or rather re-introduced a great writer, to the world. Patrick Modiano is an accessible writer, but beyond the lucidity of his prose, there is no luminous quality to the secrets, they attempt to uncover. Modiano is an approachable writer, and is a writer that can be read and enjoyed. But is by no means a beach read. Modiano is a writer, who is best saved for rainy days, when they chores can be procrastinated for another day; his work is equally grey and blue as the sky and the rain. From the point of the forgotten or what has been forgotten, Modiano has revisited, and cast light upon, a world that at times lacks qualities other than the time that it was in.
“We had no real qualities, except the one that youth gives to everyone for a very brief time, like a vague promise that will never be kept.”
That is perhaps the greatest summary of youth in its entirety, and subsequently the novel.
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 nights are young. Therefore they are designed for the young. Yet it always appears that the nights are adulterated by the old. Such poor souls: aimless and wandering through the streets, in search of sleep and dreams; only to never find them. They can look under street lights, wall lights, porch lights. They peer around building walls; and into dark windows. Where could the sands of sleep be hidden? The same could be said for exhausting attempts at exhumation and excavation, of the past – especially a past wrapped in gauze or gossamer like fog. There are many pearls of wisdom, that are strung around the necks of scholars and sages, that reference the poetics of life; those simplistic guarantees. One: life (or the landscape of it) are guaranteed to change; Two: life goes on, with our without you. It is starting to understand and comprehend, that such simplistic terms and concepts, cause such large impacts. Personally I find myself blindsided, by emergences of the past. Coming across people from the past – acquaintances and friends, is at times a challenging experience. Where there was once common ground, has grown frail and weak with time. The slaying of imaginary dragons is a young man’s game; and certainly not up to either one of us, to participate in our dress shoes or heels; nor would it be considered appropriate to: ‘get down and dirty,’ in our slacks or skirts. Conversations are now, filled with discussions of: ‘where we are now?’ Polite conversations or small talk. All of which ends with the departing remark: ‘it was good to see you again.’ There is no denying, that our eyes betray us. More specifically our gazes do. They are absent and glossed over; as if we are fulfilling some duty bound obligation, to register each other’s existence. That is, if by chance, one of the two parties approach the other; and approaching the second party often, results in a slow timid saunter, wrapped in uncertainty and the smallest sense of guilt. Guilt with preconceived apologetic remarks: ‘sorry for not keeping in touch,’ ‘sorry it’s been so long,’ ‘sorry I haven’t contacted you lately.’ – Yet despite the admittance of ones guilt and the amends attempted, there are always rationalizations: ‘I’ve been busy,’ ‘You know me, living out of a suitcase, always traveling,’ ‘There just is never enough time in the day,’ or the best: ‘I was just thinking of you.’ Presumptuously I find my solution to be the best. It is best not to saunter over, or approach the corresponding party – even if they have noticed you. Do not linger too long, in such a shared presence; and it is high recommended to depart before recognition takes hold or immediately after. Still the hardest aspect about moving forward is the changing landscape. Where childhood hide ways are torn down or ripped out. Family homes sold. These are the most wistful and melancholic realizations that one’s own past, is slowly being erased, by time and age. This all becomes quite prickly and problematic, when one searches their own past; for hints and inclinations of their character, or who they are. Vantage points are removed. Decrepit landmarks torn down. Former allies of a shared past, departed and never heard from again. The names of residencies change. Suddenly the familiar becomes foreign.
