The End of The Decade

Hello Gentle Reader

December has been increasingly busy as it comes to its inevitable closure. The past weeks have been spent preparing and executing Christmas plans and get togethers with family; which apparently means enduring a marathon of hallmark Christmas movies; the continual assault of Christmas music now in an intimate home setting; and the polite suffrage of other holiday guests. With the New Year, and the New Decade right around the corner, everything else is coming to a unceremonious and routine ending.

At the end of the December, the Swedish Academy was quite busy. December 20^th in particular was their Annual Grand meeting, whereby they’ve formally inducted their new elected members to the following chairs:

Chair No. 7 – Åsa Wikforss

Chair No. 9 – Ellen Mattson

Chair No. 13 – Anne Swärd

Chair No. 18 – Tua Forsström

Chair No. 5 – formally occupied by the late Göran Malmqvist currently sits vacant. If I were to offer a name to consider for election to this seat, it would be the writer, poet, librarian, academic, and translator Göran Sonnevi, who was kindly introduced to me by Bror Axel Dehn, a young up and coming journalist (and I am sure writer), whose current work can be found on Vagant. Göran Sonnevi is one of Swedens most esteemed poets, his range from political and topical discussions (the Vietnam War, the Cold War, globalization, immigration, and cultural conflicts), despite the social commentary they provide, Göran Sonnevi retains objective optics, never indoctrinating, supporting, or bolstering any ideological concept; instead his work seeks out greater universal human meaning in these events. His work has been awarded both the Swedish Academy Nordic Prize and the Nordic Council Literature Prize for: “The Ocean [Oceanen].” Göran Sonnevi would be a valuable member to the Swedish Academy. This being said, the Swedish Academy has made no formal statement or informal inclination as to who will succeed the late Göran Malmqvist.

For the time being congratulations are in order to the four formally inducted members. I make no reservations in stating that when it was announced Tua Forsström had been chosen to become an appointed member to the academy, I was ecstatic; though it wasn’t without a bittersweet aftertaste. I often speculated that Tua Forsström would be a worthy Nobel Laureate, her poetry probes with simplicity and grace the existential conundrums of human complexity; the conflicts and fragile nature of relationships; and the beauty and unforgiving natural landscape. It is an easy caveat to swallow, when one is able to be a part of the Nobel Laureate deliberations and discussions, even if it excludes them from winning the prize themselves. Of course my hope is that Tua Forsström will be able to lobby and bring Finnish speaking writers into the discussion. Needless to say I look forward to the coming years.

The other newly elected member to the Swedish Academy, Åsa Wikforss will also become a valuable asset to the Swedish Academy. As a professor of theoretical philosophy Åsa Wikforss’s recent work tackles the recent trend of ‘alternative facts,’ and the damaging potential they have on society, knowledge, and how information is consumed; with such an impressive portfolio and resume Åsa Wikforss will most certainly bring sobering perspective to the academy’s deliberations.

This year saw the return of the Nobel Prize for Literature, after it was postponed last year due to an unprecedented scandal and ensuring controversy, which saw numerous members resign, the Nobel Foundation take a adjudicating role, and numerous calls for the Swedish Academy to reform itself. Two-thousand and eighteen was not the best year for the Swedish Academy, though no stranger to controversy for some of their decisions; but when it came to scrutinizing their own affairs, such as their lack of proper governance, mismanagement of funds, allegations of conflict of interests, as well as the lack of ethics and moral obligations, the Swedish Academy’s austere grandeur fell aside, as the internal rot seeped forth, resulting in otherwise public disputes, disgraces, and battles between factions within the academy. It is hard to say whether or not the situation within the Swedish Academy has been completely resolved or not. Though the academy has renewed its statutes, taken greater precautions to strengthen its internal governance, and so far has been able to sate the ire from the Nobel Foundation, all the while seeking to carry on the with the routine operations of the academy’s work. Throughout it all, the Swedish Academy has elected and inducted new members into its ranks, has instilled yet another new Permanent Secretary, and is only one member short from being at full roster.

This year’s Nobel Prize for Literature was unique as it would see two laureates announced one for two-thousand and nineteen, and the other retroactively for the previous year. The two laureates for the years: 2018 and 2019 were as follows:

2018 – Olga Tokarczuk: “for a narrative imagination that with encyclopedic passion represents the crossing of boundaries as a form of life.”

2019 – Peter Handke: “for an influential work that with linguistic ingenuity has explored the periphery and the specificity of human experience.”

Despite crawling away from the still smoldering remains of the previous scandal, the Swedish Academy found itself embroiled in a new one with the decision to award Peter Handke the prize. The controversy over Peter Handke’s documented support for the Serbian leader and war criminal Slobodan Milošević, became the major talking point during the Nobel season, which sadly overshadowed Peter Handke’s services and contribution to literature, while also overshadowing Olga Tokarczuk’s Nobel recognition. The controversy surrounding Peter Handke, saw one of the external members of the Nobel Committee resign, and former Permanent Secretary Peter Englund did not attend the Nobel proceedings on moral grounds. It should be noted Peter Englund served with the Swedish military in Bosnia during the Yugoslav Wars, and on good conscious and unimpeachable integrity, Peter Englund boycotted the events. Meanwhile, wherever Peter Handke went, protests were sure to follow, and they did. Images, signs, slogans—were advertised quickly throughout the Stockholm and the internet, condemning Handke as a supporter of war crimes and genocide. Overtime the Swedish Academy and the Nobel Website and other social media outlets, attempted to curb or diminish the spotlight Peter Handke was given on these mediums, in order to curb the pushback further. Despite the protests, Peter handke still delivered his Nobel Lecture and received his Nobel medal and diploma by the hands of the King of Sweden.

Olga Tokarczuk, has sadly been overlooked during the proceedings, her achievements ignored, her merits unacknowledged. In comparing the two ins of Peter Handke and Olga Tokarczuk, some state that Peter Handke is the superior writer. Handke is noted for his formal experimentation, his work in multiple of mediums, the first and foremost being theatre. His novels have been noted for their powerful panoramic survey of the human condition, and its constant existential crisis. His influential pen has influenced many writers across the world. Handke has always been deemed one of the living classics, whose work will continue to be read, studied, consumed and enjoyed for years to come. His contributions to German literature, and soon international literature cannot be denied or overlooked. To compare Peter Handke and Olga Tokarczuk is not entirely a fair measurement of eithers literary merit, or their contributions or services to world literature. Peter Handke may have made explosive lasting impacts decades prior, Olga Tokarczuk in comparison has been a quiet giant on the global stage, whose long overdue recognition has now been reached. Where Peter Handke explores in the world in postmodern peripheral fashion, seeking to redefine or rediscover the world anew, while exemplifying the failure of language as a medium in order to properly transcribe the world, while hinting at the continued existential crisis of those inhabiting the world. Olga Tokarczuk can be found on the strange entangled postmodern family tree as Peter Handke. Where Peter Handke is most likely described as an early postmodernist with admiration in stylistic ventures towards modernism, Olga Tokarczuk delights in her narratives being a mosaic reflecting: “fragmented consciousness,” or reflecting a constellation like format, whereby multiple independent functions, coordinate to create a cohesive and unique unified whole, while maintaining their own unique qualities independent of the whole. Tokarczuk is not quite as impersonable as Handke is in his descriptions of the world around and beyond. In contrast, Olga Tokarczuk takes an introspective perspective, which slowly accumulates in its independence a singular reflection of the greater whole. As a student of Carl Jung and a psychologist by training, Tokarczuk maintains a fresh and vigorous curiosity to the human psyche. In a similar fashion to Jung, Olga Tokarczuk maintains an analytical and critical eye to the macro patterns of the human psyche via anthropological observation. Fairytales, folktales, and mythological elements weave and twine themselves through the cultures of the human experience, each one an independent reflection and understanding of the human experience as a whole. In turn, Olga Tokarczuk maintains a mythical approach to writing, producing tender narratives and modern fairytales, which reflect the primeval nature of the human imagination and its influence on the human condition.

