The Birdcage Archives

Thursday 21 December 2017

Theatre Life

Hello Gentle Reader

The wings and the rafters are all painted black, paired with equally mourning drapes and curtains which hang on hooks, which can be maneuvered and moved to conceal and reveal. Tucked away are the discarded realities of the past. They sit in varying stages of disassembly. The castle wall has fallen under siege; cut out clouds collect dust; a sofa sits in waiting to be retrieved or worst donated; other random assortments have since lost any sliver of identity or purpose, what were once flowers are now twigs of peeling green paint, a bed frame now kindling for a bonfire, an extinguished sun, burned out and forgotten. The crew of assembly and dismantling sits on crates off to the side, smoking cigarettes. Their coveralls caked with dust, their eyes glazed with boredom. The scene is set. This time a chapel and wedding.

Hidden in a corner, sits the costume closet; there tailor and seamstress are played by a singular individual. They pin, prick, snip and sew the uniforms and outfits of the characters. In a sense, they essentially create the characters. Costumes are the defining impressions of a character. Clothes define the character. Here they also starch and iron the players of the play. For example: the groom waits down below in the dressing rooms—the dungeon as it’s colloquially and playfully called. He paces back and forth. His groomsmen sit in absentminded dazes. None of them speak, they only stand; as there are no lines for them to recite or rehearse. Meanwhile the groom mumbles under his breath, as he paces the room. He’s all but ready, with the exception of his trousers. They were wrinkled in transport, and would not be suitable for the opening night—let alone any night. So, they were urgently rushed to the costume closet, whereupon they were greeted with needle like fingers and silent scowling sewn lips. Immediately they were pressed and ironed before being placed on a hanger. This carelessness is not easily forgiven. Trousers or no trousers, the groom is summoned to the costume closet. There everything must be inventoried and inspected. The groom is ordered to strip further, until he's left solely in his underwear. Everything must be inventoried and inspected: jacket, waistcoat, shirt, tie, cufflinks, and boutonnière. Everything is accounted for, and with no blemishes discovered the groom is ordered to get dressed there on the spot—one arm at a time; one leg at a time. Afterwards the needle like fingers: poke and prod, then straighten the tie, and ensure the boutonnière is symmetrical. The groom can breathe easy, after standing around in varying stages of dress and undress. 

In the left wing the bride waits. She whispers her lines. Her bridesmaids busy themselves by flirting with the crew men, who all but ignore such sugared delights. She is overcome with white. Her dress bellows out all around her in a fog of lace and silk. A bit old fashioned for her taste. Yet she can’t complain due to the corset cinched up from her waist to her ribs. Her face is poorly masked by a wedding veil; supposedly a symbol of her virtue. Though, in all reality she hadn’t been a virgin for quite some time. It’s not about her; no, it’s about ‘the bride,’—someone who is a virgin, and in complete adoration of ‘the groom.’ He was an easy lay, and a lazy one at that. She knew she could have done better. But today they get married. He has her ring in the right wings. It has glitz and it has glamour. But like everything else it’s all smoke and mirror, an alchemical play of light and shadow. After it sparkles and the curtain drops for the next scene, the ring ends up back in the costume closet—back into those needle fingers and scowling sewn lips—where it will be repurposed for another production at some other date. Perhaps even for some other bride.  

Above it all sits the almighty; a spider like creature that’s perched on its catwalk and wired web, complete with bulbs, speakers, knobs and toggles. It is the absolute controller of lights and sound. The one who brings the day and ends the night. The only one who makes the wind howl and the rain fall. They accentuate the characters; they wash and bathe the stage in the light only they can provide. They illuminate the scrim with the appropriate mood; from red with anger, to blue with sadness, to green with envy or greed, to blush or pink with love and romance. The same colours repurposed to signify and allude to the weather and seasons: blue for rainy days, green for spring, yellow for summer, red for autumn, grey for overcast days, and white for winter. Tonight’s production is simple enough: white and pink; it all fits into the chapel and the marriage. As the audience will take their seat and as the production gets closer to its beginning, the almighty will transition and transport the spectators to the private and manufactured world on stage. One just haphazardly constructed together. A world populated by superficial characters, portrayed by down and out of luck actors. Throughout it all, the almighty oversees the transition of worlds; they ensure the weather is cooperative, and the world is displayed with perfect illumination, never requiring further elucidation.

Below is the stage manager, which is charged with maintaining peace and order, as well as being the sole ambassador and son of the almighty. When or rather if, the almighty chooses to speak it is only to the stagehand, who is expected to relay the information or give the marching orders. They are expected to round up the troops, ensure everything is in place and ready before releasing the curtain, from then on: its fingers crossed, as no direction can be given and no corrections can be offered. Already the stage manager has shooed away the bridesmaids, while giving the crew of assembly and dismantling the sofa to sit on in the alley, and if they so desired they could burn the bedframe kindling as well as the other disused landscapes. The groom, oh the groom in varying stages of dress and undress; just so those sewn scowling lips twitched with sadism. Once he was dressed he is rushed to the right wing and his groomsmen immediately beckoned. The bride complains her corset is too tight; but it is too late for any adjustments, as the groom occupied the time with liberal leisure. The almighty calls. Curtain is in five.

The groom fidgets with his tie. The bride wonders if she can breathe and speak. The bridesmaids grab their bouquets. The groomsmen lounge. The first match is struck in the alley, and lost worlds burn; all the while the crew of assembly and dismantling smokes cigarettes and play cards. Soon the same hammers that nailed the world together, will pry them loose; and everything begins anew. The stage manager takes their seat at their desk. The script is open, the blocking clear, and the directions simple. The productions scaffolding is secure, now it’s up to the costumes to come alive on their characters. The curtain raises; the almighty washes the stage in white and pink. Enter the groom and bride, followed by their groomsmen and bridesmaids. in the costume closet work has already begun. A police officers uniform is being stitched and sewn, while a prisoner’s suit hangs in the background.

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


M. Mary

Tuesday 19 December 2017

Yu Guangzhong, Dies Aged 89

Hello Gentle Reader

Yu Guangzhong (also spelt: Yu Kwang-chung) died at the age of 89 years old on the fourteenth of December, from complications related to pneumonia. Yu Guangzhong was a revered and respected writer, publishing seventeen collections of poetry, along with twelve collections of prose. Yu’s poetry was noted for its deceptive simplistic style, while engaging readers with empathetic themes, such as: the poignancy of nostalgia and homesickness, the bitterness of a lost home, and the pains of exile. These themes gathered great followings with readers in Taiwan—especially former soldiers and former government workers, who had all fled mainland China to Taiwan, after the Chinese Civil War and Mao Zedong proved victorious and instituted communism.  Yu Guangzhong then gave voice to the displaced and disenfranchised people who had lost the civil war.  Yu Guangzhong’s essays often took a different turn then his poetry; his essays where noted for his humanistic approach to life, his humour, an always appreciative wit, and his continual interest in literature and art both Eastern and Western. Hong Kong University, Yu Guangzhong was internationally acclaimed for his command and knowledge of traditional Chinese language and literature as well as modern, he was noted for his efficiency and fluency of the English language, as well as a noted translator. Beyond the English language, Yu Guangzhong spoke French, German, Italian and Spanish, and often used this different languages and linguistic traditions to juxtapose the Chinese language.

It is sad Gentle Reader, when a great writer dies, it seems only then do we discover them and then find their work is difficult to find.  Yu Guangzhong appears to be a worthy and great poet, but it is unfortunate that it is only now do we discover him and his work.

Rest in Peace, Yu Guangzhong.