Patrick Modiano, who became the two-thousand and fourteen Nobel Laureate in Literature, has been hailed, as an archival cartographer of faded memories, destroyed histories, and the continual search for identity in a world inadvertently afflicted with amnesia. It would seem that only from the past, do we begin to understand our present situations. As Proustian as this may sound, and as foreboding as it may appear; Modiano is not a writer of complicated sentence structures. Patrick Modiano is quite the opposite (despite ironically the compassions to Proust), Modiano’s prose is lucid and deceptively simple. His work is matter of fact, clipped of poetics, has no remnants of postmodernism to his work. Modiano’s work is not interested in literary gimmicks and word play for the sake of word play; as it is far more concerned with its genuine preoccupations with the past, and the personal sense of identity loss and crisis. However, one should not mistake Patrick Modiano, as a writer of simple drug store novels. One should never confuse lucid, with formulated simplicity; or length with complexities or lack thereof. Patrick Modiano’s work is complex in the minimal. His novels are short, elusive and ethereal. The authors novels, are wrapped in a gossamer like gauze, narrated by narrators, who begin their searches into a past, that has all but faded, or been neglected into depletion and decrepit disrepair; or by outsider narrators, who try to understand the pasts of others, who they meet by chance meetings. Such characters exclaim or evade, attempts at inquiring in their pasts; as if somehow they never had a past, and they had always existed in a perpetual purgatory of the present; despite the haunting inclinations of the past, of abrupt departures and unanswered questions. The novels themselves are autumnal in the present – vague attempts at remembering the fleeting instant scents of spring, in a world presently on fire around them, with the oblivion seeping in through the cracks of fraying leaves. Modiano himself has stated that he appears to continue to write the same book over and over again – or to go a step further in many critical claims: each new novel is a new chapter, in a larger novel as a whole.
“Out of The Dark,” is what one might call a typical Modano-esque novel. It is written in the moody dream like inconsequential prose of the author. The plot concerns a couple of drifters in their youth, and their own flotsam or jetsam attitude towards life; they come in with the tide, and depart with the wave; and the short affair that sprouted, in the intermission between the chance arrival and the abrupt departures. The novel is narrated by a man (a writer), who searches the past, for an inclination or a spark that may have existed; or may simply reside in a space, in which we choose that it does. This is the shadow play of memory; and Modiano’s work: the shadow space of the past, of what is remembered and what had happened. This leads to the dream like quality of the prose.
The plot of “Out of the Dark,” is created by a chance encounter. A young man aimless, living on off of the money he can earn by selling off his art books, to bookstores. Then by chance he meets a couple, in a cafe playing pinball, and their worlds intertwine with one another. The young couple’s lives are equally unstable, as they make a living off of gambling; more specifically roulette. Yet the world of this couple, and the world the narrator finds himself equally invested in, is a world of dreams and far flung thoughts – and no plan on how to achieve it. Jacqueline the woman, is aloof, cold and distant (much like the ether in a blue bottle) – dreams along with her ‘boyfriend,’ Gerard, to move to Majorca where an American writer friend resides. However the plan on how to get there, and foresight into such a venture, is left in the ambiguous gambles of chance, luck, and fate. Yet the narrator finds himself, more embezzled in the dream of the youthful sense of word: Drapetomania – what exactly has caused the urge, the inclination – to seek greener fields and pastures, it never elucidated upon any further. Yet when the plan is set in motion, complications arise, by the Modiano departure; an understated abrupt closing of the door. A door that is never re-opened, nor located – though attempts to locate, unlock and walk through, to find the answers create the entire novel. Such are the existential-noirs of Patrick Modiano.
When the Swedish Academy Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature to Patrick Modiano, they had introduced or rather re-introduced a great writer, to the world. Patrick Modiano is an accessible writer, but beyond the lucidity of his prose, there is no luminous quality to the secrets, they attempt to uncover. Modiano is an approachable writer, and is a writer that can be read and enjoyed. But is by no means a beach read. Modiano is a writer, who is best saved for rainy days, when they chores can be procrastinated for another day; his work is equally grey and blue as the sky and the rain. From the point of the forgotten or what has been forgotten, Modiano has revisited, and cast light upon, a world that at times lacks qualities other than the time that it was in.
“We had no real qualities, except the one that youth gives to everyone for a very brief time, like a vague promise that will never be kept.”
That is perhaps the greatest summary of youth in its entirety, and subsequently the novel.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Friday, 10 July 2015
Happy Birthday Alice Munro
Hello Gentle Reader
Alice Munro has just turned eighty four. It may have gone unnoticed, if it were not for the news. Canada Post announced that it would be issuing, a postage stamp commemorating the Nobel Laureate and master of the short story. A beautiful gift to go along with her silver mint coin, issued last march, by the Canadian mint.
