The Word Book

Hello Gentle Reader

The short story is perhaps one of the most difficult forms to operate and write in. It’s a piece of prose with what some would call: limiting factors.  The most obvious disadvantage or ‘limiting factor,’ of the short story is its length. A short piece of prose does not exceed ‘x,’ amount of words. Critics of the short story view this as a limitation of the short story as it is (superficially speaking) presumed not able to contain the same depth of their more prestigious relative: the novel. The novel is considered the crème de la crème of literary endeavors. Novels, within their pages; can house numerous characters, a multitude of events, present various timelines, and discuss a variety of themes. The reality is: novels can sustain and hold more, then their short story cousin. Novels can span landscapes and years; they can house numerous characters, who are born, die, survive and suffer; their themes can be a goulash of thoughts and perspectives; simply because they are not limited by pages or word count. Readers are also more forgiving of novels. If the plot begins to drag, or the story loses its luminous luster, there is always a redeeming quality to be found, just a few pages down the way. One great example of this liberal forgiveness offered to novels, would be “The Golden Notebook,” by Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing. “The Golden Notebook,” is a massive novel riddled with a complex structure which seeks to map and understand a woman’s mental structure and facets, as well as her life; from her early life in Africa, to her political engagement and awareness, her professional identity, to the sexual betrayals and insecurities she finds herself suffering through; then with added measures Lessing threw in another inner novel that the character is writing to either deepen the novel or create a greater postmodern narrative structure. “The Golden Notebook,” is a divisive novel. Its heralded by some as a testament to early feminist literature, where Lessing was breaking new ground for discussing very graphic or at the time ‘impolite,’ or personal feminine concerns, such as menstruating. Others, however, decried the novel as being self-centered, narcissistic, and lacking a clear defined structure—even by postmodernist standards. Doris Lessing herself, would find her relationship with the novel ambivalent at best, as she often dismissed the feminist and social liberating attachments the novel would attract. It is a startlingly piece of literature, and Lessing was able to bring forth her themes and her preoccupations to the full front with the novel. However, the novel is far from being polished, smooth and without great faults. Its plot flat lines for extremely long periods of time, the characters are self-absorbed, the book itself felt endless. But, Lessing had her redeeming moments; which often allowed me to overlook the at times endlessly painful moments of the novel; because there was always the expectation or the hope Lessing would turn things around, and she did (though: “The Yellow Notebook,”—if I recall correctly; was the most painful reading I have done in recent memory). I wouldn’t call “The Golden Notebook,” the best piece of literature or novel I have ever read. It was a marathon of a novel; and a coarse horse pill to often swallow. But it proves as a reader, we are more forgiving of novels, they do not need to be thoroughly polished, pruned, and refined as a short story or a poem.

Short stories have less room for forgiveness and no room for mistakes. A short story must be pruned, smelted, molded, refined, polished and produced to high standards. There is no room for forgiveness or redemption. With a short story one either succeeds or falters. Short stories are practically naked because they are contained in fewer pages with fewer words. In order for the short story to succeed, it must grab the reader’s attention and entice them immediately. There is no time to set up a lavish scene, to discuss the political workings of a new world, or to go into grand depth or detail discussing the heraldry of ancient houses or a characters ancestry. Short stories exist in flashes of moment; it’s a contradictory marriage between poetry and prose. Much like poetry, short stories must utilize the most precise language and imagery to convey the greatest amount of depth in a confined space; while utilizing sentences and narratives to move through the motions of prose.

Many writers delve into short stories. They try the form on for size. Though they produce the odd piece here and there; they never truly commit to the format itself. Their short stories are well crafted; yet the writers themselves do not truly appreciate the form. Rather they treat the short story like a holiday, and much like a tourist on vacation, they are grateful for the distraction, but now it’s back to the day job. Yet there are writers who are renowned for their novels—like Yasunari Kawabata—but who personally feel their greatest achievements were in the short story format.

A rotten short story or a rotten short story collection, is like biting into an apple and being greeted by a worm, who is equally unimpressed at the violent vandalism. It’s unpleasant and on the verge of being painful—if not, out rightly repulsive. The surface does not betray the unexpected surprise beneath it. Rather it appears normal and even welcoming. It’s only after delving into the item is one met with an offensive surprise.