In the award ceremony speech, the Swedish Academy praised Olga Tokarczuk’s work for its engagement in the ‘excoriating strangeness,’ of the world. The same strangeness which is found in her encyclopedic knowledge of the arcane, preoccupation with astrology, enjoyment of the forlorn and forgotten myths, superstitions, interpretation of dreams, and lost esoteric patron saints. These minute details and abstruse facts are but a few treasures which can be found in the mercurial work of Tokarczuk. Thankfully the auhor is also capable of turning these details, philosophical contemplations, digressions into psychology, history anatomy, and the otherwise unknown, into gripping and potent narratives that can engage the reader on both an intellectual level but also an enjoyable level. Beyond her engagement with the ‘excoriating strangeness,’ of the world, the Swedish Academy gives immediate praise to the author for her engagement with humanistic ideals. In this they reference her most recent work: “The Book of Jacob,” (translation forthcoming in English in the New Year) the Swedish Academy makes poignant and potent observations about the writer’s depiction of Jakob Frank the charismatic mystic, who also is nothing but a fraudulent manipulator, and theological rebel. His questionings and positionings as himself as a new Messiah, are no different, but rather simply on par with others through the later centuries, such as Hitler or Stalin. Despite their differences in work, or their cruel nature of their actions in accordance with their messages, they are able to rally their rabbles under a common guise, on common ground, with a common scheme, which ultimately leads to a new and better world. In this perhaps, despite her humanistic vision, Olga Tokarczuk also sees the inherent flaw to the ideologies of seeking to create or achieve a new or better world, it is destined to its own failure, because what is new or what is better is not equally shared by all. Despite this, Olga Tokarczuk had announced she will use part of the prize money associated with the Nobel Prize win to establish a foundation to promote cross-cultural exchanges, human rights activism for civil freedoms, and support for environmental causes.

As Nobel week came to its ceremonious conclusion for the year, neither literature laureate appeared during the Nobel Minds forum for the year. Instead the round table held at the old Stockholm Exchange (where the Swedish Academy resides) along with the noble museum and library, was filled with physicists, scientists, doctors and economist, who discussed their work, the state of the world, and their goals and hopes for the future. Why the literature laureates were dismissed or not included is not known; or perhaps they may have chosen to abstain from those proceedings.

In the end, both writers and now Nobel Laureates, handled the procession and proceedings with exceptional grace. They delivered their lectures unencumbered. Peter Handke did not acknowledge the protests leveraged against him. In turn, it appears to the public relations arm of the Nobel media and the Swedish Academy attempted to control Handke’s social media presence. In comparison, the public relations arm of the media turned its focus to Olga Tokarczuk, announcing she left a personal journal from the year two-thousand and eighteen in the hands of the Nobel Museum. Her banquet speech was quickly watched and delighted with. Photos of the author visiting students in Stockholm to talk was also pushed to the forefront, including captions about the student’s inquiry about the authors hair, and articles about LEGO enthusiasts crafting their own models of the newly inducted Nobel Laureate.

In receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, Olga Tokarczuk joins the pantheon alongside: Wisława Szymborska and Czesław Miłosz.

In receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, Peter Handke joins the pantheon alongside fellow writer: Elfriede Jelinek, and much like Jelinek he has proven to have been just as controversial, divisive, and cantankerous, while being completely apathetic towards it all.

The end of this decade has not been entirely kind to the literary scene either. Many great writers have been lost over the course of the year. Tributes as New Years rapidly approaches continue to pour in for the late Nobel Laureate American writer Toni Morrison, whose work helped to engage and revolutionize the American novel to include the African-American experience, to come not from the perspective of the sympathetic who have never experienced the alienation, segregation, racism, degradation, and haunting shadow of slavery; but from the nit and grit narrative of an African-American. Numerous tributes touched on Toni Morrison’s warmth, kindness, and generosity, as well as her personal quirks, which have been openly discussed by her friend and cohort Fran Lebowitz who lovingly remembers Toni Morrison’s sweet tooth (she preferred dessert first over the meal) and her love of giving and of course receiving gifts. Beyond her personal qualities which have won over her friends, and cemented them throughout her life, Morrisons literary work will continue to survive beyond her death. Her is a testament to the history of the United States of America, but not from the same old conventional narrative of the country rising from glorious revolution into its current superpower status throughout the previous centuries; rather the narrative turns towards the complicated and divisive history the country has had with the idea of superiority, racism, and discrimination which continue to fester to this day. Rather then being a torch of resentment, bitterness, and biting rebellion, Toni Morrison produced novels of grace, kindness, poignancy through personal tragedy which ultimately leads one to forgiveness. In this Toni Morrison always took the high road, the right road, the moral road—the one that not only salvaged the soul, but saved the spirit.

Two-thousand and nineteen also saw the death of former member and Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy Sara Danius who succumbed to cancer at the young age of fifty-seven; it also saw the death of the mammoth monolith of American literary theory and criticism, Harold Bloom.

Despite the deaths, personal upheavals, and the general dirty business of life, two-thousand and nineteen has been an alright year for reading. Though I did not get a lot of reading done—a recent stock has only five books listed (!)—but I’ve enjoyed the books for the most part. Reading Han Kang remains a highlight of the reading year. The breakout Korean writer rivals Bae Suah, with eschewing the others cerebral musings and surreal juxtapositions, for understated ethereal elegance. Where Bae Suah eschews literary forms from essay to fiction, blending time with liberal ease, and probing the philosophical and the psychological with minimal concern; Han Kang traces (or attempts to) the ghost, the shadow, the spirit, and the soul of the human experience, as it is shaped by tragedy, violence and other events beyond the immediate control of the individual. Han Kang dissuaded any concern one may hold against her work. She proved herself to being a remarkable writer, of the most enviable talents. Of course, there was also Patrick Modiano to read, and Olga Tokarczuk; neither writer one can go wrong with, reading them is like visiting with an old friend. I am currently still working my way through Annie Ernaux’s “The Years,” but will have it completed in the New Year. The pace in which I am reading “The Years,” is set by circumstances beyond my control at the moment, time lays down its immediate demands first, and unfortunately reading must come secondary to ensuring the fridge is stocked and food is on the table. This being said, “The Years,” has been a wonderful book to drop and return to on such as sporadic basis. It’s quite a unique read. Its disappointing to think that Annie Ernaux, until now has never been on my radar.

For now, though Gentle Reader the year and decade come to a close, and a new one just a few days away. I each of you have a relaxing and rejuvenating Christmas, be it quiet or populated. With everything coming to its end, regular life is set to resume shortly, and we best prepare ourselves to reacquaint ourselves to it as well.

I look forward to writing, talking, and hearing from you in the coming year. Happy New Year Gentle Reader—here’s hoping I can get more reading done in the coming year as well.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Literary News that was Missed

Hello Gentle Reader

As two-thousand and nineteen comes closer to its conclusion, before heading into a new decade of the ‘twenty-twenties,’ there was news overlooked or missed, during the previous two months, because life always gets in away. Yet I’d like to comment on two noticeable events that happened near the end of October.