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


M. Mary

Thursday 14 December 2017

William Gass, Dies Aged 93

Hello Gentle Reader

I’ve always imagined William Gass, John Ashbery, and Harold Bloom to be of similar temperament with regards to their careers and how they have influenced American literary tastes and cultures over the latter half of the twentieth century. These three pigeons sat and guarded their ivory tower; only allowing the selected to view its chambers and inner sanctum. John Ashbery died back in September of two-thousand and seventeen; and now the American critic, short story writer, and casual novelist: William Gass, has also died, at the age of ninety three. Gass gathered attention in the late sixties and early seventies with his short stories, which were known for challenging the form, and were often considered dreamlike and surreal. However, it was his essays and academic writings which many found more appealing about the writer; which he often lamented with regret and sadness as he preferred to write fiction then concentrate solely on non-fictional pursuits. Between the nineteen-seventies and two-thousand and twelve, William Gass had published seven collections of essays, whose themes were abstract and academic in nature, they asked questions of language and the novelist format, as well as the idea of the metaphor among other eclectic but literary niche subject matters. Despite being considered an engrossing and engaging academic, Gass was often dismissed by other critics and academics, due to his constrain perspectives, and his redundant recitations. Gass refuted and refused to indulge in the thought that literature acted as a mirror or reflection of society; he preferred to dig deeper, into the elemental core of novels and books, and deconstruct and dismantle literature to its most elemental features. For example: William Gass proposed and argued the sentence was a cerebral universe of consciousness, belonging not to the reader, or society, or even the author, but rather the book itself. His philosophical and academic arguments were perhaps reminiscent of the conspiracy theorist uncle, or the philosophical junkie nephew who mutters and talks as if he has unlocked the secrets of life and the universe, but in the process has lost all sanity and reasons, and cannot articulate his thoughts in any coherent manner. Ever the radical, Gass never ceased to debate, lecture, and defend his opinions, perspectives, and essay; though sadly this contrarian and radical thoughts often made him a polarized and controversial character; one both praised and ridiculed, and more often than not left on top bookshelves to collect dust. William Gass was perhaps too poetically pedantic with his literary pursuits; though this did not hinder his small successes and his publishing career. Now with his death William Gass’s criticism and radical perspectives will once again being renewed reviewed, as others will attempt to deconstruct and understand the cerebral consciousness hidden within the sentences.

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


M. Mary

Thursday 7 December 2017

Kazuo Ishiguro and his Nobel Road

Hello Gentle Reader

A Nobel Laureate’s lecture is a speech in which they deliver and offer their insights and thanks to the world. There lectures may help explain their thought processes, and how their experiments may have incubated grand results and scientific break thoughts. Others offer biographical stories, anecdotes, and personal thoughts about their field, others raddle the cage or make grand political and sociological gestures where they express disdain and disgust tyranny, totalitarianism, authoritarian governments past and present, and warn about repeating history. All the while, others tell or read stories.

Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nobel speech: “My Twentieth Century Evening – and Other Small Breakthroughs,”—is riddled with biographical sketches, anecdotes, thoughts, musings, theories admittances of influences, and thanks. Ishiguro begins his speech by mentioning his younger self back in the late seventies, whereupon it would be difficult to categorize him socially or racially; at the time he was twenty four years old with long hair complete with a dropping bandit style moustache. His accent was polished by the south of England, peppered with the vernacular and dated slang of the hippies. In other words, compared to the visiting Japanese people of the time: Kazuo Ishiguro was a product all of his own. He confessed to being more interested in discussing football or the newest Bob Dylan album; and when the inevitable questions arose about his heritage, Ishiguro mentioned slight impatience and he explained: he did not have any thoughts or opinions about Japan, as he had not set foot on the island nation since he was five years old.

Memory courses through Kazuo Ishiguro’s Nobel Lecture, moving from one defining point to another point of similar interest. He admits without a trace of irony his goal of becoming a rockstar by the age of twenty, but as mentioned before: he did not have the constitution or style to be a stage performer; before digressing his first two novels which imagined a Japan of his imagination and thoughts, at which point Ishiguro reveals his unique childhood and upbringing, whereupon the middle class expectation of an English child were placed on him as much as they were on every other child of his community—though he was a curiosity of sorts due to his unique foreign appearance and family. His parents viewed themselves more as visitors then true immigrants, and often expected to return to Japan, it was even theorized that Kazuo Ishiguro would move back to Japan and spend his adult life in Japan. This did not happen; but the Japan of his dreams and imagination did not escape his mind, as his first two novels were attempts at creating a international form of literature, one which moved above post-colonial thought. Yet after these two novels; Ishiguro decided to explore a unique England, one engulfed with rigid stoicism and unemotional duty, which leads to profound sadness. From there came his novel “The Remains of the Day.” His Booker Prize winning novel and often considered his breakthrough novel.

While in Tokyo, Ishiguro mentions a unique question proposed by a member of the audience: the audience member had presented Ishiguro with the question of what will he work on next, but mentioned that all his work to date (at the time) had been concerned with the individuals who lived through great social and political upheaval, but it was mainly concerned with the individuals response to the external climate of the time. Ishiguro has slowly begun to move away from the individual perspective of the world, and instead transitioned towards relationships, such as his novel: “Never Let Me Go,” which traces the fleeting and brief lives of three people who are genetically designed to have their organs harvested. The relationships and how they interact with each other made the novel heartbreaking and devastating as it asks serious questions about the future of humanity.

Ishiguro closes his lecture by standing by the importance of literature, welcoming the younger generation of writers, their thoughts, their ideas, their formats, and their styles of writing; before thanking the Swedish Academy and the Nobel Prize for retaining itself as being a beacon of hope for humanity, which continues to shine and inspire scientists, peace activists and politicians, as well as writers.

Though no tone of the greatest Nobel lectures ever presented to the Swedish Academy; Ishiguro’s lecture follows the path of his novels, moving from memory to memory, in which he attempts to displays his perspective of the world, and at the same time give thanks to the Swedish Academy, as well as maintain the importance of literature in a world with increasing impatience and little attention span to spare. It was not one of the worst Nobel lectures viewed—as Elfriede Jelinek’s is often perplexing and confusing, as it is a long monologue in some Beckettian tradition; and it was not riddled with the vitriol of Harold Pinter who attacked with nihilistic anger the politics of the era; but it lacked the concise and precise language of Herta Müller, as she discusses tragedy, oppression, and resilience in the face of political upheaval. Then again it was not dry long and rambling as Kenzaburō Ōe’s lecture, which could bore one to tears. Yet it missed the wit and lightness of touch of Wisława Szymborska who evaded the subject of poetry with a sly dance, and not once ever dipped into something too revealing or confessional, always keeping a safe distance between personal allegory and intellectual conversation.

In three days, Kazuo Ishiguro will finally receive his Nobel Medal and Diploma from the hands of the King of Sweden himself, afterwards with his fellow Laureates, he will be enjoy the banquet and festivities as the Nobel week.

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


M. Mary

Thursday 30 November 2017

Family Furnishings: Selected Stories, 1995 – 2014

Hello Gentle Reader

There is something about a collection of stories reading: ‘selected stories,’ or ‘the best of,’ or ‘the collected stories of [ author ],’ is always reminiscent of a greatest hits album of some has been band or aged pop star—that final and desperate step of revitalizing a career, which has since expired. Often a selection or the collected stories of author, often reads the same way. These stories often feel commissioned or half-hearted attempts at novels since abandoned, or worst: simple and poor writing exercises. Then again, what is to be expected of short stories? They are not grand. They are not epic. They are not larger than life. They lack the soap opera dramatics. Action generally takes place off stage. The characters are only brief passerby’s, existing solely in the existential peripheral. Short stories are therefore often considered children’s play. They are the stepping stones, and the basic scaffolding for novels. Bad short stories, and their writers, often lead the genre to getting its pubescent reputation. Yet, there are writers who are capable of taking the short story beyond its perceived limitations and creating a piece of work, which retorts and refuses to be classified as juvenile in composition and nature; and rivals the novel.