Happy Birthday Alice Munro! May it be a wonderful one, filled with champagne and cake; which, you can not only have but eat too!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Reader
M. Mary
Alice Munro has just turned eighty four. It may have gone unnoticed, if it were not for the news. Canada Post announced that it would be issuing, a postage stamp commemorating the Nobel Laureate and master of the short story. A beautiful gift to go along with her silver mint coin, issued last march, by the Canadian mint.
Happy Birthday Alice Munro! May it be a wonderful one, filled with champagne and cake; which, you can not only have but eat too!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Reader
M. Mary
Thursday, 9 July 2015
Man Booker and Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Merge
Hello Gentle Reader
Whether one likes it or not, the “Man Booker International,” Prize and the “Independent Foreign Fiction Prize,” have reconfigured and merged. The two awards have merged, under the current “Man Booker International Award,” name. However instead of the award being awarded, biannually, it will not be awarded, on an annual basis to a work of translated literary fiction. As Jonathan Taylor the chair of Man Booker Foundation stated, the “Man Booker International,” prize had lost momentum over the years, it was not awarded (as the award was a biannual award); but also that it was a bit confusing, that it was awarded to a life time body of work. However the “Man Booker International Prize,” was less fascinating and less international, than one would suspect. All of the winners were well known figures in its short ten year history. The first winner was the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare, followed by the Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe; two-thousand and thirteen Nobel Laureate and Canadian Alice Munro, then two American writers Philip Roth and Lydia Davis, and ending with László Krasznahorkai. Only three of the authors, where from countries not of English dominance (Albania, Nigeria and Hungary); while the other four, are considered giants in the English language. Anything of an international appeal was severely lacking. The “Man Booker International,” Prize was an in a sense an attempt at rivaling the Nobel Prize for Literature. However, this dream was not achieved. Personally, I think it considerably lacked any imagination and creativity in looking beyond the reigning globalized language frontier. This led to the award going to more popular and well known writers, and painfully going to two American writers in a period of four years. It became apparent, that the award lacked an international flare and feel.
On the flipside the “Independent Foreign Fiction,” prize promoted translated literature in English. There was no dominance of country or language for the award. Recipients of the award included but not limited to: Orhan Pamuk, Jose Saramago (both future Nobel Laureates) Gerbrand Bakker, W.G. Sebald and Jenny Erpenbeck. The award acknowledged both writers, and translators – as writer and translator, would share the prize money.
Now the two awards have merged together. This will hopefully create a strong award that seeks to promote translations of foreign works of fiction into English. As it stands only three percent of books published in the English language are of another language. Jonathan Taylor himself has stated:
“[. . .] We very much hope that this reconfiguration of the prize will encourage a greater interest and investment in translation.”
For more information onto the reconfigured award, please follow the link below:
http://www.thebookseller.com/news/man-booker-306625
Personally Gentle Reader, I hope this new reconfiguration will help translated fiction become more apparent in publishing in the English language, and that prominent international names, will share the stage with writers of more obscurity, and yet with great talent.
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
Whether one likes it or not, the “Man Booker International,” Prize and the “Independent Foreign Fiction Prize,” have reconfigured and merged. The two awards have merged, under the current “Man Booker International Award,” name. However instead of the award being awarded, biannually, it will not be awarded, on an annual basis to a work of translated literary fiction. As Jonathan Taylor the chair of Man Booker Foundation stated, the “Man Booker International,” prize had lost momentum over the years, it was not awarded (as the award was a biannual award); but also that it was a bit confusing, that it was awarded to a life time body of work. However the “Man Booker International Prize,” was less fascinating and less international, than one would suspect. All of the winners were well known figures in its short ten year history. The first winner was the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare, followed by the Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe; two-thousand and thirteen Nobel Laureate and Canadian Alice Munro, then two American writers Philip Roth and Lydia Davis, and ending with László Krasznahorkai. Only three of the authors, where from countries not of English dominance (Albania, Nigeria and Hungary); while the other four, are considered giants in the English language. Anything of an international appeal was severely lacking. The “Man Booker International,” Prize was an in a sense an attempt at rivaling the Nobel Prize for Literature. However, this dream was not achieved. Personally, I think it considerably lacked any imagination and creativity in looking beyond the reigning globalized language frontier. This led to the award going to more popular and well known writers, and painfully going to two American writers in a period of four years. It became apparent, that the award lacked an international flare and feel.