(I)                 

First up, is the Future Library Project named its chosen writer for the year two-thousand and nineteen: the Norwegian mammoth autobiographical chronicler, Karl Ove Knausgård. The induction of Knausgård marks a return to the Western Hemisphere for the Future Library Project, and a return to Europe. Karl Ove Knausgård becomes the sixth writer to being included in the project, where he shares company with:

[2014] Margaret Atwood – “Scribbler Moon,”

[2015] David Mitchell – “From Me Flows What You Call Time,”

[2016] Sjon – “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,”

[2017] Elif Shafak – “The Last Taboo,”

[2018] Han Kang – “Dear Son, My Beloved,”

In inducting Karl Ove Knausgård, the project founder Katie Paterson called Karl Ove Knausgård an exceptional author of the contemporary era, as his epic multi-volume autobiographical work, has been called an outstanding and albeit controversial work of literature.

Karl Ove Knausgård has already begun to work on his manuscript for the project, but as is customary can say little to nothing with regards to the work. After all the entire projects writers are expected to write a manuscript which will stay sealed for a hundred years before being published. At which point the authors, the project founder (Katie Paterson), and everyone else of the now will have already died. The project has been praised for its time capsule quality which calls forth a future that waits, despite the threat it will come to an end in the coming decades. All of the writers who have contributed to the project have called it liberating and surreal. Margaret Atwood, ironically commented on how she will most certainly now survive the test of time, of whether or not she’ll be read in a hundred years, while also commenting on the surreal prospect that her voice will be awakened a century down the line, after she herself has long since been absent, and her own voice silenced.

Karl Ove Knausgård is expected to hand over his manuscript on May 23 2020.

(II)              

Speaking of Margaret Atwood, two-thousand and nineteen has been quite a year for the recently turned octogenarian author. The release of her much anticipated sequel to “The Handmaid’s Tale,” called: “The Testaments,” saw readers head out in droves for what had become the publishing event of the year. New readers and old readers, alike eagerly awaited the novel, reviews popped up immediately after, and Margaret Atwood head on to a book tour, answering questions, and signing books. She jointly won the Man Booker International Prize with Bernardine Evaristo (though not without slight controversy). Despite the praise, the great reviews, and the warm media attention (she was featured on the cover of Time Magazine); Margaret Atwood lost her partner Graeme Gibson. Suddenly of course, the attention turned from the book to the prying interest of the recent loss of her partner. Margaret Atwood, ever graceful and charismatic diffused and moved around the subject, returning the questions to the focal point of her appearance.

In late October, Margaret Atwood received a royal honour from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II: the Order of the Companions of Honour. This royal honour is a rare one. Under Queen Elizabeth the II’s reign, this honour has only been received by three Canadians. Margaret Atwood received this honour at Windsor Castle, during an investiture ceremony. Atwood described the experience as emotional, but an honour of a lifetime.

Congratulations are certainly in order for Margaret Atwood; it’s been quite a year. Throughout it all, Margaret Atwood has been a pinnacle of grace and charm, putting up with the same conversations from journalists, and while being thoroughly engaged with her readers who do stop to see her.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Two Members Leave the Extended Nobel Committee

Hello Gentle Reader

As part of the Swedish Academy regaining legitimacy as a Nobel Awarding institution; after its previous scandalous ordeal, and its lost faith from the public; the Nobel Foundation facilitated certain caveats that the Swedish Academy was forced to give into, in order to restore its reputation and begin the process of reclaiming its legitimacy. One of those caveats, was allowing for a period of two years, for five external members to be brought into the Nobel Committee to assist the Swedish Academy prize selection, and assist in creating a more transparent process and image with the public and the media. These five external members are:

Rebecka Kärde

Mikaela Blomqvist

Henrik Petersen

Kristoffer Leandoer

Gun-Britt Sundstrom

When the Laureates for two-thousand and eighteen and two-thousand and nineteen, were announced in October, three of the above listed committee members:

Rebecka Kärde

Mikaela Blomqvist

Henrik Petersen

Stood alongside Swedish Academy members: Anders Olsson and Per Wästberg; to discuss this year’s laureates in Literature.

Now, however, Kristoffer Leandoer and Gun-Britt Sundstrom have formally announced that they have recused themselves from their two year term as external members of the Swedish Academy, much to the chagrin of many.

Kristoffer Leandoer has cited he has chosen to leave the blended framework of the Nobel Committee, due to the Swedish Academy’s slothful state of adapting to change, and he does not have the patience to encourage it. Further discrepancies between the perceptions of time were also contributing factors in his departure.

Gun-Britt Sundstrom has resigned due to the decision to award Peter Handke the Nobel Prize for Literature in two-thousand and nineteen. The decision to ward Handke the Nobel Prize for Literature has been one of consistent controversy since it was announced on October 10^th. Reactions have been divisive, critical, and uncompromising in their denouncement. The Swedish Academy in return, was forced to perform damage control, and sought to clarify their position that they do not condone Peter Handke’s political statements, views, perceptions, or defenses; but they chose to award him on purely literary terms. They further argued that despite his political discourse, his statements did not amount to facilitating violence, or condoning the atrocities of the Yugoslav Wars.

Gun-Britt Sundstrom disagreed with the notion of literature above politics. It is safe to presume that Gun-Britt Sundstrom believes the political statements made by Peter Handke are equally as relevant to his literary output as his literary work, and should be considered in weighing his merit in. For these reasons, Gun-Britt Sundstrom has chosen to recuse herself from the blended Nobel Committee.

The Swedish Academy in turn thanked them both for their support and service during their short tenure.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

For Further Reading

The Guardian: "Nobel prize for literature hit by fresh round of resignations,"

BBC: "Two Nobel literature prize committee members quit,"

The Pantomime of Politics & The Gorgeousness of Governance

Hello Gentle Reader

Politics is a topic rarely discussed openly. It’s a poor subject. Though usually brought up during family celebrations, where one can watch the battle lines being drawn, the garrison assembled, and the first shot waiting to be fired. Armistice rarely happens, while alcohol fuels the fevered frenzy. It does lighten up an otherwise dreadful enduring family get-together. Who doesn’t enjoy the thrilling prospect of witnessing fisticuffs on the dinner table—even if it doesn’t happen? Despite its divisive degradation of otherwise civil affairs; politics is an otherwise ubiquitous atmosphere hanging over everyone’s heads. It’s just too disruptive to actually discuss with decorum. The moment the subject is even lightly broached there’s puffed out chests, eyes rolling, and admonishing arrogance to be found. Suddenly we’re back in the sandbox.