Despite my personal love for the short story genre (when it is done correctly), the one aspect the short story collection often lacks is: a sense of unity, or complete connectedness. At times the stories appear to be disconnected planets residing in isolated orbits in the solar system, tracing and retracing their trajectories as they circle a distant sun. Now these short stories do not need to share characters or a common narrative strand; but a common unifying theme explored, constructed, and deconstructed, through varying lens of the characters, which experience, perceive and ponder the theme presented to them. “Selected Stories,” or “Collected Stories,” can and never will offer the sense of independence for each story, but a unified thread or concept connecting them all.    

Alice Munro once said: “I can’t play bridge. I don’t play tennis. All those things that people learn, and I admire, there hasn’t been time for. But what there is time for is looking out the window.” This quote describes the world, writings, and perspectives of Alice Munro, a view which finds the extraordinary in the ordinary, the complex in the mundane. Her view is that everyone leads and lives their own adventure, riddled with personal dramas, betrayals, romances, heart breaks, suspense and tragedies. In this regard, Alice Munro has built a long but understated career on probing the internal life of everyday people. Her career as a writer was not met with immediate appreciation. Her first collection of short stories was met with praise, even going on to win the Governor Generals Award. However, Alice Munro was considered a housewife first, and as her literary career began she was often deemed a housewife before a writer. Yet as Munro has said, housework did not bother her; what bothered her, was the fact it was expected to be her life. As she points out in another quote: “[ . . . ] when you’re a housewife, you are constantly interrupted. You have no space in your life. It isn’t the fact that you do the laundry.”

Alice Munro has always been that ‘housewife,’ writer. She was not an academic, like Margaret Atwood or Anne Carson. Munro by contrast was someone who was convicted and sentenced to the obligations and societal conventions of her time. She did spend time studying English and journalism at the University of Western Ontario, on a two-year scholarship. After the two years the scholarship had run out, and Munro had no further financial options in which to continue her studies. During this time she met her first husband James Munro. Eventually the young couple moved to Victoria, British Columbia, where they opened Munro’s Books. The marriage ended in divorce after twenty years. During this time, Munro published her first collection of short stories: “Dance of the Happy Shades,” which would go on and win the Governor’s General Award, and would mark the beginning of a rather understated and quiet career, of a ‘housewife,’ turned writer, who through the course of four decades would release fourteen collections of short stories; as well as another seven collected and selected stories. She announced her retirement in two-thousand and twelve, with her final collection of short stories: “Dear Life.” A year later, she was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature, with the citation: “Contemporary Master of the Short Story.”

“Family Furnishings,” is guide through the later stories and career of Alice Munro. The stories range from the complex to the minimal and understated. The subject matter varies from story to story, the quiet tragedies of daily life and the personal dramas; but it all unfolds with Munro’s particular perspective, always moving away from the epicenter of the dramatic event, and instead focuses on the peripherals of the action, whereupon she depicts the perspectives and responses the individuals and characters have towards the event. A prime of this backstage and side stage focus is her short story “Dimension,” from her short story collection: “Too Much Happiness.”

“Dimensions,” opens with Munro’s renowned simplicity and matter of fact decryption. It describes Doree (or Fleur) on a journey which requires her to take three buses, before casually cutting away to discuss her job as a Chambermaid at an inn. She enjoys her job, preoccupies her mind. Her older co-workers encourage her to seek training, she’s young enough she could work behind the desk. Yet, she declines—she doesn’t want to talk to people. In the next paragraph however, Alice Munro casually welcomes the reader to take a fleeting glimpse at the shadow which haunts Doree:

“None of the people she worked with knew what had happened. Or, if they did, they didn’t let on. Her picture had been in the paper—they’d used the photo he took of her with all three kids, the new baby, Dimitri, in her arms, and Barbara Ann and Sasha on either side, looking on. Her hair had been long and wavy and brown then, natural in curl and color, as he liked it, and her face bashful and soft—a reflection less of the way she was than of the way he wanted to see her.”

[. . . ]

“Since then, she had cut her hair short and bleached and spiked it, and she had lost a lot of weight. And she went by her second name now: Fleur. Also, the job they had found for her was in a town a good distance away from where she used to live.”

It immediately becomes clear: Doree had experienced personal trauma, which also shocked and bewildered the community. Munro continues her slow excavation into the past and psyche of her character throughout her bus trip. How she attempts to remain calm, as she edges ever closer to the destination to see: him. She admires the landscape with bemused causality, while also observing her fellow passengers with vacant and distant curiosity.

One of Alice Munro’s signature moves with the short story is playing with the linearity of time, and “Dimension,” showcases the casual talent by how Munro further goes back into Doree’s life, and in a few brief sketches describes the defining moments which lead to her current situation: how she met the orderly Lloyd, the death of her mother by an embolism, her marriage at seventeen, the birth of her first child and the subsequent two to follow; and the beginning signs of a marriage crack and just beginning to unravel at the seams. Through flashback and present moment; through conversations with a Mrs. Sands, we are eventually led to the defining moment which changed Doree into ‘Fleur.’ Lloyd was a man of a troubled mindset, and his manic episodes had gotten the better hand of him; when Doree had walked out on him one night, he killed the children. He was deemed criminally insane and therefore unfit for trial, and sent to a secure psychiatric institution.

When I had first read “Dimension,” in “Too Much Happiness,” the narrative had left me cold. It was an uncomfortable story, riddled with insanity, naivety, and of course the death and murder of children. The causality and understated prose was ice through the veins. Yet upon reflection and re-reading the story, one sees Alice Munro’s charm and talent come through. She deals with the subject matter by circling around it, only gradually insinuating at a grander and darker narrative, which she finally gets to. Though in the grander collection, “Dimension,” is one of those much later stories of Munro’s career, where she has further refined her characteristically understated narratives, into more brief flashes and sketches, providing minimalistic

By contrast, “The Love of a Good Woman,”  showcases Alice Munro shaping the short story genre, into a complex format, often defying linear narratives and chronological storytelling; and shows her ability to rival and even trump novelists in the amount of detail she can grasp in fifty or so pages, which takes others five hundred or more to make clear. The story opens with a discussion of a new museum in Walley which houses old butter churns, horse harnesses, archaic apple peelers, among other outdated curiosities—a throwback so to speak, to the: ‘simpler times.’ Among the collection, a red box of optometrist equipment stands out:

“[. . . ] D. M. WILLENS, OPTOMETRIST Printed on it; and a note beside it, say, “This box of optometrist’s instruments though not very old has considerable local significance, since it belonged to MR. D. M. Willens, who drowned in the Peregrine River, 1951. It escaped the catastrophe and was found, presumably by the anonymous donor, who dispatched it to be a feature of our collection.” 

Mr. (or Doctor) Willens is a shadow throughout the story. His medical instruments used in the diagnosis and prescription remedies for eyes, maybe casually described and displayed at the Walley museum, as a contemporary curiosity in relation to its more distant neighbours. These medical mundanities, however, stirred a community and usurped lives with deathbed confessions, concealed guilt, regrettable grief, and everyone’s greatest desire to maintain normalcy while: keeping up appearances.

“Part I Jutland,” was perhaps my favourite part of the story. Munro describes the conventions and realities of small town life in way which makes it emphatically and relatable—coming from a small town, its quick and easy to discern the non-regulated social principles and ways of behavior, such as:

“Men didn’t bother greeting boys by name, ever if they knew well. They called them “boys,” or “young fellows,” or, occasionally, “sirs.”
            “Good day to you sirs.”
            “You boys going straight home now?”
            “What monkey business do you young fellows been up to this morning?”’

This quick discussion and sketch solidifies with concrete assurance the atmosphere and reality these people live in. It’s a community engrained in traditions, conventions, and a false sense of moral superiority; one in in which Munro often satirizes and criticizes. Alice has described these small town ideals of being: humbleness, modesty, and never rebel or revolt; or the worst crime of all: call attention to oneself. The expectation is to be sheepish and to fit into the approved roles and boundaries which have already setup for them. In such community’s alienation, ostracisation, and exile can be quickly passed and enforced.