On the flipside the “Independent Foreign Fiction,” prize promoted translated literature in English. There was no dominance of country or language for the award. Recipients of the award included but not limited to: Orhan Pamuk, Jose Saramago (both future Nobel Laureates) Gerbrand Bakker, W.G. Sebald and Jenny Erpenbeck. The award acknowledged both writers, and translators – as writer and translator, would share the prize money.
Now the two awards have merged together. This will hopefully create a strong award that seeks to promote translations of foreign works of fiction into English. As it stands only three percent of books published in the English language are of another language. Jonathan Taylor himself has stated:
“[. . .] We very much hope that this reconfiguration of the prize will encourage a greater interest and investment in translation.”
For more information onto the reconfigured award, please follow the link below:
http://www.thebookseller.com/news/man-booker-306625
Personally Gentle Reader, I hope this new reconfiguration will help translated fiction become more apparent in publishing in the English language, and that prominent international names, will share the stage with writers of more obscurity, and yet with great talent.
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 July 2015
Rain Over Madrid
Hello Gentle Reader
It was thanks to “Three Percent Review,” and their comprehensive translation database, where new translated books that are appearing in English in that corresponding year are listed and documented; that I had discovered Andrés Barba, and his collection of four novella’s that comprise the book “Rain Over Madrid.” I’ve always loved the novella as a literary form; it has the conciseness of the short story; but the length of a short novel. However the novella is not entirely segregated into some literary ghetto based on the judgment of length. Where short stories, balance between poetry and prose at times; the novella must dance between the lines of being referred to as a short story – more specifically a long short story; or that of a want to be novel – more concisely an underdeveloped novel. Novella’s at times are mistakenly referred to as practice literary forms – like the short story; they are considered one of those unfortunate stepping stones, in which novice writers are to experiment with and develop in preparation of their: ‘great novel.’ However, in my experience many short stories and novellas have surpassed their counterparts; which have a tendency to become over wrought, and have filled the medium with a bombardment of information and or useless facts, that at one point intrigues the reader, but slowly make the pages become a mountain of tedious words, in which the reader must climb in order to (hopefully) reach some resolution, or revelation. Slim in literary forms does not mean, ambiguous or obscure – nor does it mean minimalist. It is true however, that most slim literary genres do insinuate, and implicate information, without directly stating it; and their works become snap shots almost – but the lengths have proven to be deceptive in their ability to deal with the concept of passage of time – back and forth again – or forward and onwards; the form has proven it has the ability to play with the concept of time and memory, that was once reserved for only novels. If the novella or short story is to teach their gluttonous and esteemed cousin a lesson in literary quality it would be: sometimes less is more.
Andrés Barba has been hailed as one of the greatest young Spanish writers, emerging in Spain today. Though the literary power and market for Spanish literature has shifted away from the Spanish epicenter of the European country, to its former colonies in South America; Spain is still known for producing some great writers – among them the contemporaries Javier Marias and Enrique Vila-Matas – both considered Nobel laureate contenders in Literature. Andrés Barba is a rising star in Spanish literature. At the age of only thirty five years old, Barba has produced a steady portfolio, of literary works which includes novels, short stories, children’s books, and a book of essays. Barba is also known for his photographic endeavors. To boot this jack of all trades writer he is also a journalist. Recently (and by that I mean two-thousand and ten) Andrés Barba had been named one of Granta’s best young writers in the Spanish language.
In “Rain Over Madrid,” Andrés Barba deals with relationships and the complexities and dynamics of each relationship, that as human beings we form with our fellow human beings. They are maternal relationships; sexual relationships; romantic relationships, and sibling relationships. Each one has its own set code of conduct, in some unwritten book, which details the actions and appropriate way to hold oneself in such circumstances. For Barba’s characters however, relationships become both a longing desire and an eventual prison. Yet his characters are introverted and in a sense alone or drifting in the world, seek out the warmth of another human being, and the desire for human contact; and at times are repulsed by the sudden jolt or burn that they acquire from having finally obtained that connection. Barba’s style is casual, cool and calm. His prose is laconic to a degree, with moments that strike the reader, as a fine tuned sentence. Yet for the most part, Barba tosses aside overt verbose language and pomposity, to ensure his work is welcoming for readers, but also rewarding.
The novellas of “Rain Over Madrid,” take on an almost seasonal change with each new novella. The first novella “Fatherhood,” has the appearance of being racked in the green light of spring; and the drifting white orbs of pollen, that dance in the sunlight of the street. The story itself concerns a semi-successful musician, and his eventual impregnation of a young woman. Who turns out to come from a very wealthy family. The story focuses on the new fathers attempt at breaking past the barriers set up by the mother of their child, and to form some kind of connection with his estranged young son. Early on, there are obvious traces and insulations that the main character – the father; suffers a difficult and complicated relationship with his, own mother, which stems from her own attempt to reach a social standing or wealthy status, by exploiting him as a child in advertisement for television. Could this explain the characters views of sex being simple sexual conquest – an almost symbolic revenge upon his own mother; an exertion if one were to be so bold; of control over another being simply through the sexual act, and emotional devastation, of any sexual relationship to be purely meaningless and physical. The act itself is rendered to mere capitulation of another human being to whims of another, simply by physical attraction, devoid of any romantic interest – and if any are there, they are quickly abandoned for the abrupt realities. When the tables are soon turned, it becomes fascinating that the father is unable to deal with the loss of his own control; and that when his son his born, his attempts at bonding come under strict regulations and procedures dictated by politeness. The situation is not in his control. He must play by the rules of another; in a game where sex is no longer the sole tool for conquest.
The same formula is used in the novella ‘Fidelity,” which is brimming to the pages ends, with sexual depictions. Sex here is rendered down to mechanical copulation; where Marina is able to use it as both a tool of primal pleasure – something which has been hardwired into her instinctually; but also as a cruel game of control to the point where sex is both release of frustrations and rage; but also an act that deviates on voyeuristic perversion – as if a willingness to be caught in the act that is both natural, and yet somehow shameful. What changes for Marina is catching her father, with another woman; and her own realization, that much like her own secret sex life – or rather her budding one; her father has fallen into his own instinctually hardwired primal urges, and seeks his own releases via other alternatives. Her summer gets a fresh sour reality, realizing that her father partakes in the same cardinal activity that she does. Where hers comes into being a form of rebellion; an act of aggression against her own established order, she becomes complacent in her own fathers fidelity, by not speaking of the matter, but comes to understand the tension between both her mother and her father; and even showcase empathy for the girl that her father abruptly shatters with his end of the affair.
“Guile,” and “Shopping,” details two women and their complicated relationships with their mothers. The first novella “Guile,” shows how the unpopular daughter, takes the time, to assist her ailing mother in finding once again a new live in caregiver. A task which has fallen into routine, with acerbic remarks made; vitriolic observations being duly noted, and sarcastic accusations thrown about. This novella shows how convenient obligations becomes, a breeding ground for resentment, bitterness and general malaise and misery. Yet their comes hope in the form of a young caretaker from Colombia and her own uprooted life, becomes the breath of fresh air in a room stale with old age, and words that have been used as weapons. This new young and exotic caregiver becomes part of the daily humdrum and routine but also offers that much needed human contact – a foreign kind of human connection for the character of this novella. The caregiver become a buffer between mother and daughter, and offers a distance between the two physically, despite the chasm that has grown between the two over the years. The sentence “You never really new me,” lingers still in my mind – an accusation that is filled with criticism that does not cut the skin; but rather sinks and festers deep inside; like a cherry pit in the earth, trying to sprout.
As the seasons change, the season of winter arrives on Madrid, and so ends the collection with the novella “Shopping.”
“Shopping,” once again showcases the complicated relationship between mother and daughter, in a different light. This time the main character is left in the shadow of her mother, and the devastation in which her air of luxury, vanity, and selfishness has sowed throughout her life, and which Nelly; the mother, is all but completely oblivious too. If one were to bring the magnificent Nelly to task, on the destruction left in her wake, she would flip the accusation on to the prosecutor and skirt the fact, that she had anything to do with the shattered remains which trail behind her. The character does her best to become comfortable in her own body, but the prospect of meeting Nelly always once again shatters her own self-confidence, and her own comfort within her own skin. Yet the cracks of Nelly’s superficiality are quickly noted in the banal moment of Nelly buying a dress. This simple transaction becomes a moment of tension, between tyrannical mother who demands and expects praise; and the emotionally stunted daughter who feels obligated to offer praise. A simple dress, which in Nelly’s eyes becomes desire – and the realities contradict this desire; showcases her own selfishness. In the act that she buys the dress knowing full well that she won’t wear it. This frustration becomes a point of contention for Nelly who will not listen to the praise and demands her daughter wait outside for her. In this sense Nelly truly is natural in the cacophonous ways of a typhoon. When the two women, witness the apprehension of a shoplifter by a retail clerk, an empathetic connection is formed between the character and the perpetrator of the act of stealing. The prosecution she witnesses and the attempt at fleeing, mimic her own relationship with her own mother: a mixture of masochistic adoration, and attempts at flawed rebellion.
“She is thirty years old and she’s done nothing with her life—study business, spend two years living in Paris, take care of Papá, adore Nelly, spurn Nelly, try to live as though Nelly didn’t exist, forget about her, even. The secrets, frustrations, and accomplishments of a poor little rich girl, a spoiled child.”
Andrés Barba’s collection of novellas, are existential and showcase the complexities of human relationships. Barba’s characters are alienated and troubled by memories, by tyrannical relationships, by secrets and knowledge. Repression and guilt run through these novellas, as the motifs that keep the characters stuck in their limbo. They are haunted, they are stunned, they are in able to communicate, and break the boundaries that separate them. Barba’s writing style in these novellas is calm, collective and easy for most readers to become rather acquainted with. The day to day living becomes a crisis of the soul and the mind. Daily transactions become existential catastrophes. Yet the novella shows how the characters, come to comprehend or at least recognize and be aware of the lives of others; no matter how unconnected or different from another, there is to a degree an understanding that everyone is equally as aimless and confused about how to live or what is life – some just know how to bluff by better.
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
It was thanks to “Three Percent Review,” and their comprehensive translation database, where new translated books that are appearing in English in that corresponding year are listed and documented; that I had discovered Andrés Barba, and his collection of four novella’s that comprise the book “Rain Over Madrid.” I’ve always loved the novella as a literary form; it has the conciseness of the short story; but the length of a short novel. However the novella is not entirely segregated into some literary ghetto based on the judgment of length. Where short stories, balance between poetry and prose at times; the novella must dance between the lines of being referred to as a short story – more specifically a long short story; or that of a want to be novel – more concisely an underdeveloped novel. Novella’s at times are mistakenly referred to as practice literary forms – like the short story; they are considered one of those unfortunate stepping stones, in which novice writers are to experiment with and develop in preparation of their: ‘great novel.’ However, in my experience many short stories and novellas have surpassed their counterparts; which have a tendency to become over wrought, and have filled the medium with a bombardment of information and or useless facts, that at one point intrigues the reader, but slowly make the pages become a mountain of tedious words, in which the reader must climb in order to (hopefully) reach some resolution, or revelation. Slim in literary forms does not mean, ambiguous or obscure – nor does it mean minimalist. It is true however, that most slim literary genres do insinuate, and implicate information, without directly stating it; and their works become snap shots almost – but the lengths have proven to be deceptive in their ability to deal with the concept of passage of time – back and forth again – or forward and onwards; the form has proven it has the ability to play with the concept of time and memory, that was once reserved for only novels. If the novella or short story is to teach their gluttonous and esteemed cousin a lesson in literary quality it would be: sometimes less is more.
Andrés Barba has been hailed as one of the greatest young Spanish writers, emerging in Spain today. Though the literary power and market for Spanish literature has shifted away from the Spanish epicenter of the European country, to its former colonies in South America; Spain is still known for producing some great writers – among them the contemporaries Javier Marias and Enrique Vila-Matas – both considered Nobel laureate contenders in Literature. Andrés Barba is a rising star in Spanish literature. At the age of only thirty five years old, Barba has produced a steady portfolio, of literary works which includes novels, short stories, children’s books, and a book of essays. Barba is also known for his photographic endeavors. To boot this jack of all trades writer he is also a journalist. Recently (and by that I mean two-thousand and ten) Andrés Barba had been named one of Granta’s best young writers in the Spanish language.
In “Rain Over Madrid,” Andrés Barba deals with relationships and the complexities and dynamics of each relationship, that as human beings we form with our fellow human beings. They are maternal relationships; sexual relationships; romantic relationships, and sibling relationships. Each one has its own set code of conduct, in some unwritten book, which details the actions and appropriate way to hold oneself in such circumstances. For Barba’s characters however, relationships become both a longing desire and an eventual prison. Yet his characters are introverted and in a sense alone or drifting in the world, seek out the warmth of another human being, and the desire for human contact; and at times are repulsed by the sudden jolt or burn that they acquire from having finally obtained that connection. Barba’s style is casual, cool and calm. His prose is laconic to a degree, with moments that strike the reader, as a fine tuned sentence. Yet for the most part, Barba tosses aside overt verbose language and pomposity, to ensure his work is welcoming for readers, but also rewarding.
The novellas of “Rain Over Madrid,” take on an almost seasonal change with each new novella. The first novella “Fatherhood,” has the appearance of being racked in the green light of spring; and the drifting white orbs of pollen, that dance in the sunlight of the street. The story itself concerns a semi-successful musician, and his eventual impregnation of a young woman. Who turns out to come from a very wealthy family. The story focuses on the new fathers attempt at breaking past the barriers set up by the mother of their child, and to form some kind of connection with his estranged young son. Early on, there are obvious traces and insulations that the main character – the father; suffers a difficult and complicated relationship with his, own mother, which stems from her own attempt to reach a social standing or wealthy status, by exploiting him as a child in advertisement for television. Could this explain the characters views of sex being simple sexual conquest – an almost symbolic revenge upon his own mother; an exertion if one were to be so bold; of control over another being simply through the sexual act, and emotional devastation, of any sexual relationship to be purely meaningless and physical. The act itself is rendered to mere capitulation of another human being to whims of another, simply by physical attraction, devoid of any romantic interest – and if any are there, they are quickly abandoned for the abrupt realities. When the tables are soon turned, it becomes fascinating that the father is unable to deal with the loss of his own control; and that when his son his born, his attempts at bonding come under strict regulations and procedures dictated by politeness. The situation is not in his control. He must play by the rules of another; in a game where sex is no longer the sole tool for conquest.
The same formula is used in the novella ‘Fidelity,” which is brimming to the pages ends, with sexual depictions. Sex here is rendered down to mechanical copulation; where Marina is able to use it as both a tool of primal pleasure – something which has been hardwired into her instinctually; but also as a cruel game of control to the point where sex is both release of frustrations and rage; but also an act that deviates on voyeuristic perversion – as if a willingness to be caught in the act that is both natural, and yet somehow shameful. What changes for Marina is catching her father, with another woman; and her own realization, that much like her own secret sex life – or rather her budding one; her father has fallen into his own instinctually hardwired primal urges, and seeks his own releases via other alternatives. Her summer gets a fresh sour reality, realizing that her father partakes in the same cardinal activity that she does. Where hers comes into being a form of rebellion; an act of aggression against her own established order, she becomes complacent in her own fathers fidelity, by not speaking of the matter, but comes to understand the tension between both her mother and her father; and even showcase empathy for the girl that her father abruptly shatters with his end of the affair.
“Guile,” and “Shopping,” details two women and their complicated relationships with their mothers. The first novella “Guile,” shows how the unpopular daughter, takes the time, to assist her ailing mother in finding once again a new live in caregiver. A task which has fallen into routine, with acerbic remarks made; vitriolic observations being duly noted, and sarcastic accusations thrown about. This novella shows how convenient obligations becomes, a breeding ground for resentment, bitterness and general malaise and misery. Yet their comes hope in the form of a young caretaker from Colombia and her own uprooted life, becomes the breath of fresh air in a room stale with old age, and words that have been used as weapons. This new young and exotic caregiver becomes part of the daily humdrum and routine but also offers that much needed human contact – a foreign kind of human connection for the character of this novella. The caregiver become a buffer between mother and daughter, and offers a distance between the two physically, despite the chasm that has grown between the two over the years. The sentence “You never really new me,” lingers still in my mind – an accusation that is filled with criticism that does not cut the skin; but rather sinks and festers deep inside; like a cherry pit in the earth, trying to sprout.
As the seasons change, the season of winter arrives on Madrid, and so ends the collection with the novella “Shopping.”
“Shopping,” once again showcases the complicated relationship between mother and daughter, in a different light. This time the main character is left in the shadow of her mother, and the devastation in which her air of luxury, vanity, and selfishness has sowed throughout her life, and which Nelly; the mother, is all but completely oblivious too. If one were to bring the magnificent Nelly to task, on the destruction left in her wake, she would flip the accusation on to the prosecutor and skirt the fact, that she had anything to do with the shattered remains which trail behind her. The character does her best to become comfortable in her own body, but the prospect of meeting Nelly always once again shatters her own self-confidence, and her own comfort within her own skin. Yet the cracks of Nelly’s superficiality are quickly noted in the banal moment of Nelly buying a dress. This simple transaction becomes a moment of tension, between tyrannical mother who demands and expects praise; and the emotionally stunted daughter who feels obligated to offer praise. A simple dress, which in Nelly’s eyes becomes desire – and the realities contradict this desire; showcases her own selfishness. In the act that she buys the dress knowing full well that she won’t wear it. This frustration becomes a point of contention for Nelly who will not listen to the praise and demands her daughter wait outside for her. In this sense Nelly truly is natural in the cacophonous ways of a typhoon. When the two women, witness the apprehension of a shoplifter by a retail clerk, an empathetic connection is formed between the character and the perpetrator of the act of stealing. The prosecution she witnesses and the attempt at fleeing, mimic her own relationship with her own mother: a mixture of masochistic adoration, and attempts at flawed rebellion.
“She is thirty years old and she’s done nothing with her life—study business, spend two years living in Paris, take care of Papá, adore Nelly, spurn Nelly, try to live as though Nelly didn’t exist, forget about her, even. The secrets, frustrations, and accomplishments of a poor little rich girl, a spoiled child.”
Andrés Barba’s collection of novellas, are existential and showcase the complexities of human relationships. Barba’s characters are alienated and troubled by memories, by tyrannical relationships, by secrets and knowledge. Repression and guilt run through these novellas, as the motifs that keep the characters stuck in their limbo. They are haunted, they are stunned, they are in able to communicate, and break the boundaries that separate them. Barba’s writing style in these novellas is calm, collective and easy for most readers to become rather acquainted with. The day to day living becomes a crisis of the soul and the mind. Daily transactions become existential catastrophes. Yet the novella shows how the characters, come to comprehend or at least recognize and be aware of the lives of others; no matter how unconnected or different from another, there is to a degree an understanding that everyone is equally as aimless and confused about how to live or what is life – some just know how to bluff by better.
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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