People often describe politics as a dirty business. Perhaps comparing or equating it to the same level as pornography. A lot like pornography, politics suffers from poor actors. Even worst, the actors in political theatre are not as endowed or beautiful as those found in pornographic materials. Rather politicians are often bloated, egotistical, and lackluster individuals. Men are always found in the same uniform: suit and tie—so don’t expect leather harnesses, or any other exotic sensual role playing—and for the record no one wants it. Women equally uniform with their blouses, skirts, or dress pants; a bit of flair perhaps with a pin or a simple pearl necklace. They smile for the cameras and answer—sorry deflect—questions posed to them with regards to policy initiatives, goals, and objectives. The stock of politician is equally as unappetizing as their dress, or any pre-ordained family get-together. They are uninspired, drab, and monotonous. At best they are bland. At worst they are nauseating. Career politicians in particular are a special breed of stock. The higher they slither up their ladder of ideological impurity, the more they resemble a pig fit for the county fair. A real blue ribbon, blue blood, mudslinger; whose days have been spent at the public trough gorging away, while telling the electorate that austerity measures are necessary, and they need to tighten their belts. Meanwhile they loosen theirs for yet another helping. At question period during debate in either a Legislature or the House of Commons, these county fair winning pigs, only squeal at one another, and they call that singing for their supper. I suppose in that regard, I’d take a leather harnessed hunk or a whip wielding dominatrix, over the democratically elected blue blooded mudslinger, who has the impunity and impropriety to squeal at me, about how I need to buck up, and weather the storm. Meanwhile I’m left to wonder why that piggy hasn’t been sent squealing to market. Bacon, pork chops, pork loin, may not solve anything, but it’s certainly better then what’s currently on offer.

Reviewing the current Canadian political landscape leaves a lot to be desired. Federally if you didn’t know, it’s a minority government, led by a young globally popular politician, perhaps due to his appearance. Not quite my cup of tea, but else where they fawn over him for a picture or selfie or two. The sunshine sensibilities of his previous campaign now left overcast and dour. His government greets a country of grumbling resentment. At least partially, but the ‘west,’ has always been known for its flatulent chinooks. Its’ bellowing trumpets of the hardworking blue collar who bring home the bread with no thanks or appreciation in exchange. Of course since oil and gas bottomed out, they’ve been hurt the worst. Their provincial economies tanked. Their rainy day fund spent. With their pockets turned out, this same province now seeks understanding and sympathy from the other provinces. Yet for years they had grumbled and complained how they were the backbone of the entire country, and lectured every other province on their own economic mismanagement, lack of fiscal responsibility, and of course their lack of gratitude. Now with the tables turned, the other provinces who were forced to endure their otherwise peacock posturing, have all but run out of sympathy for their downtrodden brethren. Now they sit back and snicker at the emperor’s new clothes. No one had the heart to tell them the truth: if the emperor looks naked, he is naked. Now this same province has once again voted in the political party which saw to its demise earlier.

The memory of the public is fickle, and often very short. Four years prior, this province of oil baptisms, and endless honey and money; found its money burned and its honey dry, and no one wanting its oil. The people on the winds of change ousted its decaying political dynasty, and voted in something fresh, new, and invigorating. But public memory is capricious. With change in government came the immediate cries it was their fault the economy tanked. It was their fault oil prices were at the bottom of the barrel. It was their fault the province entered into debt. It was their fault people were unemployed. Despite the fact these problems were inherited. The problem with public opinion is it cares little for facts. It swept up in rhetoric, slogans, populism, which is all dispersed for their convenient consumption. Four years later out with new and in with the old. This time they elected a very prominent career politician. The kind which blathers on about how the buck stops there; how diversifying the economy is a luxury; how the provinces problems come from the federal government. The usual squealing and deflecting campaign only the most seasoned of pigs at the trough would know. Fitting to his career, he is in possession of a character resembling that of a stale outdated ham sandwich; intolerant, noxious, and outdated. Still they voted him in, and now they see the repercussions of their decisions. Their healthcare is being dismantled. Education is under assault. Tax breaks for corporations who still abandoned the province.  The economy no longer just in ruin, but on fire, with a rising unemployment rate. Of course this blowhard windbag can’t take the credit or the responsibility. Rather he reassesses and attempts to deflect his already early stage mismanagement to others. When and where that fails, he shifts the conversation to separating from Canada as a whole, citing alienation and irreconcilable differences, as if it’s a simple divorce; where in reality it is nothing more than pouty child threatening to take its ball and go home. Those who support this otherwise derogatory dribble are first class hypocrites. Prior, these same individuals called such separatist sentiments harbored by another province as treasonous; but now will stomp around with banners in hand, shouting how they should be emancipated. Is that not treason all the same? As the public is occupied with their dreams of separation, our snub-nosed blue ribbon pig is free to gorge some more at the trough, at the cost of the future, with his cuts to education, his disregard for healthcare, and his slow erosion of elections agencies. After all he came from a federal party, whose leader at the time was three quarters totalitarian and another quarter dead fish personality. When he faces criticism from academics, economists, and journalists he’ll side step and swipe back. Part of public office is taking criticism, enduring disapproval, and weathering dissatisfaction. Taking aim at an academic’s integrity, because their professional expertise is in contrast to your political parade, is a prime example of a this career politician who has no respect for education, and who obviously lacks any formal education beyond their early political indoctrination, as if this is an excuse for their impropriety. Yet there is hope. The other day protests were held to rally against the cuts, the dismantlement, the erosion, and the calls that everyone needs to tighten their belts and get used to these austerity measures; while his belt only gets looser. There’s hope that these young students, enraged nurses, and exhausted civil servants, along with the everyday person, will set the pig to the flames and get some real change into their province, which sits precariously doomed to being left behind if it doesn’t adapt to a changing world. To that I would say: diversifying ones economy is not a luxury, but a requirement to secure your survival at least.

A survey of the rest of the country would say it’s in no better shape. Down east there’s a premier who not only looks like a blowfish but shares its flare for puffing out like one as well. I’d warrant caution in classifying this one as a career politician, but certainly an outrageous actor all the same. Though politics has been a central part of this one’s life as well. He’s been a municipal councilor, picked fights with Margaret Atwood, and his brother is the notorious crack smoking mayor. Much like politics, illicit drugs have been a part of this politicians adult life as well, going so far as to operating an alleged hashish dealing operation in his early adulthood, his other brother reportedly involved in drug trafficking, and had been investigated in relation to drug-related abduction; while his sister was a victim of drug related gun violence. This ones pedigree is certainly undeniably high class; and he is perhaps more lively then the other career politician down west, who has no formal education to his name, but still speaks with a nasally heavy handed, second-rate erudition. Still they are much the same. Blow hard blathering windbags, who in tormenting torrential gusts, repeat with the same gusto, how austerity measures need to be in place, in order to facilitate fiscal responsibility. In other words: cuts. Cuts to social programming. Cuts to education. Cuts to healthcare. Cuts to public service. Cuts to infrastructure. Cuts to transportation. As these snorting and rooting boars of ignorance keep carving up the cow, insisting all the same that the buck stops with them, one must wonder where are the savings? Jobs are lost, roads are in tatters, hospitals have no beds, and the elderly are suffering inadequate care. Yet inflation rises, the cost of living skyrockets alongside it, and the economy barely moves a centimeter forward.  Yet the expectation is you are to tighten your belt; despite the fact at this point it’s already cutting circulation. This doesn’t even begin to cover the inter-provincial clashes of interest. The lack of common ground any of them can find with each other. The federal government meanwhile in its minority state is left to play referee on an as needed basis. The further east one goes there is an increase of separatist talk, complete with its usual nationalistic fanaticism. In the Far East of Canada one could hear crickets chirp, with how removed they are from the discussion, completely ignored and forgotten, an afterthought as always.