Mieko Kanai’s short story collection “The Word Book,” is advertised on an interesting concept:

“Like the surfaces of a jagged crystal, each story in this collection shows an entirely different facet when viewed from a different angle. Playing games with the basic units of both life and fiction—the solid certainties of the self, the world around us, and the words we use to describe these things to one another [. . .]”

The short stories housed within “The Word Book,” often feel like a reflected and adjusted version of the/a previous short story. Each short story in this way comes across as a new facet of an already passed phantom. The trick, however, gets old.

Through precise detail Kanai is capable of setting up a mundane and ordinary reality: trains which will arrive on time or slightly late; hotels which are salt and peppered by the sea; billboards advertising medical services and consumer products—it all appears normal; yet through slow progression Kanai works in shifting the perspective towards a fragmented postmodern narrative which seeks to eliminate the illusion there is such a concept of concrete reality and identity. The way this is done however comes across as jarring and more sudden then subtle. The illusion in which the narrative wishes to shatter in itself becomes unreliable, confusing and rather boring. The short stories begin to feel more like rambling attempts to fill space, rather than successfully deliver the intended literary reaction. What should be a dazzling show of a good magician employing the audience to reconsider the ideas and perspectives around time and identity—corner stones of reality—ends up being an insult because someone is just throwing eggs at the audience.

Mieko Kanai is noted as being a Japanese prose writer, film critic and poet, though “The Word Book,” does not showcase any foray or proclivity of lyrical or unique language. Quite the contrary: it’s blunt—extremely blunt—to the point it comes across like being stuck in the face by a lead handed tossed brick. Perhaps a flare of lyrical language could help in delivery; or at least it would make the descent into boredom a little more colourful or pleasurable of viewing purposes; but alas reading “The Word Book,” on its plain language was more reminiscent of being stuck in a plain white/grey doctor’s office waiting room, with the telephone buzzing like a fly, and outdated magazines and flyers covered in a cellophane of dust on nearby tables, while the chairs are so uncomfortable they only prolong the slow progression of time.

“The Word Book,” is supposed to be a collection of short stories, resembling a piece of deconstructionism architecture, displayed in brutal and plain language. It attempts to reevaluate and depict the uncertainty of the world, through dismembering all logical notions of identity, reality, and time. Yet, it fails at doing this. What remains is a shattered plate on a concrete floor, which lacks structure and reason. I had great hesitation with purchasing this book, and continually felt enticed to read it, often playing devil’s advocate with myself. There were comparisons to Jorge Luis Borges and Kenzaburō Ōe, but those were cheap selling points; and I fell for them hook line and sinker.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

José Eduardo Agualusa, Wins International Literary Dublin Award

Hello Gentle Reader 

The Angolan writer, José Eduardo Agualusa, has won the International Literary Dublin Award (formerly known as the Impac Prize), for his novel: “A General Theory of Oblivion.” The novel recounts the life of a reclusive woman who holes herself up in her apartment on the eve of Angola gaining its independence for twenty-eight years. Her only contact with the outside world is through snippets of conversation she hears from her neighbours and a radio. She refines her life, philosophy, perspective and thoughts into her diary and then eventually, the walls of her apartment.

In using the prize money, José Eduardo Agualusa had commented that he planned on using it to build a library, in his adoptive country of Mozambique. The irony is not lost on him; that he would use the money from a prize governed by librarians and libraries to create a library. Despite this comical twist, Agualusa explained there was a lack of infrastructure and accessibility for the populace to reach literature and information in Mozambique. A charitable act, by one of the greatest Portuguese language writers current at work.

Congratulations José Eduardo Agualusa!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Margaret Atwood: Double Trouble

Hello Gentle Reader

Margaret Atwood is most certainly on a roll in two-thousand and seventeen. One of her most famous and controversial novels “The Handmaids Tale,” has been adapted into a television series (with another novel “Alias Grace,” getting ready to be adapted into a television miniseries shortly); the author and the novel have also found themselves as beacons of hope for women’s rights (Atwood has never been shy from being an active proponent for women’s rights), but also a symbol of resistance against Donald Trump and the Republican Administration, which currently governs the United States of America.

Just under two weeks ago, Margaret Atwood was in Prague to give a speech and accept the Franz Kafka Prize. Now along with the Franz Kafka Prize, Atwood has also been awarded the Peace Prize for the German Book Trade, whose previous winners include: Svetlana Alexievich, Orhan Pamuk, Claudio Magris, and Liao Yiwu. Atwood’s win marks the first time a Canadian winner has received the award, whose mandate is to award a writer who reflects and promotes international understanding among cultures.

