The Birdcage Archives

Thursday 29 October 2015

Honeymoon

Hello Gentle Reader

Honeymoon is a term that is followed by the sound of tin cans rattling behind a car. It is the departure of two individual lives, now intertwined in to two.  The cheers of a crowd; the rice raining down. A sign in the back window stating: “just married.” Two lives behind; one anew. A honeymoon is that celebratory moment: an intermission between curtain call and opening of a new act. The mood: light and joyous. The backdrop: one of rosy reds, blushing pinks, and soft yellows floating around the edges. But the backdrop must fade. Back to the neutrals of mundane living: the brown walls, the grey light, the passing of days interchangeable with one another. The spark is kept alive by small comments: “Honey I am home!” or “Good morning wife!” Quick pecks on the lips or cheeks. Off again to work. Rendezvous back at home for dinner, and an evening together, where you can snuggle on the sofa and watch the news, and see how the tragedies of the greater world slowly begin to invade the hermetic happiness only the two of you can possess. All novelties fade. There is no more: “Honey I am home!” or “Good Morning Wife!” Quick pecks are exchanged when they are remembered, and time affords. The honeymoon then is over. Marriage becomes a frightening life sentence, once the honeymoon is over. A welcomed change now becomes a routine reality. Spice it up. Seedy hotels, red curtains drawn. The pseudo-honeymoon suite; populated by lovers and paramours. Now what holds the two of you together is no longer love, but an illicit guilt that cannot be confessed. You both accuse each other though; forcing you to run back to the arms of the other, or the legs of another. This is what it means when we state: the honeymoon is over.

Patrick Modiano is a historian of the black hole. Specifically, Modiano is the spelunker of the black hole of contemporary French history. To elucidate further; Patrick Modiano crawls deep inside the caverns of Paris’s heart; its deepest recesses have been bleached by amnesia, but further inspection reveals a city – and a subsequent society; that had been overcome with moral ambiguities. Ambiguities further enhanced by the reigning and conquering foreign power. In the novels of Modiano identity, memory, suppressed guilt, and grief, are always his reoccurring subject matter. Yet Modiano is a writer who can infuse his works with a new angle to each theme; a refreshed emotional appeal; and always an enhanced sense of doom and menace that always itches at the reader. Yet the atmosphere, always maintains the same; giving off the sense of depletion and abandonment. 

It is stated that with every book that Modiano writes, that he adds another chapter into a larger novel, which engulfs each of his novels. Yet I get the impression that Modiano is either constructing a larger and larger depleted mansion with his novels, or is exploring a forgotten hotel, that has fallen into disrepair. The roof leaks with the spring rain. The now surviving windows that have gone unscathed from rocks are covered in a thick coat of dust. The floor boards creak with uncertainty. The paint has chipped. The wall paper peeled. Autumns leaves have blown down the halls like burnt pages of old books. The kitchen has gone cold. Its hearth snuffed out years ago. Any bed that remains only has a rusted frame left. If a door has a knob still intact, it will fall, bounce and roll away. If the door stands it too is on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion, leaving the threshold open for invasion. When it snows the place is frozen, and there is no escaping the snow. It drifts in every entry way, becoming an unwelcome guest, whose presence will always be coldly felt. In summer the weeds become atrocious. They’ll sprout in the missing floor. They peek inside windows. When an August storm rolls around, one can only pray that the roof does not blow off; or that a tree does not find itself crashing down. The room that surely “Honeymoon,” is written for – most certainly is the pseudo-honeymoon suite; where the once pink curtains, of a blushing bride have faded to the decomposing colour of carnations sitting in stagnant water. The paint a colour that once must have been deemed romantic, has all but turned to the colour of a rotten strawberry – over ripened by the sun. There is no bed; and please do ignore the hole in the ceiling with the drooping electrical wires.