If one loves reality television, then certainly Canadian politics would be right up their alley. The pantomime political theatre of Canadian politics is akin to a dysfunctional family at the most intolerable Christmas dinner imaginable. There is not an iota of a semblance of common ground. No compromise. Not an ounce of unity to be held. Of course the political parties themselves have quite the house cleaning initiative to undertake. One party needs to find a more durable, stalwart, stoic and strong leader then its current offering of a dimpled potato, whose inability to behave with honesty and integrity shows the shortcomings of their character. Not to mention this same party needs to move past its insistent outdated perspective on otherwise settled social issues regarding abortion, euthanasia, and same sex marriage. Recently this same party had a member compare Gay Pride Parade Celebrations to that of a St. Patrick’s Day Parade. Having never been to a Pride Parade myself, I presume there is a lot more colour in a Pride Parade then just green. This same leader of this party openly alienates the community (LGBTQ) by never clarifying their stances on the subject, which has only given both the media and the opponent’s ample ammunition to attack, discredit, and disregard as a dinosaur. Perhaps once this party rebrands itself, reforms itself away from its previous totalitarian dead fish personality predecessor, it can position itself in a more favorable light. It should take a note from another almost antiquated party which saw a resurgence during the previous federal election. Its new leader appears to be dynamic, stoically aggressive; who doesn’t mince their words, and too boot wears a bow tie, which is just darling! If one were to offer advice to the current minority government it would be to stop stepping into scandal with fevered glee. If it appears to be a bad idea, it most likely is a bad idea. While the other three remaining parties teeter precariously on the tip of irrelevance, due to a lack of media attention, a lack of financial aid, and a lack of reaching the general populace with their message, their brand. Do better next time.

Throughout the second rate dilapidated theatre of Canadian political pantomiming, complete with long winded speeches filled with empty words falling on deaf and disinterested ears, by political players who are neither memorable nor interesting, with personalities of limp noodles; there is the hardworking unsung hero of governance: the dutiful civil servant, who is inappropriately caricatured, misrepresented, and first flogged and flayed by the clowns that are called their political masters. They are the first to feel the ire of their otherwise demented creatures that come into office, who view them as entitled blood sucking leeches of bureaucracy. It comes to no surprise then that our blue ribbon winning blue blooded pedigree pig of a politician comes roaring into office with a box of salt in hand, which it intends to exorcise the civil service with. If the salt should fail, then they’ll cast open the blinds and burn the lampreys with the sun’s rays. If they don’t burn at the sun then they’ll soak them with holy water. In the end though, all they are left with is soaked, tanned, and salt covered civil servants, and a disastrous photo op that reads: “Cutting Red Tape in Favour of Efficiencies.”

What our fat stock doesn’t understand is that the civil service is the brick, the mortar, and the pillar of good governance. While our political pigs squeal in the public light, oink for votes, and parade on promises, while flinging mud wherever it’ll stick. The civil servants continue the real business of governance, by ensuring the trains run on time; health care is operational, police are on patrol, the rights of the citizens protected, and that courts provide their trials. Of course there’s is paper work involved, sometimes even mountains, but all the paper work creates a record, a chain of evidence, a detailed account of how the entire workings of governance. It’s ultimately meaningless, however, to those who run on such empty rhetoric as our politicians, who have neither interest nor care to the stewardship of proper governance, or the fine filigree of its penmanship, its convention, and its bread and butter for a proper civil society. Instead, they seek to dismantle the establishment in their own image, and often at the expense of the electorate. The difference between public administration and business admiration or commerce, is that commerce is to make a profit at whatever expense, while government and public administration seeks to provide services to its populace, with no interest in profit margins, cost analysis, or ulterior motive. The beauty of governance and government perhaps is its ability to endure, and weather all brands and pedigrees of fat stock which parade through its doors. Sadly it seems there are less and less protections to ensure they are able to withstand the continued assault issued by these same ignorant boars. Perhaps more power should be removed from our less then esteemed pantomiming gluttonous politicians, and attributed to the competent civil servants, who work behind the lines to uphold the basic pillars of civility we call our society. Sadly such legislation would never be introduced, let alone passed. The last thing our blue ribbon pork chop wants is to have their free flowing trough, interrupted by proper governance. 

The Canadian political scene is in a sad state of affairs, much like everywhere else. It leaves a lot to being desired. Yet what is perhaps most frightening about the entire political scene, is the fanaticism in which supporters have undertaken. They’ve picked their horse—even if it’s dead— and continue to ride it, support it, and boaster it up. It’s a common saying that everyone is entitled to their opinion, and sadly in today’s social media saturated world that’s proven to be quite case. What is frightening is how many opinions lack any notion of fact. All statements carry no factual integrity. Instead in their bowels, in the scant amount of syllables utilized, lies the reeking tar of propaganda, and disturbing unadulterated fanatical loyalty. Canadian politics has always prided itself on refuting the demagogue devotion found in its neighbor. The infection has since spread north. Canadians of a certain blue brand are now driven with almost cult like radical indignation, as they take issue and aim with anyone who has any inclination of integrity or fact. They won’t listen to reason, rationale, or logic; and when they are presented it, they squeal into their battle cries, to which their brethren mobilize and join them in their united honky-tonk movement(s). I’d never thought I’d see the pungent scene of xenophobia and racism ever is so openly tolerated and promoted in Canada. I had never thought a politician of any Canadian party or pedigree would ever be so lacking in character or dignity to promote the conflagration of such disgusting rhetoric. Canada is supposed to be the moderate, the enlightened, and the humanistic. Now in its ashes lies nothing but a tattered fragmented country of resentment, fueled by ridiculous and incredulous politicians who have loosened their belts, had their fill and want more; all the while Canadians are left scraping what little livelihood they can afford, and eat what little food they have; and are being told that they need to tighten their belts for further austerity, while the future is burned and denied to many by cuts to education and health care. This isn’t the Canada I grew up in, nor love, nor live in now. Thankfully there is hope on the horizon. Protests by an engaged youth, who refuse to have their futures diminished or overpriced. To civil servants who like starved and abused dogs, are tired of being treated like pariah, and demand that they need to compensated not cut out of the workings of government, in order to meet the austere measures proposed and imposed on them; and of course the daily citizens and electorate who do not feed into the rampant campaign rhetoric, slogans, and polluting propaganda issued en masse. There is hope that Canada will return to its humanistic and enlightened self; and if there isn’t an ounce of hope, there will be a demand for it. These austerity measures have proven time and time again, to only be worthless, but severely impairing in the long term. It’s time the pig looks into the mirror as it’s sent squealing to market, rather than the unfortunate people who suffer long after their voted out of office.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

Hello Gentle Reader

Emily Dickinson, the hermetic American poet, wrote in a letter to her correspondent Elizabeth Holland:

“It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sunsets sterner, and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.”

Emily Dickinson is somewhat a more preferable poet in the intimacy of her work. She eschews the pomp favoured by others poets. This being said, reading Emily Dickinson is not necessarily easy. Yet, she leaves the calls of grandeur behind. The poetry of Emily Dickinson is akin to entering a warm small quiet room—a private sanctum—whereby one is left to contemplate the ephemeral, and one’s existential place within it.  Whereas poets like William Blake, always strike me as grand monolithic being, whose granite voice echoes and booms through the marble corridors, confronting the natural and the divine, among other grand themes of poetry of the time.