With her usual lightness of touch, Munro quickly showcases the small town realities, as well as introduces the unfortunate ghost who haunts and lingers the story. ‘The boys,’ Cece Ferns, Bud Salter, Jimmy Box, are three boys who pass time the best way they know how. Admittedly too old for former childhood games, they’ve now set their sights on the adult world and its tantalizing freedom. As they move further away from town they imagine what they can scrounge up and make use of. A recent and yearly flood always scavenges and brings to light the discarded, disposed of, and lost. They boys envision their lives with budding and growing maturity. They think of building a makeshift raft or shed; they consider the tools they need and the items ideally to scavenge. Muskrat traps become the most desirable commodity. They envision an entire business venture, revolving around pelts, the money, the independence, the freedom and the life. They would relieve themselves of their societal yokes and the indignities placed on them because of their age, they would be respected and equal. Despite their lives and expectations already set out for them, due to their circumstances, family life, and living situations. For now though they were free. Yet their agency has an expiration date. But their trip out the flood plains leaves them to discover a unfortunate incident, which inevitably shakes their quiet community, and disrupts the order conventional peace.

The boys discover Mr. (Doctor) Willens ‘Austin,’ car and body in the flooded plains. Needless to say: he was dead. This discovery ties them together; as if they were partners in crime; or members of a cult blood bound and obligated to uphold the order, in its corruption and defiled sanctity. They each agree they need to inform the authorities of their unfortunate discovery—though, more unfortunate as it is not old barn wood, or muskrat traps, the practical equipment of their independent dreams.

From there, Alice Munro offers us three windows into the lives of: Cece Ferns, Bud Salter, and Jimmy Box. Of the three, Cece Ferns is the one who attracts the greatest sympathy. An only child, with derelict parents; a mother whose mental constitution may or may not be frayed, as well as a drunkard father, a slobbering, aggressive, and vicious man with neither sense or wits about him. Yet, Cece has matured fast and has become appropriate and practical in handling of his situation. He takes care of the cooking, as it is implied his mother is not capable of completing or doing the chores, due to mental or existential exhaustion, or perhaps a physical ailment. Regardless, Cece has become—through necessity—functional and proficient in the kitchen. This proficiency is disdained by his father; who would, will, has made such remarks as making a fellow (of homosexual nature) a dandy wife. Of course such sarcasm and off-handed comments were reserved if the old man was in a good mood. The opposite was even more dangerous. As Munro describes:

“’Smart bugger aren’t you? Well, all I got to say to you is better watch out.”
            Then if Cece looked back at him, or maybe if he didn’t look back, or if he dropped the egg lift or set down with a clatter—or even if he was sliding around being extra cautious about not dropping anything and not making a noise—his father was apt to start showing his teeth and snarling like a dog. It ould have been ridiculous—it was ridiculous—except that he meant business. A minute later the food and the dishes might be on the floor, and it the table overturned and he might be chasing Cece around the room yelling how he was going to get him this time, flatten his face on the hot burner, how he would like that?”

Every town appears to have that ‘Cece,’ and his father. The old man, getting drunk in the bar; the mother barely keeping the house together, as it verges closer and closer to the edge and implosion. There is pity and sympathy but little else. Some keep their phones close and others keep their doors open. They offer sympathetic advice, and touching counsel, always staying clear from being abrupt or too assertive in their frustrations.

Bud Salter’s family sits in the majority of the town: exhausted parents and squabbling siblings. The usual rowdy house riddled with what many call: family life. Jimmy Box’s home and family, is at the front untraditional, and riddled with generations, but it contains manners, but also the slight inconveniences of economic disparity (micro and macro), as well as the lack of personal space or corner of possession to call one’s own.

These first parts and pages only set the scene for the entire story, which revolves around Enid as she coaxes, comforts, and assists the terminally ill to their eventual expiration. Its gruesome work, and would not be considered a flirtatious selling feature, or polite to mention. Yet it’s rewarding and adheres to the strict conventions of modesty and retaining humble appearances. After all, what could be more humbling then the charitable natured work of accompanying those dying to death? However, her current patient—a Mrs. Quinn—whose young life is coming to, what many would call: its premature end. Dying young with wasted potential is a miserable reality, evoking the sense one has committed a shameful—if unavoidable—crime. For this Mrs. Quinn, like many who are dying, finds herself resentful, bitter, and scathingly aggrieved. The brunt of her last vitriol is always Enid. Who else is there? Again it’s the nature of a charitable and humbling job.

Mrs. Quinn and her husband, Rupert, know quite a bit about the fate of Mr. (Dr.) Willens, and how he ended up in his car and in the water, dead and all alone. In her profession, Enid is accustomed to confessions, concessions, and acknowledgements of guilt and regret. With Mrs. Quinn its different. She expresses the regret and guilt, but finds the situation more humorous, and with the apathy of someone who has completely accepted their fate, with no fear of mortal laws and consequences. As for Enid the entire care and devotion to the Quinn’s was difficult. She grew up with Rupert, and through her care of his ailing and dying wife, grew attached and fond towards Rupert. All Enid can offer and provide is the love of a good woman, but that’s all. Her business requires her to be devoted and compassionate, blind with kindness, and thick skinned from the agitated assaults of the dying, who are less interested in love and care, and more interested in getting it over and done with.

She may not have the poetic precision of Herta Müller, or the poetic adventure of J.M.G Le Clezio; but much like Patrick Modiano, Alice Munro is well adapt at depicting, describing, analyzing a particular place and time. Munro understands the unique cultures of the small town Canadian community, one steeped in its religious doctrine of modesty and humbleness, where one is expected to conform and never bring unwanted—or any—attention to themselves. She understands the narrow and myopic perspective, and the gossiping politics of the community. In this Munro is able to depict an air of oppression, reminiscent of Müller’s “Nadirs,” or the willful amnesia of Modiano’s Paris. Just like her fellow Nobel Laureates, Munro’s characters rebel, confront, runaway and desperately seek an escape from these small communities and their rigid constitutions. Their lives, however, are not always fairytale or ending happily. Sometimes they end in murder, or premature death, stillborn babies, abject poverty, and societal isolation and humiliation. Others may make it, they make a difference in their lives, though they are still not without their own hiccups and slight tragedies, and even, when they return these same runaway and wayward children now come to the defense of their parents and their families from outsiders who are quick to criticize and penalize their lives. The world of Alice Munro is one riddled with family furnishings; some are tainted, some are cheap, some are heirlooms, and others antiques. But their world is their own and in it, we each find something that slightly reminds us of home or some distant relation or family member.

“Family Furnsihings,” is a lovely mixed bag of a collection of short stories, showcasing Munro’s penchant for location and its population; it has her lightness of touch and her unique blend of storytelling. In all: a splendid, final curtain call of a collection of her short stories which truly showcase her breadth of style and scope, while magnifying her talents.

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


M. Mary

Thursday 23 November 2017

Flights

Hello Gentle Reader

Gas stations often bring to mind desolate landmarks, places of transience and convenience. There bright lights are a welcomed sight on the dark nights of a long haul road trip. Those well versed in long car rides and road trips know the routine of a gas station: get gas, go to the bathroom, stretch ones legs, get cigarettes if needed, and purchase some food or drink. The experienced traveler is knowledgeable about all gas stations; as they are all the same. The experienced traveler knows to pay for gas first, while the others (if there are others) use the restroom, take a short walk through the parking lot, or grab food. After the gas is pumped, they’ll use the rest room, where enroute they scan the shelves picking out items they will grab on the rebound. A bag chips, beef jerky, perhaps some candy, a bottle of water or a sports drink; maybe an energy drink or pop. They know to avoid the oddities of the gas station. In the cooler are hardboiled eggs, sandwiches, cheese, yogurt, meat slices. The cashier relays the trained monologue: ‘any coffee, pizza, hot dog for you?’ If they want fast food they’ll go to a joint, not the gas station. As for the coffee it’s the same from the early morning. But the answer remains the same: ‘just the gas, and the chips and bottled water.’ Pay and leave. One would think the casher would be delighted by the site of human contact. But they appear indifferent. They are more annoyed that their solitude was abruptly interrupted by the ringing of the door and the chimes of the gas pumps. After the departure the silence resumes its reign in the gas station; while the radio quietly plays music and advertisements for the recently reinvigorated travelers, who have relieved themselves, stretched their legs, and now munch and talk again, before some fall asleep and other rotate driving. So it continues until the next gas station, or the next rest stop, or fast food place. So the radio hums and the road rumbles.

The same is said to more worldly travelers. Airports are second homes to them. They know how to traverse the sprawling expanse. Through the white noise, of flights arriving and departing, they know where they are going. Know which gate to be at. They know when to board their flight, and where their seat is. They are accustomed to the minimal space of aircrafts, and are familiar with the processes and procedures of takeoff.  They are far sighted people. Despite the discomfort of their present physical situation, they imagine and dream ever forward. Those severely lucky and wonderful dreamers exist in some far flung future. Their ability to be absolutely bound by physical laws and their sentenced statutory present predicament, while being mentally transfigured and relocated into the end goal of the entire trip, that glimmer destination. Be it white sandy beaches, with turquois oceans; or the snow caped mountains for a week of skiing and hot springs; or perhaps its returning to one’s family, oh that welcome home with smiles, hugs and kisses, a homemade meal, and of course: your own bed, riddled with the now foreign sounds of familiarity: snoring dog, purring cat, the faint sighs one’s partner, and the anxious sleep of children, barely contained in their beds, as stars and moon sail by. Travel deconstructs the familiar to foreign, and in doing so being appreciation to the otherwise mundane and monotonous. It’s also an attempt at escaping the familiarity; to change the bland for the exotic. Be gone with the flat prairies and the farm land, and set off for a metropolitan adventure through Paris; or explore the spiritual enlightenment and multicultural mysticism of India; to the progressive futuristic and modernly chic and exotic Japan.

To travel though takes bravery. It requires abandonment. One needs to be able to relieve themselves of attachments and by extension obligations. They also fly by the very seat of their pants. They do not concern themselves with the details, but dream up bigger and brighter pictures; seeking grander and more expansive destinations. These traits are not found in my genetic makeup. I am too concerned with the minute details of life: bills, taxes, family. I find myself to insecure and consider myself to naïve to travel with assurance and self-confidence. Traveling already brought to mind the long childhood car rides of my family. My sibling and I packed in the back seat, while my parents drove in the front. Our destinations on these extended journeys were always the same; either my grandparents to the west, or my grandparents to the east. When we went west, we passed through mountains and vales, across bridges and through tunnels, down winding roads where either my sibling or I got sick; then across a lake on a ferry before finally the final destination. After a couple days, we will repeat the journey in reverse. When we traveled east, the landscape became flat, endless, expansive and increasingly sparse and sporadic. Going east, felt like we had entered the edge or the end of the world. We would stop at small towns, villages, and hamlets for gas and a short break. Each one felt ghostly, ethereal, as if human habitation was barely vital, and on the verge of turning to dust and ruin. In the event the settlement had a bar, the locals would be located there. They were farm hands and ranchers; the downtrodden, and the grounded. They sat around old tables, the floor scuffed and greasy with grime; the lighting dim and dark. Everyone was engulfed in their own worlds, telling stories and drinking beer. Others watched the television, despite nothing of interest playing. We’d leave as quickly as we arrived; passing houses looking empty, abandoned, distraught and forgotten. All that lay before us was faraway skies and straightaway roads; while on each side, never ending prairie threatening to consume us with its never-ending nihilism. We’d reach our destination after dipping into a coulee, and beneath the shadow of an exaggerated cross we’d visit. After a couple days we’d reverse our trails and head home; bed weary and appreciative of what we had left. There is something about being in other people’s homes. It’s an alien feeling, leading one to desire to go home, to be in their own bed, amongst their possessions.  

Olga Tokarczuk is one of Poland’s most popular, experimental, and critically acclaimed writers. Her novels “Primeval and Other Times,” and “House of Day, House of Night,” both sit happily on my bookshelf; where they tantalizingly flirt and entice me to re-read them. Yet, every time I pick either one up, and begin to read the first few pages, I worry the enjoyment it will be less magical on a second time around—or at least on a premature second reading; so they are hesitantly placed on the bookshelf, where they are to wait for the perfect and appropriate time to be re-read, enjoyed, and appreciated all over again. I’ve known about an impending translation of her well known novel “Flights,” was impending; but soon forgotten about; before haphazardly stumbling upon it, many moons later; and thankfully so. “Flights,” is a lot like the travelers meal: trail mix; it has its nuts, its fruits, its chocolates, and its granolas. Every handful produces some unique combination of the core ingredients. While Olga Tokarczuk’s novel provides a unique episodic and fragmented novel riddled with anecdotes, stories, fragments, essays, and thoughts on a variety of subjects, but always relatable in some regard or another.

One of the greatest enjoyments of Olga Tokarczuk’s writing is her ‘episodic consciousness.’ She has described the short story as her more natural form of writing, and has taken the short stories snapshot capabilities and vignette qualities, and applied them to the novel; in which one is given varying glances at the world and lives of the characters. In “Primeval and Other Times,” it was the ability to see and move through the eclectic characters of Primeval, from the mad woman and her dogs, who curses the moon, to the priest who fights the spring floods, to the mayor enchanted and enveloped in a world contained in a board game. “Primeval and Other Times,” was a honeycomb hive mind, where the combined consciousness of all the characters, created the most beautifully baroque yet tragic novel. “Flights,” plays a similar game of fragmentation; but rather than focusing itself on a continual fictional narrative, threaded and connected by the interconnected walls, thoughts, and experiences of the characters; is further disconnected from itself in physical or fictional format, and instead is connected by thematic concerns and concepts. In this case, “Flights,” is concerned with the idea of travel—or to get more abstract: the conceptual idea and experience of being perpetually in motion, or in a continual state of transit. What this motion maybe varies; and the enclosed stories, anecdotes, fragments, narratives, and essays often treat the subject with a lightness of touch, varying from the strict adherence to the physical format, to the abstract, philosophical, psychological and metaphysical.

One of my favorite stories collected is: “Harem (Menchu’s Tale),” a story about a inexperienced and young ruler, who soon finds himself in a precarious situation. As the crusades are about the wreak havoc on his kingdom, his advisors, viziers, and sages, plot against him. Beneath their wrinkles and white and grey beards, they contemplate how to usurp the throne gain power and control, before the crusading forces come to destroy the land. All of this is well beyond and above the poor young ruler’s comprehension; but his mother sees the reality and the sad cruelty of the situation, and seeks to warn him and flee with him. Yet in the end of course innocence, naivety and even compassion, are at times points of selfishness, which only ends in betrayal on both ends. I remember reading this story, in the soft orange haze of a street lamp, in a co-workers car, while they ran inside their house briefly. The irony was not lost on me at the time: reading a novel about travel in its many faceted forms; while at the time being in a stationery state, with the expectation of transit and travel to continue momentarily. Though it would be local, the process of driving around and the eclectic and eccentric topics brought up in conversation always comes at ease as street signs whiz by and lights zip past. The rhythmic motion punctuates the dialogue.

Anatomy also plays a part in the conceptual idea of travel. We observe a narrator describe the artistic display of the dissected and deconstructed cadavers of people. Their entire bodies and organs, naked and flayed, exposing their internal wonders to the world. How the blood vessels transport blood; how a smoker’s lungs have deteriorated from the non-smokers. How muscles and bones support and flex the body’s desire for movement. We accompany a anatomist on a trip to visit the wife of a late professor, in order to procure the work and specimen of the husbands work on preservation. We listen to the lament of Ruysch’s daughter, as she watches the Russian Tsar Peter (the great), purchase and transport numerous specimens back to his northern kingdom. We observe the disappearance of a man’s missing wife and child; and their mysterious discovery, but what happened in their three day absence perplexes and infuriates the one damaged the most by the event. We encounter the ironic; such as a man who believes the bible in hotels should be exchanged for the work of the Romanian philosopher Emil Cioran, who was capable of describing and understanding the sad and sorry state of existence. We also shadow a Russian woman who is desperately attempting to escape her mundane existence, and follows a ‘shrouded,’ old woman into a Kafkaesque journey of trains and surreal hell; only to find there is no escaping life—be it her own or the existential concept itself. The insane old woman passes on only one monologue of teaching, and her only philosophy and anti-authority resistance through travel:

“Whoever pauses will be petrified, whoever stops, pinned like an insect, his heart pierced by a wooden needle, his hands and feet drilled through and pinned into the threshold and the ceiling […] This is why tyrants of all stripes, infernal servants, have such deep-seated hatred for the nomads – this is why they persecute the Gypsies and the Jews, and why they force all free people to settle, assigning the addresses that serve as our sentences.”

“Flights,” is a wonderful novel. It’s filled with meditations, digressions, narratives, essays, stories, anecdotes, fragments, and ponderings. There is always something to be found in the novel to be savored and enjoyed. At times both terrifying and wondrous, “Flgihts,” contemplates the notions of motion and movement; the thought of travel, the concepts of time and space. Every sit down leads to a new adventure. With its episodic and vignette style, “Flights,” often appears to be disconnected, but this is part of its charm. It’s unified by theme and thought, rather than a continual narrative arch; though some of the stories collected continue they are merely a single drop or a story contained in the entire book, which is riddled with numerous digressions thoughts and meditations. It’s thought provoking, wry, entertaining and fresh. Every time I sat down to read “Flights,” there was something new and engaging to be brought up. The format itself could not fit better into a world continually vying for attention, a demand for multitasking, along with a bombardment of questions, followed by a demand for answers. “Flights,” is a wonderful mediation on the continual state of motion, the desire to escape, the restlessness of life, and the unique perspective of the individual in a world now continually awake, interconnected and aware. In the end it’s a unique deconstruction of the travel writing genre, which prides itself on a linear and precise process from point a to destination b. Olga Tokarczuk has eschewed linearity and precision, for the eccentric and the eclectic in order to depict a pixelated world, populated by the profound, mundane, surreal, and ever perplexing human experience.

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


M. Mary

Thursday 9 November 2017

The Neustadt Award Winner for 2018

Hello Gentle Reader

Neustadt International Prize for Literature hosts a shortlist of nine authors, with a designated novel to testify and bear witness to their oeuvre of work. The shortlisted writers were:

Emmanuel Carre – France
Aracelis Girmay – United States
Mohsin Hamid – Pakistan
Jamaica Kincaid – Antigua and Barbuda/United States
Lyudmila Ulitskaya – Russia
Patricia Smith – United States
Edwidge Danticat – Haiti/United States
Yusef Komunyakaa – American
Amitav Ghosh – India

Of these nine writers, today the Neustadt International Prize for Literature Judges announced their decision, as to who would be the Laureate for two-thousand and eighteen is: the Haitian/American writer, Edwidge Danticat.

Edwidge Danticat is an author of novels, short stories, young adult fiction/children’s literature, travel commentary, essays and film scripts. Her work experiments with structure and format; while also detailing the history of her Caribbean homeland, with its turbulent political situations, environmental disasters, and human rights issues; to the difficulties of living as an immigrant in a new country and subsequent new world. In a time when more people are calling for borders to be closed, and refugees and immigrants to be shut out, Edwidge Danticat is a voice in a chorus who expresses the unique cultural relationship immigrants and refugees have when dealing with the complicated issues of cultural identity and melting into the new society. In a time when ideals like fraternity are being questioned, and humanity is leaving each other out in the cold, Edwidge Danticat, reassures and implores people to reconsider their perspective and open their borders, open their doors, and practice humanistic though and approach towards their fellow man.

Congratulations Edwidge Danticat!

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

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Wednesday 1 November 2017

The Future Library Project, 2017 chosen writer

Hello Gentle Reader

The future Library Project has been gaining traction since its inception and debut in two-thousand and fourteen. This progressive and transcending art project by the Scottish artist Katie Paterson has become the most unique time capsule project of recent memory. The project, tasks a selected writer to compose and deposit a piece of literature be it: poem/poetry, prose, fiction, non-fiction, or essay—into the time capsule, where in a hundred years’ time, it will be released and published for future generations to read. Though the project is quite new, it’s been acclaimed as quite an achievement for a writer to be selected to deposit a manuscript to add to the library. The debut writer for the project was the Canadian writer: Margaret Atwood, along with her manuscript: “Scribbler Moon.” Since then two other writers have been inducted into the library: the English author, David Mitchell, with his work: “From Me Flows What You Call Time,” and the Icelandic author, Sjón, with his recent manuscript: “VII: As My Brow Brushes On The Tunics Of Angels; or The Drop Tower, the Roller Coaster, the Whirling Cups and other Instruments of Worship from the Post-Industrial Age.”

Now the next writer chosen to add a manuscript to the project is the Turkish writer: Elif Shafak. Elif Shafak, is considered one of Turkey’s most important and popular younger writers current at work on the Turkish literary scene. She’s the author of numerous acclaimed works, including but not limited to: “The Bastard of Istanbul,” “The Forty Rules of Love,” and “Three Daughters of Eve.” Elif Shafak has become the youngest writer, currently at work inducted into the project; as well as occupying a unique position within the project, due to her occupying a unique position in a globalized literary scene. Shafak is known for her literary works which dissolve borders and boundaries, be it geographical, cultural, ideological, political and literary; as well as spiritual and theological. Her literary voice is noted for its plurality, and desire to retain connections in a divisive and fragmented time.

The recent inducements of Sjón and Elif Shafak, are beginning to show the projects global reach, as more international authors are included in the project. These writers will bring unique cultural narratives and experiences, as they add their voice to the project, in which they have recorded the unique perspective of the time.

Congratulations to Elif Shafak for being invited to join the project and offer her own voice to the chorus, of the past sailing through time, to be reawakened a century later, to be read, analyzed, and pondered on.

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


M. Mary

Friday 20 October 2017

Pentti Holappa, Dies aged 90

Hello Gentle Reader,

Finland is one of those unique cultures and countries, which exist completely under the radar. It’s a Nordic country, with a complex language, notoriously difficult to learn, let alone translate. Its only relatives on the linguistic family tree are: Estonian and Hungary. In a previous blog post ‘Finnish Finds,’ I called the Finnish language, a language of: ‘dreams, spells, enchantments, and incantations; it’s a language of divination.’ Its people herald from a land of forests and frosts; a sparse population, and tundra’s riddled with reindeer. Few authors from this Nordic northern country have made any splash outside of the Finnish language and literary scene—which is a lamented pity, as their perspective is strikingly unique, with preoccupations to thoughts of divinity, and dreams; existential ponderings in relation to environmental concerns; as well as questions of the solitary individual in relation to the grander community. Many great writers are not known in other languages, and are often only admired in Finland; such as: the poet, Helvi Juvonen; the late short story master, Raija Siekkinen; prose writer, Eeva Tikka; and so many left forgotten and unknown at this time. Pentti Holappa, was one of Finland’s more well-known writers, who was able to appear very briefly in other languages. Though he wrote novels and plays, Holappa is most well-known for his poetry, and was considered a few years back a candidate for the Nobel Prize for Literature; which sadly would pass him over.

Pentti Holappa’s poetry was known for its gentle lyricism, and being intensely philosophical as it grappled with concepts such as: sexuality, the destruction of the environment, human conflicts, war, identity, the nature of memory, as well as the volatility of sexual attraction. His poems have also be compared to Swedish Poet and Nobel Laureate, Tomas Transtromer, for their superficial simplicity, and grand depths which lurk beneath their approachability.

Beyond his career in poetry and literary endeavors, Pentti Holappa, was briefly the Minister of Culture in Finland in the early seventies.

It is sad to admit Gentle Reader, but this post is very late in correlation with Pentti Holappa’s death; as the poet had passed away on October 10th, in his home in Helsinki.

Rest in Peace, Pentti Holappa. Here is hoping in the future, your poems and prose will be translated into English and other languages, so we too may enjoy your work.

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


M. Mary

Wednesday 18 October 2017

The Booker Prize 2017, Winner

Hello Gentle Reader

This year’s Man Booker Prize winner is, George Saunders, with his novel: “Lincoln in the Bardo.” The Booker judges praised, Saunders novel as: extraordinary and unique. Not bad for a writer who up until this point, had only written short stories. This year’s award once again broke convention and set precedence. For the second year in a row, an American writer has walked away with the Booker Prize. Though the win was greeted with cheers and appreciative applause; there are those who are more apologetic and dissatisfied, with the current direction of the award; some predicting and proclaiming with apocalyptic vision, the Booker Prize’s demise—or at the very least, its loss of cultural relevancy and importance.

In her opinion piece for “The Guardian,” Lucy Diver, offers commentary on the Booker Prize moving away from its ability to recognize daring and innovative literature, as it slowly is consumed in its own self-importance, whereby it recognizes literature of neocolonial influential powers of the United States, and the United Kingdom. Ms. Diver, comments on when Eleanor Catton’s massive novel: “The Luminaries,” won; it showed the power of the Booker Prize, to take risks and reap reward, with dark horse writers. This same result was once again captured in two-thousand and fifteen, when Marlon James won for his novel: “A Brief History of Seven Killings.” Lucy Diver reflects on how the Booker was able to put New Zealand (if only slightly and for the briefest of moments) on the literary map, with the outstanding news of Eleanor Catton’s win.  Such was the gift the Booker Prize could offer to writers of the common wealth. From the depths of the submitted publications, there could always be the dark horse; that writer who was just beginning to etch out their literary career such as: Eleanor Catton, Tom McCarthy, Marlon James, Kazuo Ishiguro, Deborah Levy; be it the author won or was just shortlisted, the recognition, name, association, and media attention could raise their prospects.

Now, the award is diluted in its prospects for up and coming writers, as the submission list is saturated in a surplus of works being force fed to the judges who must comply a longlist and a shortlist in relatively short time. So is the Booker Prize in for a disaster riddled future? Is it despair and devastation here and throughout? My vision maybe grey and always leaning towards the grim perspective of ‘unfortunate realities,’—it is not burning red with apocalyptic mania, where all that lies ahead is nothing more than a mushroom cloud of nihilism; detonated by the swollen egos of the United Kingdom and United States publishing industries. But it does leave one to wonder where other writers and countries sit on the list; what about New Zealand, Ireland, Australia, South Africa, Canada, India and so on and so forth.

I found this year’s Booker Prize underwhelming over all. Both the longlist and the shortlist were at the end of the day representative of the literary status quo, with no real revolutionary changes or judgements being made. However, the lists on further inspection did show a certain engagement and inclination towards commentary on current socio-political issues; such as Ali Smith’s “Autumn,” discussing a post-Brexit world; or the relevant discussion of African-American history, and slavery as a large part of that historical context, outlined in George Saunders winning debut novel: “Lincoln in the Bardo.” This being said, the Booker Prize is a literary award, not a political one. Any socio-political commentary, engagement, or discussion, is that of the author; whether or not this assists or hinders the ability to win the award only the judges could say.

Over all Gentle Reader, I have found the Booker Prize rather dissatisfying and lacking in relevancy and imagination; becoming both trite and fraught with disappointment, only to be jolted back to life with an interesting work of fiction, though it doesn’t win (Tom McCarthy much?). For now though, George Saunders has won the Booker Prize and all the jovial congratulations to him.   


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


M. Mary

To read Lucy Diver's article please see the following link 

Saturday 7 October 2017

Post-Nobel Prize for Literature Thoughts 2017

Hello Gentle Reader

Well now Gentle Reader didn’t that just come from left field. Nowhere, did it seem that Kazuo Ishiguro was in the running for this year’s Nobel Prize for Literature. The Swedish Academy proved they could be tight lipped, secretive, and surprising. Thankfully this time in a good way. After all, Kazuo Ishiguro is at least a writer not an antiquated pop culture icon, of hippie sixties resistance. Yet, despite the shock and sigh of appreciated relief, an actual writer won; the award felt rather bland. Yes, Kazuo Ishiguro is a writer, and a good one at that; but at the same time, the award felt awkward, and tasteless (much like an avocado; which doesn’t sit on my tongue for long). 

Kazuo Ishiguro is to be blunt: quintessentially English. His literary language is English, as are his literary preoccupations and themes. Ishiguro's novels are written in understated prose, reserved emotional touches, wrapped up in the grace and pomp of Anglophone culture. However, commentators and critics have often mentioned that Ishiguro employees ‘mono no aware,’—in his novels, which is a Japanese literary and cinematic trope, which is translated as: “empathy towards things,” or “a sensitivity to ephemera things,” or “the awareness of impermanence,”—in other words: it’s a understated manner, in which one reflects on the fleeting sense of joy, and in turn creates a wistful sense of sadness or longing; it can be related to the Portuguese term: Saudade;  or the German term: Sehnsucht. In that sense though, numerous writers of the English language, could have this attributed to their resume; such as Alice Munro (fellow Nobel Laureate).

To decide to award Kazuo Ishiguro is strikingly odd for a few reasons. First his entire output is very small, with seven novels, and one collection of short stories—and then of course the miscellaneous film scripts and collaborative work with musicians, writing lyrics. His output, however, has been noted for being uneven at times. His early novels: “A Pale View of Hills (debut) and “An Artist of the Floating World,” were set in Japan; though as Ishiguro clarifies, the Japan of his perspective or imagination is different than the reality, and striking separate from the Japanese fiction and literature being produced at the time. The sensibilities are there, though, they are heavily influenced by his parents, and his upbringing. After his early foray into his Japanese heritage, Kazuo Ishiguro, moved to his most famous and well known novel the Booker Prize winning: “The Remains of the Day.”

“The Remains of the Day,” is considered the prototypical example of what an English novel is. The novel traces the emotional stunted character, Stevens, through his past and present. He’s a man of dignity and servitude, as he is a butler by virtue. A position of dust and ash; belonging to a far flung era of fascination. The job itself would best be described as subservient, loyal and dignified; much like a neutered German shepherd; with the stoic state of a statue, and the emotional intelligence and maturity of a grain of sand. This is the only novel of Ishiguro’s which I have read, and the scene where Stevens father dies, still stands out, in its singular moment of reserved resignation of indignant coldness, on the border of sociopathic inability to respond or comprehend the situation. But where a sociopath would be reptilian in death; Stevens seems more like a dog, incapable of understanding the situation and in response must act with a false sense of regality and reticence, in order to come his masters beck and call, while completing ignoring or willfully oblivious to the personal trauma which has (and is) taken place. In all, the entire novel was delightful, gratifying and well deserved. There is no surprise or shock that it won the Booker Prize. 

Following, “The Remains of the Day,” Kazuo Ishiguro, wrote one of his most baffling novels: “The Unconsoled.” The novel has been described as a five hundred page indecipherable waste of time and money. It’s blatantly Kafkaesque and surreal, written in stream of consciousness prose; and has often been described as: unenjoyable, difficult, self-absorbed, narcissistic; and in some cases a waste of paper. Upon its release, the novel was savagely reviewed and shredded; but like scotch, whiskey, brandy, cognac and wine, it appeared to have aged well over the years, being voted as one of the most important English novels of the last fifty years; and was listed high on one of the best English novels from nineteen-eighty to two-thousand and five. Though the critics may have changed their tune, readers still found it deplorable.

Kazuo Ishiguro came back to his more comfortable format of historical fiction and realistic prose with: “When We Were Orphans.” The novel is described as a pseudo-detective novel; much like Orhan Pamuk’s “The Black Book,” or “My Name Is Red,” or Antonio Tabucchi in “Peirra Declares,” or “The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro,” or “The Edge of Horizon.” Despite being shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, the novel was considered uncharacteristically weak; even Kazuo Ishiguro himself had admitted the book as weak, and not on par with his previous success.

Besides “The Remains of the Day,” most well-known novel, showcasing his talents for refined emotional storytelling, understated prose, and keen observation on the human condition, was “Never Let Me Go.” The work is a dystopian-historical novel; imagining an alternative historical period of recent memory; where human beings, with all their self-absorbed ability, and scientific arrogance, have found a way to fend off their greatest fear and inevitability: death—though it comes at a humanistic and troubling cost. It has been leaked or at least rumored; that the Booker Prize for two-thousand and five, came down between John Banville’s novel “The Sea,” and Ishiguro’s “Never Let Me Go.” Banville did win the award though. Yet “Never Let Me Go,” stays in the minds of many readers, who ponder the ethics presented, the concepts of mortality, as well as the selfishness of human beings. This novel has often floated around my peripheral vision, now and then. It’s a novel, I am curious to read, but has always been pushed aside in favour of other books and other writers. Perhaps in the foreseeable future, I will read the novel.

Kazuo Ishiguro has not just written novels; he has also released as collection of short stories (as previously mentioned). “Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall,” is his only collection of short stories he has released. I did attempt to read this collection eight years ago, and ended up shutting it with disappointment. The short story is a particular form; and I am a picky reader when it comes to the short story. Ishiguro lacked the appropriate lyricism, the expression of economy, and the jewelers craft to spin the right and gentle kind of filigree to make the short story work. The scaffolding of his short stories were plain to see; there was nothing either unique or interesting about them; the same old tropes, the same old themes. I don't think (personally) that the short storm form catered the talents and tastes of Kazuo Ishiguro. 

His most recent work the 2015: “The Buried Giant,” was controversial by some standard. Imagine this Gentle Reader, a writer known for his striking high literary sensibilities, dared to cross over the garden wall, and into the unknown woods of genre fiction. Kazuo Ishiguro was quickly and hastily criticized by many genre fiction writers (and to clarify genre fiction is: fantasy, science fiction, horror, Nicolas Sparks melodramatic romances et cetera). “The Buried Giant,” is set in a pre-medieval/dark ages Britain, populated with pixies, ogres, and a slumbering tyrannical dragon, whose thick miasmatic smoke cause’s widespread amnesia. The novel has been described as a Tokenistic journey, where an old married couple Axl and Beatrice on a quest to see their son. Their quest takes them through the post-Arthurian landscape, peppered with fantasy and reality, as they seek out their son. The novel received very mixed reviews from critics; and was often under attack from genre fiction writer, who felt the fantasy elements were being used at superficial value, and only furthered the claim that when literary authors treaded into the ghetto of genre fiction, they only mocked the lesser respected forms. Kazuo Ishiguro had expressed uncertainty with the novel, wondering if readers and critics would give the novel a chance, and see the entire idea behind the novel, rather than seeing it as only a novel with fantastic tropes and scenarios. Admittedly, many had difficulties coming to terms with the fantasy elements, and the explicitly metaphorical concept of collective memory; many thought prior historical situations would have been better suited for the idea; but Ishiguro rejected this perspective, stating that using post-war Japan, or post-Nazi Germany, or post-war France, or Bosnia or even America, would make the novel appear far more political then intended; and that the post-Arthurian fantastic landscape was ‘neutral,’ providing him the ability to explore the theme without any inclination (or misapplied accusation) political discourse, dissertation, lecture, or metaphor being attributed to it. Still the novel was divisive; many though it overtly unpolitical and even lazy; while others praised the author for combining literary and genre elements to create a unique piece of work; all the while Kazuo Ishiguro himself, was continually on the defensive, keeping the pitchforks and torches at bay; claiming that there should be no division or classification or caste system in place, separating genre fiction and literary fiction from one another; instead the two worlds should be more porous and interchangeable. His hope of unification fell (from what I can tell) on deaf ears. The authors of genre fiction, appeared to enjoy their place in the ghetto, as the downtrodden and the outcasts—they are the perpetual underdogs, and are therefore forced to make a stand against the literary high snobbery of others, even if they are attempting to build a bridge or tear down the garden wall. On a final note: it should be noted, during the Nobel interview, the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Sara Danius, had expressed she rather enjoyed “The Buried Giant,” as well as his novel “The Remains of the Day,” (arguably his most well-known novel).

Reviewing Kazuo Ishiguro’s output, it seems he’s a rather odd choice. His output is terribly small and from the looks of it, rather uneven as overviewed by critics. “The Unconsoled,” “We Are Orphans,” and “The Buried Giant,” were considered either mediocre at best; while his more acclaimed novels: “The Remains of the Day,” and “Never Let Me Go,” remain his stellar achievements; and the short story was not designed for his literary sensibilities; and his earlier works are often overlooked or forgotten. Seeing Kazuo Ishiguro, becoming the Nobel Laureate in Literature of 2017, with an uneven output and two famous novels to his name, makes him appear as an odd choice; perhaps not the strongest candidate who could have taken the award. Yet, the Swedish Academy and its members are noted for their eccentricities and often eclectic tastes. The award has had its highs, surprises, and lows.

Of the candidates speculated for this year, Kazuo Ishiguro was not even whispered about. Once again, this was the year Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o was audaciously proclaimed to be this year’s Laureate in Literature; and once again the Kenyan novelist would become a Nobel bridesmaid. There is always next year though; don’t lose face or hope. Thankfully the award did not go to Haruki Murakami, who would have been a rather uninspiring and limpid decision. Thankfully it also did not go to Yan Lianke, another writer, who appears dull and lacking in imagination. Philip Roth also has taken the backseat (or trunk), and thank god for that; as his solipsistic, self-absorbed and sarcastic narratives are suffocating, and unbearable. Sadly though other writers are also overlooked and time marches forward and progressively so, and it will rebound to collect those it has yet to already.

As it stands though, Kazuo Ishiguro, has been dealing with the attention as best as one could expect, with masterful grace, charm, and manners. He’s been modest, appreciative and even apologetic for his late replies and return of the phone calls. More than one could say about the blatant indignant and impertinent manner as a certain musician has done prior. Though, Kazuo Ishiguro did make homage to the singer, by stating he was honored to receive the award after him, and claimed Dylan had great influence over his work and himself personally.

This year’s Nobel Prize for Literature was a surprise. However, it’s not necessarily a overjoying surprise; as it was with Herta Müller, whose beautiful and concise work, is both poetic, piercing and terrifying; or Patrick Modiano whose work riddles my shelves, and has often been an enjoyable writer to read, as one stumbles along haunted Parisian streets. In fact, this year’s Nobel feels slightly bland; like over watered mashed potatoes or porridge. I am delighted it went to a writer at least; but it wasn’t a writer I had hoped would take the award. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll be in any rush to run out and grab a Kazuo Ishiguro novel—though, “Never Let Me Go,” does orbit occasionally in my peripherals, a little more now than it has in the past; but for now, I’ll leave it rest.

Congratulations are still in order for Kazuo Ishiguro; you were quite a surprise; and at the moment, a little baffling, but at least in a delightful manner.

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


M. Mary