“Honeymoon,” like all of Patrick Modiano’s work that I have read so far, is sparse at a mere one-hundred and twenty pages long. In similar Modiano fashion it is a hazy dream of a novel, where past, present and chance all collide unexpectedly and begin to stir up the dust. In this dust storm questions are raised, events revisited, and individuals longed for once again. But the past is the past; a place that can only exist within photographs and memories. All attempts at reconnection will either end in failure, roadblocks, or realisation that the present has taken over; what little spots of nostalgic paradise were there.  However Modiano is not a writer who delves into the past with nostalgia. Rather he is a writer that wishes to confront an ambiguous past; but the past can only bring questions and never truly offer any real answers.

The novel concerns Jean B, a documentary filmmaker, but appears to think of himself more and more as an explorer and excavator. He has traveled the world. From continent to continent he finds his subjects, and films them. Yet now in the novel he middle aged and in a full blown mid-life crisis. His work – at once a means of escape from the realities of life; has shown itself to becoming increasingly futile and obsolete with the times:

“The public had lost in the documentaries we were bringing back from the antipodes. All those journeys, those countries where they had monsoons, earthquakes, amoebas and virgin forests, had lost their charm for me. Had they ever had any?”

Of course, Jean B’s personal life is equally interrupted by its own blend of personal explorations. Jean B shares his wife Annette with his best friend Cavanaugh. All of this surely would lead to many having a midlife crisis: an interesting career, barely able to maintain itself; a wife who runs to the arms of another, upon her husband’s departure. Infidelity; and becoming obsolete.  Where then is one to take refuge? For Jean B, it is to become a guest in the lives of two people who are now nowhere to be found; but whose chance encounter acquaintance had left a shadowy like imprint on his person.

The novel opens with Jean B in Milan. Where he is confronted with the knowledge, which nothing is open in Milan, with the heat the way it is. All the shops are closed, as people have gone elsewhere to look for sanctuary from the heat. It is there in hotel bar, that Jean discovers a woman had committed suicide. That woman happened to be Ingrid Riguad maiden name Teyrsen. Ingrid years earlier along with her husband, who goes by the name Riguad, had picked up a hitchhiking Jean B in his twenties, many years prior. What follows, is Jean B’s attempts to disappear from his life of fading documentary films, wasted excursions, and his own wife being shared with another. His attempts: to disappear. Yet, without going anywhere.

What remains is Jean B’s, aimless time wandering the suburbs of Paris. There he recollects the past of Ingrid and Riguad. A elusive couple, that just by chance picked him up one day in his youth, and who he found himself greatly attracted to; staying with them for a time, before returning to his own life. Now in his current circumstances, living his fantasy to disappear, Jean B begins to recount their life – or reimagine their life during the French occupation. What arises is the realization that Riguad and Ingrid’s life together, was harrowed by a continued sense of menace with increased danger always at the forefront of their minds; to the point that their lifestyle had become mundane:

“The days, the months, the seasons, the years, went monotonously by, in a kind of eternity. Ingrid and Rigaud barely remembered that they were waiting for something, which must be the end of the war.”

Despite it always being their honeymoon, the war always found itself invading it, disturbing it, and forcing the newlyweds, as they were, to find a way to protect themselves from the intrusion they would evidently have to: “pretend to be dead.” An answer (or suggestion) that Ingrid offered a young Jean, when the couple had explained that they would avoid their neighbours – by being quiet, by pretending to sleep, or by pretending to be dead. It is almost as if the couple had truly never escaped the war, and had always maintained their anonymity that had successfully allowed them to survive the war. This will always leave Jean B, to continuously imagine and fabricate the life of Ingrid. A woman, who he finds some form of kinship with, but is at the same time completely distant from him, she is an ethereal being who had slipped through his fingertips, so he reimagines her life, and follows the fading footsteps of Ingrid and Riguad to their old haunts, in hopes of getting a better understanding of her.

“Honeymoon,” by Patrick Modiano, is a quiet novel that is haunting and beautiful. It is written in his signature dream like style; that is clipped and atomized, and lacks any real literary flare. His sentences are clean lines; but fail to elucidate beyond what is hinted and then skirts around the edges. It’s a haunting story, about Jean B facing his own attempts to avoid, and fail, and looking into Ingrid’s life forces him to rethink his own – as she herself had escaped the persecution of the Nazi’s but the Twentieth Century and its disasters had haunted her; and though escaping becoming a victim a historical number amongst many, Ingrid herself had escaped life itself. Still in Modiano’s oeuvre “Honeymoon,” shows how the writer, continues to probe the crimes, and the disaster, that is buried deep down in the black hole of a past rarely discussed. Modiano himself though wishes to bring atonement and shed light on the oblivion that is working on bleaching away all remnants of the time. 

The last thought for the book is once again the name Pacheco appears for a character. Previously Pacheco had appeared in: “Flowers of Ruin,” and Patoche in “Suspended Sentences.” This Pacheco, had a patch over his eye, and was a connoisseur of antiquarian furniture. In other words, this particular Pacheco is a man who loots the property of those who were sent away, and sells them to his ‘contacts.’

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read


M. Mary

Tuesday 27 October 2015

Neustadt International Prize for Literature 2016

Hello Gentle Reader

The winner of this year’s Neustadt International Prize for Literature 2016, is the Croatian writer now living in Exile in the Netherlands since the nineteen-nineties, Dubravka Ugrešić. Ugrešić is a novelist, essayist, and short story writer. Neustadt International Prize for Literature is a biannual award, which recognizes a writer for their outstanding literary merit in literature worldwide.

The shortlisted writers for the 2016 Neustadt International Prize for Literature were as follows (excluding the now winner: Dubravka Ugrešić):

Can Xue – China
Ghassan Zaqtan – Palestine
Guadalupe Nettel – Mexico
Aminatta Forna – Scotland/Sierra Leone
Don Paterson – Scotland
Caryl Churchill – England
Ann-Marie MacDonald – Canada
Carolyn Forché – United States

Congratulations to Dubravka Ugrešić for winning this year’s Neustadt International Prize for Literature!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read


M. Mary

Wednesday 14 October 2015

Man Booker Prize Winner 2015

Hello Gentle Reader

Because of some internet issues, I was unable to post, the winner of this year’s Man Booker Prize, yesterday.

This year’s winner though is the Jamaican writer Marlon James for his novel: “A Brief History of Seven Killings.”

This is the first time in the Booker Prize’s history that a Jamaican writer has taken the award – and for Marlon James, this most certainly is validation that he has become a accomplished writer; after his debut “John Crow’s Devil,” was reportedly rejected by seventy-eight publishers.

Congratulations Marlon James, for winning this year’s Man Booker Prize.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read


M. Mary

Monday 12 October 2015

The German Book Prize Winner

Hello Gentle Reader

The winner of this year’s German Book Prize is: Frank Witzel for his large novel:

“Die Erfindung der Roten Armee Fraktion durch einen manisch-depressiven Teenager im Sommer 1969,”

or in English:

“The Invention of the Red Army Faction by a Manic Depressive Teenager in the Summer of 1969

Congratulations to Frank Witzel on winning this year’s German Book Prize.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Friday 9 October 2015

German Book Prize Shortlist 2015 Video

Hello Gentle Reader

One of my favourite parts about the German Book Prize is the fact it releases a video about each of the six shortlisted books, and their respective authors. It consists of an interview with the author, extracts from the novels, and pictures and video clips that are relevant to the book being discussed.

The following link is the video for these years’ shortlisted titles:



Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Post-Nobel Thoughts for 2015

Hello Gentle Reader

This morning I was awoken by my phone and received the following text message:

“Whoever invented knock knock jokes . . . should get a NO-BELL prize!!! Hahaha”

I did not respond to the text message, but decided to let it slide, with a smile; as yesterday everyone would be confronted from my smile, and those brazenly curious or as others would put it: dumb enough; to inquire about my state of euphoria, would soon be met with a monologue on the Nobel Prize for Literature, and of course my readily desire to share the news, that this year’s Nobel Laureate is: Svetlana Alexievich. To be honest, I had said her names so many times, which I began to have less and less troubles articulating and pronouncing her name.

Now the excitement has waned, slightly bit, and it’s time to reflect on this year’s Nobel Prize for Literature.

First off, Sara Danius did a wonderful job in fulfilling her duties as Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, in regards to announcing the award to the public. Upon making her first appearance, Danius appeared slightly nervous and tense, but relaxed and not once got flustered by the flashing cameras or the people. She had acted with stoic decorum and performed the public relations aspect of her position with the Swedish Academy. Even during the short interview after the announcement, Sara Danius took a moment to say the Laureate’s name in English; but once again did not appear frustrated or flustered. Well done to Permanent Secretary Sara Danius!

This year’s Nobel Prize for Literature, is fascinating for a few reasons. First off, the prize went to a woman, in a shorter time frame then was expected. The other fascinating aspect is that for the first time in over 200 hundred years, the Permanent Secertary for the Swedish Academy is a woman. The final interesting aspect of this year’s award, is that Svetlana Alexievich is known more and is classified more as a journalist then the typical suspects for the award i.e.: prose writer, poet, or playwright. When asked if the academy has widened the concept (or definition) of literature, by awarding Alexievich the prize, Sara Danius replied: “I think so.” But stated in a sense that Alexievich has created a new genre of literature all her own; not quite documentary or journalist, and not quite historian academic material either. Rather (and to use Alexievich’s words) she has created a “novel of voices.”

I could not state that my excitement was through the roof, hearing Svetlana Alexievich had received the honour from the Swedish Academy, and got the Nobel nod. But I was happy for her, as I am sure that it must have been a wonderful call to receive, and understand that the speculation has finally ended for her. I do kick myself in the butt, though for not having purchased one of her books (most likely “Voices from Chernobyl,”) sooner; but as it goes someone else always grabs the attention at the last moment.

Though to be honest Gentle Reader, I was secretly hoping for the Finnish poet Sirkka Turkka, to receive this year’s accolade, because of her wonderful poetry that reminds me of the earthly wisdom of Wisława Szymborska, with a certain soft spot and love for animals of all kinds; often using them to create wonderful poetic metaphors and images. But there is time – or so I hope. Rest assured Turkka I have not given up on you.

Looking back now, over the past few years of the Nobel Prize for Literature, it would seem that the Swedish Academy is honouring both writers and literary forms. The two most paramount literary awards that have finally received overdue recognition so far have been the short story: with Alice Munro in two-thousand and thirteen; and creative non-fiction (or journalism) now with Svetlana Alexievich. Now this is not to state, that past Laureates had not written in these forms, but both Alice Munro and Svetlana Alexievich have written and thrived exclusively in these two forms. Is a broader idea and concept of literature emerging? It’s hard to state, but I would not hold my breath for Bob Dylan to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature; and if he did the damage to the prize could possibly be beyond repair.

At the end of the day Gentle Reader I am more than happy for Svetlana Alexievich. I am looking forward to hopefully seeing her entire oeuvre translated into English; in order to truly get a true feeling of the writer, and her works as they chronicle the Soviet and Post-Soviet individual.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary


P.S. My Dear Gentle Reader, after the German Book Prize has been awarded, and the Booker Prize, I will be absent for two weeks, as I am heading out for a bit. I will be back on the 29th of October, with a new a book review for you. 

Thursday 8 October 2015

The Nobel Prize for Literature 2015

Hello Gentle Reader

The Nobel Prize for Literature goes to the Belorussian writer Svetlana Alexievich:

"for her polyphonic writings, a monument to suffering and courage in our time."

Congratulations to Svetlana Alexievich for winning this years Nobel Prize for Literature!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary


Monday 5 October 2015

Nobel Closing Thoughts 2015

Hello Gentle Reader

First, allow me to express my sincere gratitude and thanks to all of you Gentle Readers, for reading my speculation and for leaving compliments and participating in the conversation! It was a delightful year for that.

Its official Gentle Reader, the Nobel Prize for Literature will be announced this Thursday, October 8th.

The following are my closing thoughts for this year’s Nobel Speculation for the Nobel Prize for Literature. It will include commentary on the betting odds sites; and discussing the favourite authors there; and my own shortlist of writers from my own list, with a short passage, attempting to elucidate and explain why I had chosen the writer to be on the shortlist. The shortlist will consist of five to ten authors (roughly).

The Betting Sites 

Since the inception of the betting and speculation, the same frontrunners are in the lead once again; with no real change or addition of a new wild card to the list. The following is a list of the top writers listed on each of the following betting sites: NicerOdds and Ladbrokes. The lists are compiled from the top writers on each list.

NicerOdds – Svetlana Aleksijevitj
                   - Haruki Murakami
                   - Ngugi Wa Thiong'o
                   - Joyce Carol Oates
                   - Philip Roth
                   - Jon Fosse

Ladbrokes – Svetlana Aleksijevitj
                   - Haruki Murakami
                   - Ngugi Wa Thiong'o
                   - Joyce Carol Oates
                   - John Banville
                   - Jon Fosse
                   - Adunis
                   - Ismail Kadare

No real discrepancies between the two lists; with only minor changes between the two. Those small adjustments are the inclusion of John Banville, and Ismail Kadare at better odds with Ladbrokes. It should be noted that E.L. Doctorow, makes an appearance on both lists, despite his recent departure.

So far, I have not seen any real wild card or dark horse, come to the forefront of either list; like last year with the sudden emergence of Patrick Modiano, making an appearance on the lists, towards the end. This being said according to an article from “The Guardian,” announcing this year’s prize date, the booking websites have stated this year’s dark horses are the Hungarian writer László Krasznahorkai and the South Korean poet Ko Un. It should be noted as well that there has been talk on other literary forms about Cesar Aira making headway recently as well on the betting sites. I think it may be a bit early for Krasznahorkai, as he has just come off a whirlwind of prizes, and his recognition continues to grow. For Ko Un, he has been a contender for quite a few years now, and each year it passes him, his chances slim. I don't personally consider either author to be a dark horse or a wild card at this point. 

My Personal Shortlist –

The following Gentle Reader is my personal shortlist of authors from my own speculation list of 53 writers in total. The following is compiled in no particular order, from my own list.

Sirkka Turkka – Finland – Turrka is not a poet well known in the English language. Yet her poetry is lucid, clear and pure. It is accessible open with its readers. It is by no means barque and self-indulgent. Her poetry however can come across as mournful; tough as it deals with loss and pain. Yet there is gentle side to her poetry. A natural side. The mole may have to borough through so many deaths; but in another a rooster falls in love with a shoe. Her poetry is natural, open, honest, and at times painful. But it also is playful as it is accessible. Turkka reminds me a lot of Szymborska in her own way. I am not a poetry fan, but Sirkka Turkka is a fine poet. It would be a joyous experience to see Turkka receive the Nobel Prize for Literature honour. She is a very little known writer, with a lot of talent in the company of animals and nature.

Jon Fosse – Norway – There is talk that the Swedish Academy may feel it needs award a writer, who is known for his or her dramatic works. The last playwright to be honoured with the Nobel accolade was after all Harold Pinter in two-thousand and five; and before him Elfriede Jelinek in two-thousand and four. Yet since that time frame there has been no playwright honoured. Jon Fosse is a well-respected playwright throughout Europe (with the exception of the United Kingdom, who just can’t get into his cool sparse dialogue. His plays go beyond the Beckettian minimalism, despite the comparison. Fosse it seems lacks the humour, and is more mystical and poetic as he is sparse. Fosse has been cited as perennial contender for some time now. If he wins there is no harm done; but no real surprise either.

Leonard Nolens – Belgium – I include Nolens because I have never forgotten Nolens. A few years back (the actual year escapes me) that he was tipped as writer that would be honoured. So far that has been proven false, as Nolens still has not received the award. But since learning of his name, I’ve had a particular interest in him; despite the fact that in English there is very little to find. Yet what I have been able to find out is, that in the late twentieth century Nolens was the singular poetic voice of Flemish poetry; and is a monumental figure of the language, and of Belgium poetry. What has always fascinated me with Nolens though is always how is dairies and his poetry coincide with each other. The fact that poetry and keeping a diary or journal is of equal introspection and introversion, that is both personal, confessional, and expressing the moment is quite intriguing. As for Nolen’s poetry; I have only read what can be found online. Yet he strikes me now as a sober poet looking back on relationships, love, and identity; no longer wishing to experiment with the baroque forms or push poetry past its limitations.

Gyrðir Elíasson – Iceland – Gyrðir Elíasson is the perfect writer between poetry and prose. I’ve only read one book by the author that has been translated into English; but I have read many of his other short stories online. Elíasson is sparse in his prose work; and economical. But not quite minimalist. Rather, Elíasson describes and presents a moment or experience, and gives it its own space, its own recognition as something important. The acts of the prose maybe ordinary. The acts of the prose maybe extraordinary in ordinary ways. At the end of the day, Elíasson often caught something quite unique. Yet it is paradoxical or ironic as Iceland is known for its saga’s, large ancient Viking tomes of stories and legends; one of Iceland’s greatest prides and joy; and on the flipside Elíasson writes these miniature epics; that convey a quick scene but linger long after the last page. Elíasson is a champion of the miniature not the grandiose epics and megabooks.
         
Kiki Dimoula – Greece – Dimoula is Greece’s poetess. She is frank, she does not suffer fools lightly in her court, and yet she is well respected, often saying little with the greatest impact. When asked about the current situation in Greece, Dimoula did not mince or mix her words: “Darkness and chaos.” Dimoula’s poetry is equally quick to the point. The white expanse of the pages is foreboding, as if somehow the page itself will take back the words and hoard them to itself. Yet after a while the white on the page is less and less, a foreboding and less a waste; and more and more its own metaphor for the faded photographs and the oblivion that often can be seen in Dimoula’s poetry. Dimoula however is getting a bit old, and each year the award passes her by, the chances diminish. As it stands as well, the only two Greek writers that have been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, were also poets.

Ko Un – South Korea – Ko Un has been seen as a perennial contender for many years. He is a wonderful poet though. My favourite poems by Ko Un are his ambitious projects to recount the lives of people he has met in his poetry. If I recall the project is called “Ten Thousand Lives,” and continues. Ko Un’s poetry has a simplistic zen variety to it; and almost haiku like pattern. But he writes more of poetry of the fluidity of expression rather than mechanics. There are moments of experiences, mistakes, wisdom, laughs, and tears. Ko Un is a poet who writes of all these moments, as a man looking back and attempting to understand his life and his century.

Circe Maia – Uruguay – There was the Latin American Boom; and two of its writers have been honoured with the Nobel Prize for Literature (Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Mario Vargas Llosa); but Circe Maia was just like them in her own strive to bring the world to Latin America; if only though through poetry. Her poetry is direct, somber, sober and conversational; and is often quite delightful to read. Maia is a quiet talent, and would be a unique writer to receive the award, like the poet and Nobel Laureate Gabriela Mistral.

Viivi Luik – Estonia – Luik is one of the most treasured writers of Estonia. She was a wonder kid literary prodigy at a early age. She has sense changing political currents, and is accomplished poet, who has also dabbled into prose. The language of "The Beauty of History," is still quite an amazing feat, when I look back on it. She was a resistant poet of the Soviet installed ideology in Estonia; and her novels showcase how the idyll childhood, depicted in Soviet propaganda was false with her novel "The Seventh Spring of Peace." Even Luik's poetry for children is filled with the realities of life: illness, breaking, stupidity, desperation, defiance, loneliness, nocturnal fears; but also encourages the weak and the timid. Luik was a writer and is a writer, of change of moving forward and of human dignity. Viivi Luik is a champion of truth over ideals; life's wisdom's over comforting lies; and above also the demand and requirement of all human beings to receive the dignity in which they deserve and maybe deprived of. Viivi Luik is a champion of the undying human spirit, in all of those ways. 

Closing Thoughts –

That is my shortlist with the blurbs Gentle Reader. I by no means can state that any which of these writers will win or could win. Or are even nominated or made it to the shortlist. What I can say is they are the writers that this year I thought deserved a good mention, and deserved to be mentioned. I just noticed I have five poets on my shortlist despite not being a real poetry fan; and one playwright, and one poet and prose writer. But I will also now include some honourable mentions of writers that I think are contenders. Please note that I will not include writers that were listed on my shortlist or the ones named here from the betting sites.

In no particular order:

Ersi Sotiropoulos – Greece
Adunis – Syria
Bahaa Taher – Egypt
Mia Couto – Mozambique
Tõnu Õnnepalu – Estonia 

For now Gentle Reader, I wait until Thursday to see the announcement live from the new Permanente Secretary of the Swedish Academy Sara Danius. But to quote the former Permanente Secretary of the Swedish Academy Peter Englund:

“It is not difficult to find worthy candidates. There are many: the world is so big .... The hard part is to select who will get it.”

Personally Gentle Reader, I’d like to see another surprise of a writer, one that will shock me, and bring awareness to a writer that I have not known about prior.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read



M. Mary

Thursday 1 October 2015

Spring Tides

Hello Gentle Reader

It never ceases to amaze me how the seasons change; often without warning and with an abrupt hurried frenzy. The way Winter thaws into the buds of Spring. How Spring blooms into Summer. Then, how Summer ripens for Autumn. If only for Autumn to quietly go cold with the frost of Winter.  Each season also possess its own personality seems. The light shines these personalities. How Spring is a melancholic man, who begins to receive a bit of rejuvenation with life. Summer always claustrophobic and hazy, is continuously, blooming into some new dress for a party to be hosted, and rejoices at life returned. Autumn now clear, concise, precise and poised has matured to look at everything objectively; and is willing to get to work; the harvest needs to be done. Winter seeps in with a cold deep contemplation, hurrying everyone to sleep, or hurrying the home; reuniting families after another quick day, which just passes them by. Yet Winter takes no prisoners, and its causalities are numerous. Everything falls prey to the cold, the icy roads, and the winter storms. Yet winter offers hope; in brightly lit houses, and the jolly Ol’ Saint Nick or Santa Clause.  Yet for now it’s Autumn, and the fallen leaves have found their way deep inside of some of us. With a slight change and cool breeze, these misplaced leaves, flutter around causing a whirl of nervous jittery sensation to tingle throughout the body. Only in Autumn does it seem that the seasons change become the most relevant, the most abrupt, the most forewarning, and the most frightening. In Autumn the spaces that separate become more and more clearly defined. The horrors of a white never ending dream become more and more a reality. To enter Spring is to think that the passing Winter would never return. That somehow, it was just a short trip on the polar express; and as the grass grows green, the buds appear on the trees, that it’s hard to believe that only a short time ago, did the entire world find itself, beneath the white sheet of Winter. By the time Summer rolls around, there is no time to think about the past. Life must move forward; and it must be enjoyed. It is only in Autumn, that it becomes apparent, that time moves forward, and mortality moves along with it. Autumn demands we each take stock, and realise that change is imminent; the greatest being the progression of age. The truth is: you don’t get younger you get older.

My first encounter with Jacques Poulin was with his novel: “Mister Blue.” “Mister Blue,” had an almost storybook feel to it. At times it felt like at any moment, in the dreamy landscape of a childhood home now depleted, and filled with ghosts of memories, that anything magical could happen and it would have been completely accepted. Despite the fact that such whimsical possibilities never happened. It was a quiet novel that much like Poulin’s other novel: “Wild Cat,” bordered on melodramatics and sentimentality. Yet somehow, Jacques Poulin is able to walk the garden wall in between both, and maintain a whimsical airy distance, while flirting with each side all the same. Despite the understatement like style of his prose, and the pseudo-minimalism in which he writes, Poulin is not a writer, who strikes one as a puritanical minimalist. His prose is light, spacious and often has a dreamy haze around the edges. His novels appear whimsical and are based around a subtle idea of chance and circumstances; rather than being concrete or cut and dry.  His work is not symmetrical in the sense of a minimalist, with the clean cut lines, and stark bleached walls, to the point that the bones of the short story or novel, become ever apparent, and the reader is simply the vulture scavenging what little bit of plot is left on the bones. Rather Poulin’s works are almost like fairy tales – or  are fabulist in nature; yet somehow shun the idea, and take place realistic settings without anything magical or supernatural happening to speak of. Rather the whimsy comes from the characters interactions, which are observed by the reader. These unique interactions, and discussions, come across as strange, and give Poulin its fabulist – though commonly described as: strange; feel to them.

“Spring Tides,” begins to show some hallmarks of his previous work already. The novel is set on a remote island in the Canadian Province of Quebec: Île Madame; an uninhabited Island, which is occupied by the main character Teddy Bear – a translator of comic strips; resides. On this island Teddy Bear, translates the comic strips he is delivered, by the Boss; maintains the grounds, takes care of his cat Matousalem, plays tennis matches against the Prince (an automated machine) and all of life’s other little chores. For Teddy or T.B. this existence of solitude, is becomes perfect. Yet the novel is a bit more complex than just a man maintain the islands infrastructure, grounds keeping, translating, and playing tennis; along with enjoying the company of a cat. No, Poulin is more complex than that; just in a more subtle manner. 

Teddy found himself on the island, by the Boss – a rather eccentric man, who seems to enjoy making money, but finds fulfillment, in supplying and ensuring that people are happy. He takes an immediate interest in Teddy’s spiritual wellbeing:

‘“Apparently you’re a ‘socioaffective’ … I don’t know exactly what that means, but I’ve got a question for you: what can I do to make you happy?”’

And so Teddy finds himself living a life of solitude, on Île Madame maintain the infrastructure (the North House and South House), taking care of the grounds, translating (of course), and playing tennis against the automated Prince; all the while Matousalem comes and goes like a extra in a film, appearing in only guest star appearances; but as always, a welcomed sight.

Complications are abound to rise; especially when happiness is in order.

Enter the spring tides. On the spring tides of each full moon, driftwood, rift raft, and garbage finds itself washed up on the shores of Île Madame. This time however, the Boss arrives, with company in tow. The company: a beautiful companion by the name of Marie and her own cat Moustache (a female); who equally searches for solitude. The Boss rationalises and reasons his decision:

‘“My dream is to make people happy.  That’s why you’re here on this island.  And it’s why I brought Marie here too.  Obviously I don’t think I’m God the Father and I didn’t tell myself, ‘It is not good that man should be alone’ or anything like that, but I thought you’d have a better chance of happiness if there was someone here with you.”’

Yet the first thought of doubt enters this pleasant solitary world:

“Ever since the girl had been there, the island had seemed smaller. You’re more sensitive to the presence of other people on an island, he mused. Or perhaps other people’s presence is more intrusive.”

Yet like a good magician, Poulin quickly hides this sour note, and creates a comic chapter to lighten the mood, and set the novel back on its dreamy way once again. Yet soon the idle world, is pushed off its equilibrium and axis once again; as new inhabitants begin to enter the island: Featherhead a maternal creature (and the Boss’s wife) along with her yappy Chihuahua Candy; the irritable Author who searches to find peace and solitude to write his book; the hard of hearing Professor Moccasin who is an expert in comic strips and their subsequent history. And more do keep on coming; and soon the novels deceptive airy feel of the novel begins to become farther and farther away from Spring and Summer; and the tides begin to push in an Autumnal tone. By the end of the novel, the book reminded me of: “Lord of the Flies,” a rather bleak thought, that took me back to my High School days, in which as students, we were instructed to read the grisly bleak novel. Yet I found the ending of “Spring Tides,” to be more devastating.

“Spring Tides,” by Poulin is a novel that comes across as an allegory; but if one can get past this slight hiccup, the novel will have an rather large impact. Poulin is that kind of magician who distracts, the reader with a trick or colourful handkerchief; while the other hand picks your pocket or stabs the heart. The blow is understated and a bit cold feeling, but the in perspective and context the novel was good, and enjoyable for one that has been defined as a “philosophical fable,” and “existential masterpiece.” 

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary


Please Note: “Spring Tides,” won the Canadian Governor Generals Award for Literary Merit in the French language in nineteen-seventy eight; the same year Alice Munro’s famous collection of short stories “Who Do You Think You Are?” (Or “The Beggar Maid,”). The first time Poulin won the award; and “Spring Tides,” is fourth novel published; and the first after his “Jimmy Trilogy.”