The days in November are still and sterile. The sky quilted in greys and whites. The peripherals a cataract blue. The sunrises are understated. The twilight blue lingers longer. The sun doesn’t burst forth in a brilliant unapologetic glaring ceremony. Rather it just rises at measured self-conscious, an almost shy pace. Its passage throughout the day is equally unremarkable. Before long the street lights blink alive and shine, while the sun sets with underwhelming enthusiasm. The days don’t end in brilliance; there is no smoldering ember reds, or streaks of blushing pinks, no golden glows. Instead the west turns jaundice yellow, and the sun is soon out of sight; once again that twilight blue lingers longer. Now in the end of November, the arched venomous tail of Scorpio finds itself being bowed back, while its stinger in its potency takes on a new form. As the final drop of venom drips down the black stinger of the once small but imposing creature, it becomes an arrow. Though it no longer carries the venom of its former self, it possesses the scorpion’s virtues in accuracy, and perspective on preservation. The tail is now the bow which will cradle this arrow. Scorpio has now scuttled away; the dark violent emotional waters of the scorpion are now settled and clear. Now in the forest of Sagittarius the arrow finds its mark without hesitation. Why it’s fired varies; on one hand the brutal bestial anger; on the other with guiding wisdom. For now, the archer strolls and stalks in a forest of frost, under grey skies, and prolonged twilights; the evening fires warding off the creeping nights of its predecessor.

Astrology is a mere conversation starter, or ender. At best it’s a parlor trick, no different than tarot card readings or palm readings. At worst it is perhaps taken a bit too seriously, whereby one begins to plan their life, finances, and romantic inclinations to align with the unknowable, unapproachable, and indifferent nothingness of the cosmos. Despite the groan inducing, the gripes, and the countless eye rolls, astrology orbits and cycles in and out of daily life—though always in the peripheral. Astrology is no more a serious matter then people believing in stones granting spiritual powers. There is no empirical evidence to support the notion that the celestial cycle of the Astrological Zodiac, and the respective position of the planets, has any impact on an individual. In the world of newly inducted Nobel Laureate in Literature, Olga Tokarczuk, the cosmic heavens are vast, unexplored, unknowable, but they are not necessarily empty; they provide objective attributes and qualities on mankind. Their influential touch is neither altruistic nor is it punitive, but indifferently objective—or at least that is how Janina Duszejko views the stars, as she charts them in the perspective of astrology in: “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead.”

Janina Duszejko is an eccentric busy body, with an unwavering conviction towards respecting nature, especially the sanctity of life—all life. In her isolative little cottage, in the Polish countryside near the border of Czechia, Duszejko keeps watch over the other cottages that are left empty in the winters, their resident’s home in the city and return in the following summer. She also maintains a careful eye on the natural world, coming in direct confrontations with local hunters, police, priests and any other flagrant miscreant who trespasses on the inviolability of life—all life. Despite her thwarting best efforts prey falls to predators. When she finds the hunted, poached, and discarded remains of animals, Janina Duszejko honours them in her garden, whereby their remains are buried and marked. Beyond being an ecological warrior and amateur conservationist, Janina Duszejko is a casual teacher at a local school; a sporadic translator with her former student and friend ‘Dizzy,’; and is unquestionably and unapologetically a devote astrologer. She views the orbiting planets like marbles, which must be mapped out accordingly as they transition in and out of the zodiac houses. Their orbiting whims, alignments, and nadir positioning’s provide blessings and havoc on the unknown strangers beneath them. Beyond charting the heavens above, Duszejko baptizes and christens the residents of the area with her own epithets such as: ‘Good News,’ ‘Oddball,’ ‘Black Coat,’ ‘Grey Lady,’ or ‘Big Foot.’

‘Big Foots,’ death is the starting point of “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead,” which has been deemed as a loose murder mystery, and perhaps to a degree it is, but in Olga Tokarczuk’s hands, the notion of murder mystery is quickly contorted into another form; much like Patrick Modiano’s entire oeuvre, or Orhan Pamuk in “The Black Book.” Residents of the isolative community do die, and frequently. Their deaths are peculiar, gruesome, and anything but natural. ‘Big Foot,’ for example is found dead in his kitchen by his neighbour ‘Oddball,’ who in turns seeks out Duszejko to help him in contacting the authorities as well as cleaning and dressing the body. It is there, they find a bone forcefully lodged in ‘Big Foots,’ throat. The authorities collect ‘Big Foot,’ and begin their investigation. There is plenty of bad blood between Duszejko and the recently deceased ‘Big Foot.’ ‘Big Foot,’ was an unapologetic hunter who had no love or respect for the natural world, including his own mongrel dog he locked in the shed. In his kitchen sat the dismembered head of a hunted buck. After a while, further murders happen within the community. Ever eccentric Janina Duszejko proclaims that it is the animals taking their revenge on the hunters of the community.

“Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead,” doesn’t stumble from murder or inconspicuous corpse, to the next murder or sporadic death. Instead, Olga Tokarczuk allows for long passages of the novel to be dedicated to Janina Duszejko and her eccentricities, her ruminations, and her often strange proclamations. It is also spent observing the other characters in and around the community; from the seasoned permanent residents, to the summer vacationers. Of course these observations are always reflected through Duszejko’s narration. She provides the commentary, the thoughts, the observations, and the notations on the happenings in and around the community. It is through this narrator that Olga Tokarczuk is able to provide a philosophical contemplation with regards to life, and the notion of what life is sanctified, while others in turn are dispensable. In the same fashion is nature but a reminder of the human races primordial heritage? A place of shadow and leaves; where human beings are as much prey as they are predator, their supremacy in question, bruising an otherwise fragile ego.

                                                                                                                

Of all of Olga Tokarczuk’s novels currently published in English, “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead,” takes a different path then her novels: “Primeval and Other Times,” “House of Day, House of Night,” or “Flights.” Where the other three novels are loose, fragmented, with pages dedicated towards digressions, secondary and tertiary thoughts, and peripheral glances; “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead,” remains consistent with Janina Duszejko remaining the focal point of the novel. All aspects of the novel are distilled through her. Ever comment, note, thought, observation comes from Janina Duszejko. Thankfully Duszejko, much like Galip from Pamuk’s “The Black Book,” is a reasonable literary companion. Her unique ruminations are eccentric fitting her personality, but also poetic when they reach the right tone:

“it is in the feet that all knowledge of mankind lies hidden; the body sends them a weighty sense of who we really are and how we relate to the earth. It’s in the touch of the earth, at it’s point of contact with the body that the whole mystery is located – the fact that we’re built of elements of matter, while also being alien to it, separated from it.”

Despite this, “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead,” most progress on its fatalistic course. It’s apparent early on who is and has committed the murders, and of course why. This unfortunately makes the narrative rather underwhelming as it reaches its conclusion. Thin plot aside, the enjoyable aspects of “Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead,” is the soliloquies of Duszejko, her rationale crafted by astrology and its act as a “cosmic correspondence,” to make sense of the world around her. The novel is not by any means the best of Olga Tokarczuk, and perhaps would even measure up as a lesser novel. Still it is still a fine novel being able to showcase Tokarczuk as a masterful storyteller, with an acute sense of the mystical and magical, even in the most realistic of worlds. Her philosophical and psychological eye is deft and potent, but never overbearing or authoritarian.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Edna O’Brien Wins the David Cohen Prize

Hello Gentle Reader

The past couple of years have been quite generous for the Irish writer, Edna O’Brien. In two-thousand and eighteen she received the PEN/Nabokov Award, for her lifetime’s achievement of work on the stage of international literature. Now, once again, the Irish Grand Dame of Letters has received another accolade recognizing her potent, poignant, and ever presently preoccupied body of work, this time: the David Cohen Prize.

The David Cohen Prize is often rumored to being a precursor to the Nobel Prize for Literature, much in the same fashion as: The Franz Kafka Prize or Neustadt International Prize for Literature. Though in the same fashion as the Neustadt International Prize for Literature, the David Cohen Prize has been established as a competitor to the Nobel Prize for Literature, though more exclusive for writers heralding from the United Kingdom and Ireland. This being said previous winners of the award included Nobel Laureates: V.S. Naipaul, Harold Pinter, and Doris Lessing (pre-Nobel) as well as Seamus Heaney (post-Nobel).

Edna O’Brien has been understated and appreciative towards the award. When inquired about the potential of a Nobel in her future, the eighty-eight year old brushed off such notions as discussions lost in the ethereal realm of the intangible future.

In receiving this award, Edna O’Brien’s reputation as one of the most powerful and potent voices in Irish literature is still relevant, as she continues to write. Edna O’Brien has proven that she is not a one trick pony of sexual frankness and shock value, with her debut in the nineteen-sixties; but a well-weathered, rounded, and poignant observer of the female condition through the ages, crafting deft psychological portraits of the woman psyche as influenced and shaped by external factors, and of course their relationship with men.

Congratulations to Edna O’Brien!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

The White Book

Hello Gentle Reader

The terms: grief, mourning, bereavement—these multifaceted expressions desperately attempt to describe the emotional, physical, and mental responses to loss. To be more precise: the loss of a living being—be it person or beast; human or animal. Grief is the act of: clamming up; biting down; gritting teeth; clenching fists; curling up; locking up; shutting down. After all, grief is a private affair. At least it should be. It is regrettable that the contrary is the norm. People stride and glide in with amiable faces. They offer their deepest sympathies, of course. Then they’ll deposit a casserole or other homemade commodity. During such a difficult time one is expected to be lost in a daze completely detached from the concerns of life. The housework ignored. Cooking disregarded. Everything should fall into a state of neglect. The food rots in the fridge. The dust settles. But the house is never empty. The last thing one should be in such a vulnerable time is alone. The door is rapped on with a continual chorus of interruptions. Stranger’s footsteps creak on offended floors. Hugs are generously dispersed. Sympathy is reduced to a new currency: pity. There is no difference between the two. Their sanctimonious airs are dispersed like incense at mass and in the same suffocating fashion. They offer their condolences, which now lie at ones feet. But who is this all for? Despite the interruptions the cooking is complete. The food is fresh. The dishes are clean and in their cupboards. The interruptive knocks intrude anyway. People come canting in with hurricane force, wearing the best good-natured and empathetic face they can muster. They inquire all the same. Their voices ring with musical disingenuity. However, the worst are those who behave with outright indignity. They fall apart; completely disheveled. They burst in to tears. They wail with dramatic flair. Their anger is nothing more than an untidy display of their complete lack of self-control. Have they no sense of dignity? Or does the notion of bereavement and grief provide the excuse in which others are to tolerate their campy style of behaviour? They fling obscenities with liberal ease. They’ve completely fallen apart. The cutlery is bound to go flying. The dishes smashed. They burst into tears when there’s knock on the door. They answer in sobs; their eyes red and puffy. The greedily accept the sympathies provided. Oh how those insincere saints pat them all the same with their heavy-handed pity: ‘poor dear, poor dear,’ they coo away.

The terms: grief, mourning, bereavement, are not expressions or definitions of the emotional, physical or mental responses to loss, but rather the permission for some to behave with a complete lack of control. Death provides them the validation to a long overdue season’s pass to disregard their inhibitions, at which point they fall apart. They completely crack. The veneer of the world shattered. It’s tattered. The shrapnel dispersed with explosive impact. Capricious fires alight. Who knew the sole expectation of life—the only certainty of it—comes as a surprise to an individual; at which point they behave with disregard to the simple values of grace and dignity. Death is the equalizer, the shared expectation, the guaranteed certainty that will affect everyone, and claim them in the end. It should not come as either shock or surprise. Yet apparently: it is. At least one would think so, considering how they choose to behave.

This age of extreme sensitivity has abolished the basic principles of dignity, grace, self-respect, proper social conventions, and established social protocols. In their absence and wake, people have turned to behaving in these exaggerated and dramatic reactive manners towards the ‘sudden,’ appearance of death and loss; and somehow this has now been deemed socially acceptable, because the world is supposed to be: ‘empathetic,’ or ‘sympathetic,’ or ‘understanding,’ to the individual who runs around in tears, red faced, wailing and crying at the top of their lungs. It’s a sad state of affairs in these situations. Death is easy to deal with. To be blunt it’s a straightforward matter; yet it is always other people who complicate an otherwise simple affair. From the superfluous interlopers who parade with canting goodwill gestures, homemade meals and other commodities, before depositing their ‘sympathy,’ or more precisely: ‘pity,’ at the door. Then of course there is the other party: sniveling, howling relatives running amok like an unbridled frantic chicken that escaped the butchers block, and now finds themselves in an existential crisis. What a spectacle they’ve made for the neighbours to gawk at. Meanwhile there is always the stoic and certain few; thankfully someone retains composure, as there is work to be done. Mortuary arrangements need to be drafted and finalized. Obituaries are written and published. Notices filed with banks. Creditors informed. Then there’s the bureaucracy of death itself; an animal on its own, a fastidious tiresome process of reviewing documents, completing the correct form, and disclosing the certificate where pertinent. Despite this, even after the raw reality has cooled and scabbed over, the humiliation continues. The impertinent howls and the insincere cooing condolences are replaced with the ghoulish and obsessive. Any moment; or any day—these cawing creatures find a reason to bring up the departed and their death in their usual patronizing manner. They pontificate with superintended annoyance, how the death casts a shadow over every thought, action that concerns the routine workings of life. Regardless of the weeks or months which have transpired and passed, one of them must be difficult. ‘It must be so hard,’ they begin. Afterwards they quickly take inventory of the room, or stock of the day, or the sense of the atmosphere, before commenting on the empty chair, or how quiet the house is, or some myopic detail which somehow must make the day difficult. They fail to see how the world has moved on. They fail to grasp how it’s been dealt with.  They grasp at anything to cling to, to state, to say; but: what’s left to say? There is no point to it at all. It’s sickening, this adamant obsession everyone has over the death. They drag it up with canting necrophilia, and turn their obsession to external parties—mainly the immediately affected—who in turn endure the pontificating ponders for they now have to be: ‘empathetic,’ ‘sympathetic,’ or ‘understanding,’ to those who routinely seek to bring up the topic continually. When in reality these cooing, cawing, creatures need to be told with unequivocal force: “Fuck Off.”  

Death is ever present in Hang Kang’s “The White Book.” It fogs up the pages, where the words remain economical and scant, surrounded by the swelling whiteness of the remaining page. What is absent is the distress, the impertinent, the emotional upwelling and outrage of others, who have become lost in the indignant waves of reds and blues. In its place remains the settled contemplative stillness of a survivor contemplating the absence of their predecessor. In this case: Han Kang reflects on her older sister, who died two hours after her premature birth. The death of her old sister appears to have hung over her family in relation to her parents, and her brother. However, rather than being a veil of mourning, or a gossamer curtain of alienation, the death of their sister became a candle that warmed the home, which ensured that the parents cherished and loved their children. Their births, their survival and subsequent lives, ensured they would be loved and appreciated. They were not replacements, but miraculous blessings. In this event, Han Kang does not approach the subject of her sister’s premature death with resentment. Nor does she review it with ghoulish and morbid curiosity. Instead Han Kang seeks to reflect, contemplate, and envision the life of her sister, while paying her due respect and thanks. As Kang put its best in “The White Book,”:

“This life needed only one of us to live it. If you had lived beyond those first few hours, I would not be living now. My life means yours is impossible.”

Hang Kang reflects and records her recollection of death with exquisite dignity. Her style is understated and light. Throughout the book, there is never an inclination of falling to pieces, or dissolving into a puddle of tears. Han Kang retains the stalwart dignity of not only herself, but of the fleeting memory of her sister, and the pain endured by her parents. The quietness of “The White Book,” provides it the strength and weight that make it a affecting read. The book itself has been called a novel, despite Han Kang eschewing the other basic principles of format. It carries the depth of poetry, the honesty of an essay, while encompassing the imaginative powers of the novel, but defies literary classification. “The White Book,” though a personal narrative with, is a powerful testament in Han Kang’s growing literary oeuvre, and rising global recognition. “The White Book,” builds off of already established themes found in Han Kang’s work, such as: pain; the present as a healing reflex to the pain of the past; and the power of the living to atone and save the dead (at least their memory).

Despite the personal and autobiographical nature of the novel, Han Kang is able to adjust the lens to include a more panoramic reach that encompasses more global and historical moments, in metaphorical relation to the personal and quiet. It is in Warsaw on a writers retreat that Han Kang begins the process of recounting the reflections of her premature older sister. There she composes a list of white objects, which begins the novel. These objects range from salt, to swaddling bands, to the moon, to rice, to snow. In their unadulterated whiteness they remain pure, clean, and uninfected by the filth of life, the trials of survival, and the exhaustion of enduring. It there that Han Kang attempts to collect these white objects in order to provide them to her older sister, whose life was only narrated by the tragic circumstances of her birth, and the repeated narrative of the short hours of her life:

“For God’s sake please don’t die.”

Warsaw in winter becomes the grounds in which Han Kang decides to recount the narrative of her premature older sister. In “The White Book,” Han Kang comments on the ephemeral illusion of Warsaw, how no part of it is older than seventy years, thanks to the bombing blitz of the Second World War reduced the city to rubble. It is in these ruins now frosted with snow that Han Kang begins to recount as well as confront the reality of her sister’s death. The destruction of Warsaw and its ability to be rebuilt provided Han Kang with the necessary motivation to recount an otherwise private matter. The discussion turned to Warsaw’s tenacity and endurance allows the narrative to maintain an introspective tone, while branching out into interconnected relations. The idea of the sister also takes from and changes in itself. She is imagined and envisioned visiting Warsaw in Han Kang’s stead. She morphs into a flame for another, a candle for all those lost and the improperly mourned at home (a reference the Gwangju massacre). Despite the imaginings, and the attempts at creating an idea of what could have been, she remains absent. She remains dead. This gossamer absence and loss, becomes a member of the family itself; without her, neither Han nor her sibling would be present. Their survival slowly becomes their own burden, as if the transaction between the deaths prior was the only shot they had at life. Despite this internal sense of guilt, Han Kang never mentioned (be it in the book or in interviews) that her parents ever treated her or brother any different.

“The White Book,” is a slim book which defies rudimentary literary classification. The book itself deals with the concept of death and the pains of life, through the personal reflections, second hand memories, envisioning’s, and imaginings of Han Kang on the death of her premature older sister. Han Kang remains reticently impassioned on these topics. She never throws herself into a fit of histrionics. “The White Book,” is a personal and strange piece of work. If a reader is searching for a story or plot they won’t find it here. On the contrary if someone searches out “The White Book,” as a as a manual of proper steps in grieving, they will once again be left disappointed. “The White Book,” is a literary work of poetic poignancy, carring the honesty of the essay, and the imaginings of the novel. It blends these forms seamlessly, with little to no interruption. The economical force, in which the work was written surrounded by the vast fog of the remaining white page, becomes a showcase of how Han Kang sought to respect the absence, while breathing life into the memory of the individual, despite the minute amount of time they spent on the world. The style and delicacy of Han Kang’s work is greatest achievement. Han Kang masterfully writes without emotional exasperation. “The White Book,” is a careful meditation free from the melodramatics. It pays careful respect to the parties involved; while imaging a non-linear time frame in which by happenstance the two can meet. After a recent death in the previous spring, it is refreshing to see someone handle the inevitable with grace and ease. The reticent regality in which Han Kang writes is a refresher, in comparison to senseless wailing distraught spectacle witnessed during this past spring, and the irritating slow burn of the continual ghoulish necrophilia obsession of others, whose fixation on the death continue to coo. Han Kang is not obsessive over the notion of the death of her sister. Yet her short two hour life is celebrated, which affirms the life of Han Kang and her brother, and thickens the familiar bonds within the family.

If one were to part with a pearl of wisdom when it comes to life, here it is: no one comes out alive. Death is inevitable. It is the only certainty. Now stop the howling, wailing, and cooing about the needless fact. Death is not sad. It is the end. It is not a difficult fact to comprehend. Furthermore death should not be seen or deemed a sad affair. It is what it is—regardless of the form taken. Death is never difficult to manage or to deal with. It is other people. People who fail to understand the idea of mortality. The mortal coil tightens, and in the end we all suffocate at some point. Despite this, death ensures life is worth the effort. It gives life its purpose, its meaning. The threat or the shadow hanging over the actions ensures proper care is administered in attempting to manage this mess called life.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Göran Malmqvist, Dies Aged 95

Hello Gentle Reader

Over a week ago it was announced and come to everyone’s attention that the Swedish Academy’s member, literary historian, translator, and resident sinologist Göran Malmqvist had died at the age of 95. In comparison to the surprised and unfortunate death of Sara Danius, former member and former Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy; the reaction surrounding Göran Malmqvist’s passing was quiet. Notices of course were delivered, obituaries published, and the Swedish Academy made a statement in itself regarding the academics passing. The death of Göran Malmqvist is of course a monumental blow to the Swedish Academy, especially if the academy’s renewed goal is to take a more ‘global perspective,’ with regards to the Nobel Prize for Literature, as Malmqvist was an essential in-house bridge between the Swedish Academy and Chinese language and literature. Of course this niche position did have its fair share of controversies; as in the case of Mo Yan’s Nobel. Regardless, the vacancy of Chair No. 5, due to Göran Malmqvist will mean the Swedish Academy will not be at full capacity by next year—unless they find a suitable replacement before December 20^th. Even then though, the incumbent who takes the seat of Chair No. 5 will have a lengthy shadow in which to settle into, and hopefully grow out of. Göran Malmqvist will be a difficult act to follow, his position as the resident sinologist and leading expert on Chinese literature and language, will impair the Swedish Academy, as they will be forced to see external expertise with no political biases or motivations. Beyond his career and renown in the Swedish Academy, Göran Malmqvist was an accomplished academic who taught Chinese language and literature all over the world, including University of London, Australian National University in Canberra, and of course Stockholm University, where the academic was able to create a field of study attuned to his interests: Contemporary Chinese Language and Literature. It is in this time that Malmqvist begun to translate works of contemporary Chinese writers into Swedish. Looking beyond his academic career, Göran Malmqvist was a diplomat in China, serving as a cultural commissioner. China had often praised as being a bridge between China and the rest of the world.

Thank-you CY for informing me of Göran Malmqvist death; I do apologize for the delay it has taken me to comment on it.

Rest in Peace Göran Malmqvist

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary