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
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