Along with the German Peace Prize for the German Book Trade, Margaret Atwood, has also been announced as the winner for the PEN Centre USA’s Lifetime Achievement Award, for her large and industrious bibliography. The organization has praised Margaret Atwood and her work which depicts the myriad context of the human experience from oppression, power, authority, language and resistance. Atwood has written about the present, past and speculated on the future; and organizers praise her for finding patterns and pathways in the historical cycle of the human experience; while retaining a humanitarian perspective in which to engage the readers to contemplate the present before it becomes the future.

With the recent cascade of awards befalling Margaret Atwood, many have commented (tongue in cheek) that this is the beginning pavement towards the grandest prize of them all: The Nobel. Though I do agree (to a degree) with their ironic observations that a Nobel is most likely not in Margaret Atwood’s near future, I am cautious about sound absolute and concrete in this assertion, as last year’s Nobel debacle had proven to be earth shattering in proving to never be so certain in gauging and holding a firm opinion with regards to the prize.

Regardless, Congratulations Margaret Atwood, on your growing literary awards and affirmed international fame and appeal!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

On: Purchasing Books & Hesitation

Hello Gentle Reader

Every pedigree is not without bad breading. All apples have their bruises. No home is without dust or dirt. No friend is not without fault. The same is said for books, and purchasing them. To purchase books on my end is a strenuous vetting process, which is done in order to avoid: a waste of money and time; but also to enjoy the most succulent treasures of literature. Alas, no matter how much research, review reading, reflection and consideration given, there are always the grains of salt which slip through the net, and sour an occasion or two. Sometimes its done out of an attempt to see what the whole hoopla an fuss is over; as in the case of the Hungarian master of the Apocalypse: Laszlo Krasznahorkai, who is the literary darling of literary critics and hipster literary readers. There can be no denying his genius, his abilities or his talents. And yet, he seems more like a wind bag of long convoluted sentences. The experience I once relayed to a cohort that reading Krasznahorkai was like: going over Niagara falls in a barrel, yet getting so inpatient to reach the conclusion and adrenalin of going over, that you fall out of the barrel and drown—and are slightly grateful of the release. The man has merit, but the message and grains glitter are completely lost in the cooling obsidian of the molten lava of his text. Of course this rules out others just like him, such as: António Lobo Antunes and Peter Nadas. They have their merits, but our relationship between reader and write, will most certainly be one based on general resentment and boredom.

Recently, I have the sense that I have enough financial security to go on a slight book binge and purchase six books. After all the last purchase was quite a while ago and contained: Jon Fosse: “Trilogy,” Eileen Chang: “Love in a Fallen City,” Attila Bartis “Tranquilly,” Magdalena Tulli “Moving Parts,” and Maja Haderlap “Angel of Oblivion,”—also including: Homero Aridjis “A Child Poet,” and Mieko Kanai “The Word Book.” All of the books have been read; with of course expectation to “The Child Poet,” which I have been dipping into now and then, and have enjoyed, but it’s a vignette style of book, interconnected here and there, and left at that. As for “The Word Book,” it has been read, I am just slothfully putting together a review, in which I can contemplate and reflect my thoughts on the book, and must admit to my dismay, it was disappointing, and though there was great apprehension of this, going into the book when I had purchased it, I had decided to give it a chance and was proven the benefit of the doubt was misguided and ill advised.

My recent order consists of the six following books and five authors:

Fleur Jaeggy: “Lost Vanities,”

Bae Suah: “Recitation,”

Bae Suah: “A Greater Music,”

Olga Tokarczuk: “Flights,”

Yoko Ogawa: “Revenge,”

Teru Miyamoto: “Kinshu: Autumn Brocade,”

There is no greater feeling or sensation then the thought: did I make the right decision in my purchase? On this list in particular there were a few writers who left me questioning and wondering. But let’s go over them all.

[ I ]

Bae Suah, has interested me for a while now. Yet, this interest is only a recent spark. When I had first heard of Bae Suah, and her debut novel in English “Nowhere To Be Found,” many were quick to praise her abrupt shifts in perspective, which took place sentence by sentence; but the novel itself felt like it was centered around young women, and was even marketed to young woman going through the difficulties of early adulthood and youth—a rather unremarkable time, best left forgotten, because of all that figuring everything out, and going through the complications of almost abject poverty, looking for support, feeling abandoned and alone by your family, and completely forgotten about by the world who could not be bothered one way or another about your situation. I was left to think: perhaps Bae Suah is some dark and tormented writer who is the South Korean equivalent of Japan’s Haruki Murakami—discussing urban existentialism and the plight of youth and its limited prospects—really not to my cup of tea. Yet, my interest was vitalized, when two more of her novels were recently released: “A Greater Music,” and “Recitation,” which completely blows the Murakami comparison away (or at least I hope so). In her recently translated novels, many of commented on a new found themes and more stylistic advancements.

The writers most recently translated novels are noted for blending essay and fiction, and have even been called: anti-narratives; which immediately brought to mind: Clarice Lispector and Virginia Woolf, respectively. Bae Suah has been criticized in her native South Korea for: ‘committing violence to the Korean language,’ and is known for being an outsider in the Korean literary scene; she has no formal education in literature or writing; she herself has a degree in Chemistry, and when she wrote her first novel “Nowhere To Be Found,” she was working in a airport. Since her debut and continual work, Suah has been noted regularly for her unique linguistic decisions and stylistic experimentation.

After reading plenty of reviews from: “Nowhere To Be Found,” to her recent translations; as well as a little more about the writer, I decided it was time to her a try. Besides, I do enjoy a little outsider, someone who neither belongs but participants because they want, not because they seek to conform. These writers—these individuals—they do greater work for literature then MFA produced writers do. These writers breathe a invigorating and slightly unintentional breath of fresh air into the language, style, format, and concept of literature—simply because they have not been brown beaten with conventions and precedence. Also, I am interested in reading some work from South Korea; though even there Bae Suah, is an outsider, because of her linguistic violence, and influence from German literature (which she herself translates from).

[ II ]

The only epistolary novel I can recall enjoying was: “It’s Getting Later All the Time,” by the late Antonio Tabucchi, and even then it was more of a novel made up of monologues, dreams, and discussions directed at some vague and unknown women, more so then it was a literal novel outlined in a traditional format of diary/journal entries, letters/correspondence, and supporting documentation. Though I did read Bram Stoker’s “Dracula,” in my youth; I much preferred the film (the nineteen-ninety two, version). There is now hesitation concerning the purchase of Teru Miyamoto’s novel “Kinshu: Autumn Brocade.”

“Kinshu: Autumn Brocade,” is an epistolary novel, as it concerns the dissolve marriage of two characters and their ten year reunion, which they reflect on in between letters. I’ve wanted read something by Teru Miyamoto for quite some time; especially since I included him on last year’s Nobel Speculation List. The title and book cover were enticing; and reviews and critical reception praised his language, his restraint on forced and false emotional responses and resonance. Yet the format of a novel in letters leads with great uncertainty of what to expect. Writing a novel in letters, always leads to biasness, and it is rather difficult to maintain a realistic perspective of someone through their letters; how do they remember an entire conversation? Do people normally reflect on landscapes with such an acute and painter’s eye for detail, and a poets tongue for language? An epistolary novel is perhaps one of the most difficult formats to write in, because of its limitations, and the difficulty to make authentic enough to offer the illusion of reality. I am looking forward to reading the novel, though there is great reserve on my part. Yet, it appears that Teru Miyamoto is considered a master craftsman when it comes to literature, heralding back to the twentieth century renaissance era of Yasunari Kawata, Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, and Natsume Sōseki.

[ III ]

Fleur Jaeggy is a new writer, who upon first discovery inspired intense interest. She’s a Swiss born author though speaks Italian; she has since moved to Rome and married Roberto Calasso. Her work is known for being sparse and delicate though injected with iron and displayed with a surgeons precision to detail and subtle breakdown of human relationships. Her most recent work to be translated into English: “I Am the Brother of XX: Stories,” is still away from being released; but in order to get acquainted with this overlooked master, I happen to discover: “Lost Vanities,” which recounts the menacing and subtle horror of dark complexities and complacencies of day to day life, through the detailed steely perspective of Jaeggy. At any rate: it appeared to be a great starting to point to get acquainted with the writer so when I decide to go after “I Am the Brother of XX: Stories,” I’ll have a good understanding of what it is I am walking into. I of course have high expectations.

Olga Tokarczuk is not a new name for me or this blog. I thoroughly enjoyed her previously translated novels: “Primeval: And Other Times,” as well as “House of Day, House of Night.” If my suspicions concern me correctly “Flights,” is a translation of Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Runners,” from two-thousand and seven; I’ve been waiting a long time for this novel to finally be translated and released, after hearing and reading accounts of it drifting about on and off the internet. I look forward to reading Tokarczuk’s hybrid narrative, where essay, philosophical dissertation and short story and novel are all interconnected around the themes of nomadic life, travel and always in motion.

[ IV ]   

Yoko Ogawa has always been in the peripheral of my thoughts. I’ve always resisted picking up one of her books and reading it. Justly or unjustly, Yoko Ogawa has been paraded as a competitor of Haruki Murakami, and a serious version of Banana Yoshimoto. People praised “The Housekeep and The Professor,” which in my travels, struck as some strange sentimental emotional light reading; something on par with a Nicolas Sparks novel, with some added touch of the surreal and unusual. Many quickly came to the defense of the novel, trying to convert or convince me that not all great literature is deprived of sunshine and smiles, and does not always need to take place behind some strictly bleak and dark totalitarian state or be set in the former Soviet Union or Iron Curtain. I was not convinced.

Then came, “Revenge,”—which is stated to be a greater representation of her actual bibliography and literary output which deals with the thin twilight between the reality and the surreal, with a menacing air of horror, and disturbing abnormal scenarios, all presented in a realistic context. Despite this, I resisted her further. Everywhere I looked Yoko Ogawa always faced similar comparison to Haruki Murakami—who is Americanized pop novelist, who maintains his literary title by slipping in some introduction to philosophy class thoughts, before moving onto discuss disappearing cats and women, and the urban displacement of Japan today; and is then marketed as some exotic literary adventure for the everyday reader. My tastes are little more refined then pop culture confectionery. .

Ogawa did not help herself with convincing me to read her either; she herself has expressed that she has been influenced by Haruki Murakami, especially his casual use of magical realism in his text; but others minimized this claim, stating she was further from him then she was closer to him. Her work does not contain leeches randomly falling from the sky; but rather a certain subtle violence and deep sense of depravity of human beings and their relationship. She is more closely related to Jun'ichirō Tanizaki with her depravity and sexual scenarios then she was with Haruki Murakami, and her subtle deft and plain prose in how she goes around the absurd and horrific events, is considered a typical and traditional Japanese ghost story.

My expectations of Yoko Ogawa are a mix: on one hand I am expecting disappointment; another Murakami pop culture philosopher with great perverse sexual depravity; while on the other she is well known and famous in France with numerous translations and praise. With muted expectations and high hesitation I look forward to reading Yoko Ogawa, and secretly hope to be surprised and impressed more than disappointed. If it’s any consolation, I tell myself: Kenzaburo Oe has praised her perhaps that amounts to something.

At the end of the day Gentle Reader: that is the list of books and authors I will be reading! I look forward to writing reviews and sharing my experience and perspective with you—after I sluggishly finish my review of “The Word Book,” which should be posted next week.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Man Booker International Prize Winner 2017

Hello Gentle Reader

This year’s Man Booker International Prize had two Israeli writers on its shortlist, the well known and Nobel favoured: Amos Oz for his novel: “Judas,”— and his contemporary David Grossman with his novel: “A Horse Walks Into A Bar.”  

Of the six finalists it was David Grossman who walked away with this year’s Man Booker International Prize, with what has been described as his: “hire wire act of a novel.”—“A Horse Walks Into A Bar,” is a novel which details a stand up comics public breakdown. Grossman’s tragic and flawed comedian takes the stage to make his audience laugh with his vulgar and assertive jokes and comments, reveals a decision he once made and continues to haunt him. The judges praised Grossman’s novel as being able to depict a truly flawed, yet human character, who goes through the stages and motions of guilt and grief, while being deprived of false sentiment and hallmark-sentimentality.

The judges praised David Grossman for his wisdom and his high emotional intelligence which he displayed in the novel; but also were greatly impressed by his stylistic and formatting decisions, when composing and compiling the novel. Needless to say David Grossman floored and blew the judges away with his novel which went beyond Israel as a state and probed through the individual, the collective soul, spirit and shadow of a nation.

Congratulations David Grossman!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Juan Goytisolo, Dies Aged 86

Hello Gentle Reader

Juan Goytisolo, died this past Sunday, June 4^th, in Marrakesh, Morocco, at the age of 86 years old. It is unknown at this time what is the cause of his death; but it has been reported that he had suffered from some health issues for some time, including a fractured hip which had forced the writer into a wheel chair. During his life and illustrious career, Juan Goytisolo was considered one of the most renowned, respected and revered writers, working in the Spanish language and hailing from Spain. At the tender age of seven, Goytisolo would lose his mother to an air raid by the former Spanish far-right (fascist) dictator General Francis Franco. On poetic accounts, this would be the beginning of a long and spiteful relationship between the two men. Goytilsolo would spend four months in prison for flirting with the communist party during the late nineteen-fifties—not for any real ideological similarities, but rather how they aggressively inspired protests against Franco and his regime. Later on, Goytisolo would leave Franco’s Spain, in complete disagreement, over Franco, his authoritarian rule and his censorship.

Despite attending law school and completing his legal studies, Juan Goytisolo would embark on one of the most respected literary careers of the post-war Spanish period. He began writing at the age of eleven, and was encouraged by family to continue his literary pursuits. Just after he completed his legal studies, he published his debut novels, which already began to showcase a writer maturing, and someone who had discovered their literary preoccupations and themes, as well as his well known complex style, where he eschewed a main character, in favour of multiple points of views. His work is well regarded for exploring the complexities of life, through its multifaceted narratives, from birth, life to death. Despite his respect, critical acclaim and popularity in Spain, Juan Goytisolo, would not achieve international recognition. Though he would find consolation in being awarded the Cervantes Prize in two-thousand and fourteen; often considered the Spanish language Nobel. In being awarded the Cervantes Prize, Goytisolo would be inducted into a Spanish language Parthenon of writers which included: Dulce Maria Loynaz, Octavio Paz, Mario Vargas Llosa, Camilo Jose Cela, and Jorge Luis Borges.

Juan Goytisolo was a adamant opponent of best-seller novels, mindless entertainment, and any novel or book which lack depth, political engagement, philosophical discussion or formal experimentation. He viewed these popular novels, which panhandled to the populist tastes, as a decline on grander literature. He believed literature, should provoke readers to engage and transform their relationship with the world and their perspective of it; they should inspire social thought, political critiques, and help encourage individual opinions and thoughts. But in a world now more thoroughly engaged with the television, the telephone and the computer—it is difficult to see these grand novels or great pieces of literature, regaining their foothold on society and the reading public any time soon; if ever again.

Rest in Peace, Juan Goytisolo; you nomadic writer of dissidence and political engagement.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Bob Dylan – Delivers Nobel Lecture

Hello Gentle Reader

Shall we finally say: it’s done; it’s over? Let’s put this entire debacle behind us. By debacle, I mean the Bob Dylan Nobel Prize for Literature fiasco. Surely now more than ever it can be classified as complete—or better yet: kaput. It’s best to lay the entire misstep to rest, now that Bob Dylan has both received his Nobel Diploma and Medal, and now delivered his Nobel lecture and received the prize money; it’s safe to state: Bob Dylan: is a Nobel Laureate, on all official accounts.

Do not get me wrong Gentle Reader, when it was announced that Bob Dylan was the Nobel Laureate for Literature in two-thousand and sixteen, my stomach dropped, my head froze, and my blood curdled—before blowing up in a insulted fury, enraged by the fact that a: singer and musician—a pop culture antique—had received the world’s most eccentric, lucrative and prestigious literary award. This fact and thought still burns. But the bruise it leaves behind is less black and painful as it was initially.

After the award was announced, the internet blew up into a debate of whether or not Bob Dylan’s lyrics could be classified as literature. There was no room for any middle ground. If you entered the debate, you stood on either side. Needless to say, I stood on the side which vehemently and adamantly denied Dylan’s lyrics could even be considered literary; let alone be classified as poetry. To this day: Bob Dylan is not a poet. He is a musician and a folk singer. But poet? No, that doesn’t belong on his resume. During, the Bob Dylan Nobel Disaster, Dylan himself never once equated himself to a poet, or his work to poetry. Though, in a roundabout way he often referred to his work as literary pieces of composition, which (again in a roundabout way) allowed himself, to be distanced from other musicians and singers. Still, despite the attempts for apologetics and more understanding people, to prescribe and administer their sense of egalitarianism and equality perspective of artistic boundaries, I refuse to release or change my apparently elitist opinion. Bob Dylan is not a poet. He is not literary. He is and I quote myself: “a half-baked has been pop culture antique.” I don’t want to admit it too much, but at times I do think Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, for the Swedish Academy to make amends for prior comments, criticisms, and opinions of Horace Engdahl; but also for the Swedish Academy to appear more engaged and relevant, stepping beyond its perceived sense of cultural superiority and stuffy intellectual elitism; that instead, it could get down and rock with the everyday average person, who doesn’t need to be bookish to necessarily enjoy the award.

Yet now there is no point in spitting vitriolic statements at the wall. The damage is done. As of yesterday, Bob Dylan, the most recent Nobel Laureate, delivered his Nobel Lecture—and just in the nick of time; because if he failed to deliver the award, by June 10^th, the prize money would be revoked. Now it is clear: Bob Dylan’s Nobel is secured and he joins the ranks of fellow laureates in the years past: Herta Müller, Wisława Szymborska, Tomas Tranströmer, Octavio Paz, Yasunari Kawabata, Alice Munro and Pablo Neruda. Yet, Dylan does not even begin to compare to the preceding greats; as he is easily eclipsed by their talents and the ideals. Dylan is only a hot air pop culture icon, who has been elevated way beyond his own status, as a church mouse amongst cats.

Despite my growing tolerance to the fact that Bob Dylan has received the award, despite his lack of merit; I still get slightly hot under the collar, knowing there are more deserving poets—true poets; who deserve the award far more then Bob Dylan. These poets are working to reshape the genre, bring it into greater focus, broader scope, and to bring it down from the ivory tower, in which it has locked itself away. Yet, these poets do not gather the same recognition and success that Bob Dylan has gathered over his decade long music career—and that is the key, Bob Dylan’s career, since he began: was always a music career; not a literary path, not a literary desire, not a literary goal in mind—it has always been focused solely on musical endeavors and preoccupations; which are completely different and separate from literary pursuits.

In his Nobel Lecture—which many have praised as extraordinary—Dylan, recounts his musical and literary influences. He begins, by discussing Buddy Holiday and the one time encounter the two had, when Dylan was eighteen, at a Buddy Holly concert, before his untimely death. It was there Dylan appears to elude to, that he would go on and begin his musical career; and become in his own right one of the most renowned pop culture and folk singer musicians out there. It is shortly after, Bob Dylan changes his lectures course, where he attempts to justify the decision made for him: that yes indeed he is a man of letters, and not just music, as he recounts the three great books which had shaped his career: “Moby Dick,” “All Quiet on the Western Front,” and “The Odyssey.” Through the great deal of his lecture, Dylan summarizes and recounts these three classics, and attempts to explain how they have influenced himself personally, his career, and his musical aspirations. It is at the end though, where Dylan makes his most startling statement of all.

In the closing paragraph of his Nobel Lecture Dylan recounts states the fact for all to hear: “songs are unlike literature. They are meant to be sung, not read.” Perhaps Bob Dylan realizes himself his work is not literature, his work cannot compare to previous laureates and dedicated and real writers out there, and so he himself must make the distinction himself. Songs are not literature, and they are not poetry—they are completely separate of each other, two estranged children from divorced home, worlds apart. Rather than fighting this distinction any further, Dylan succumbs to the reality, and proclaims it himself. And so, for the first time, since October 13^th, of two-thousand and sixteen, I have had the slightest bit of respect for Bob Dylan, who himself has stopped attempting to parade himself as a poet, when he realizes point back he is not. He is a musician, he is a folk singer, he is a pop culture icon, and he is not, nor ever will be: a poet. His work as he states point blank, are meant to be sung, not read; and that is what makes them different from former poetry laureates. Though he doesn’t attempt to assert himself as better then the fellow poet laureates, he does confess he is not one of them; and in a subtle manner acknowledges his status as a black sheep within the Nobel Prize for Literature’s history; as he truly doesn’t fit with the precedence and the mould, outlined by previous awards, laureates, and the academy.

There is no point in fighting what has been done and now what is secured. Bob Dylan received the award, delivered his lecture, and solidified his status as Nobel Laureate. I personally refuse to accept Bob Dylan as a poet. Bob Dylan himself does not proclaim himself a poet—despite the masses propagating their philistine perspective that he is one.

October is not far away, and certainly on the horizon redemption must lurk. Perhaps next year, a true writer, a deserving writer, will receive the golden phone call in the morning. My fingers remain crossed, and as I begin to compile my Nobel Prize for Literature Speculation List, I am filled with renewed hope and vigor for the Literature prize to move past this little upset, blight, and stain, so it may get back on the right course. As for this year’s award, it can be tolerated—much like one learns to tolerate a pebble in their shoe.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

The Franz Kafka Prize: Margaret Atwood

Hello Gentle Reader

Margaret Atwood is not a writer who comes into fashion and then suddenly out of fashion. Rather than being a tenacious piece of driftwood that is cast ashore by the sea, only to recede back into it, only to wash up on shore years later; Margaret Atwood is a permanent fixture on the literary scene. She is a noted giantess of world literature; and specifically speaking, quite a Canadian giant as well. Atwood assisted in surveying the then: unknown wilderness of Canadian Literature, with her nineteen-seventy two book of literary criticism: “Survival: A Thematic Guide to Canadian Literature.” Though now considered slightly outdated and perhaps more opinionated, then true objective literary criticism, it did seek to unify Canadian literature as Canadian rather than just being provincial. Margaret Atwood’s work goes beyond her literary pursuits and career; she is also a well-known environmental activist, academic, lecturer, inventor (The LongPen), contributor to numerous newspapers and literary periodicals, but also a noted Twitter user.

Margaret Atwood does not shy from controversy either. In two-thousand and thirteen, Margaret Atwood found herself being spat at by the science fiction community, when she denied her work like: “Oryx and Crake,” “The Handmaid’s Tale,” (and subsequent books: “The Year of The Flood,” and “MaddAddam,”) as being ‘science fiction,’ but rather: speculative fiction. Margaret Atwood famously stated that science fiction was: time travel, Martians, and teleportation devices; and went further to state, science fiction consisted of: “Talking squids in space,”—while her work was best defined as speculative fiction, because its plausible, the outcomes presented within those works, are a plausible reality. Needless to say, the science fiction community fought back, calling Atwood’s remarks elitist and snobbish; though Urusla Le Guin, was more understanding of Atwood’s position, found the author against the wall because if she had admitted her work was perhaps science fiction it lost its merit as being literary, and therefore Atwood would lose her status as a serious writer. Margaret Atwood would later clarify her statements, but also held firm with her perspective that science fiction explores realities still far beyond human contemporary achievements, while her work is startling contemporary and very near.

In two-thousand and sixteen, Margaret Atwood found herself being a point of conversation and topic amongst readers and the general public. Her most famous (and controversial) novel was being made into a television series: “The Handmaid’s Tale.” A teaser was advertised during the Super Bowl, with shocking and frightening images of the series, and it ended with Offred commenting that she intends to survive. Not long after, a certain presidential candidate (who no one thought could win) would win the American election, and “The Handmaid’s Tale,” would now fly off the shelves as both a symbol of ones intention to survive, but also as a companion to the new television series—which has just been renewed for a second season.

Since the election of Donald Trump and the television series, Margaret Atwood has been as busy as ever. She’s been requested for interviews, to offer her opinion and commentary, as well as to speak at literary festivals. She is considered at the moment a Prophet and a Oracle of great prescience, and many are seeking her counsel, to see how they may get through these bewildering, tragic, controversial and chaotic times. Now more than ever women fear for their hard-won freedoms (as should men as well—as should all citizens may I add), but also of the danger of a world on the verge of collapse from environmental and climate destruction, as we witness with the starvation in South Sudan and the very real reality that India, will reach soaring new temperatures this summer, then it did the previous one.

Margaret Atwood stands by her conviction, that she is not a pessimist or a prophetic fortune teller; rather she has scoured the past distant and recent, to lay the groundwork for many of her novels; specifically speaking: “The Handmaid’s Tale.” Atwood remains calm and realistic in her approach to writing her works, they are messages which foretell a future which we may inherent if we do not curb our current ways of operation. In this Margaret Atwood offers hope, more than she offers fate.

It is suiting then this year’s Franz Kafka award would go to Margaret Atwood, with her activism pertaining to: environmental concerns, women’s rights, and freedom of speech. The Franz Kafka award is awarded to a writer who suits its criteria: “reward artistically exceptional literary production of a contemporary author whose work addresses readers regardless of their origin, nationality, or culture, like the work of Franz Kafka” It suiting then, Margaret Atwood would be chosen, because she herself has crossed and transcended borders and cultures, to deliver her dire warnings, which are a concern to all human beings on the planet, regardless of their gender or citizenship. Her work concerns all human beings.

Congratulations Margaret Atwood!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary