– XLIII –

When you realize you do not exist in the narrative itself, but the white edges and margins of the story, you’re free to construct your own.

Jacques Poulin Dies Aged 87

Hello Gentle Reader,

The passing of some writers is quietly observed and yet still devastating when learned. The Quebecois writer, Jacques Poulin is one such writer who recently died at the age of 87 years old, and was a quiet giant of Quebec literature. If the late Marie-Claire Blais was a raucous hurricane writer who was a shock to the system, rattling the cage of the then socially puritan society ; Jacques Poulin was the shadow pawed cat, discreet and deliberate. Poulin’s novels were always renowned for their effervescent qualities. Not necessarily bucolic or gregarious, no, they are far too subtle for exaggerated or expressive showmanship. There is, however, a gentleness to the work, a discreet bubbling which only becomes more perceptive as the novel continues on. Still, Jacques Poulin’s novels remain mercurial, concealing their insight and their depths. In moments they are impressionistic watercolours, where delineation is masterly avoided and the subject is equally lost within the landscape, the overlap and the haze. A friend once described Poulin’s novels as meditative but never lingering, Poulin’s prose is far to lithe to be moored in the details and is vigilantly devoted to gracefully skipping forward. In the novel, “Mister Blue,” Poulin praised Ernest Hemingway and Poulin’s style mirrors that of the machismo modernist, with an appreciation for simple and transparent language. Unlike Hemingway, Jacques Poulin’s prose never comes across as punchy. Rather its more streamlined and stealth oriented, like a cat turned to liquid shadow under the cover of night and in the moonlight stalking and spying the world anew, before scurrying off. “Mister Blue,” is perhaps in someway, the typical Poulin novel exploring such eternal themes such as a love of books and storytelling, the various textures of solitude, the power of imagination, the shadow of fear, and the human capacity for love and compassion. “Mister Blue,” is perfectly described as “[. . .] a ballet of the impossible,” delivered in prose reminiscent of a late August afternoon, when the sun comes to rest and the day melts into honeyed light. Its fleeting, but in this liminal space, there for the briefest of moments contentment always balancing on the brink of disappointment or heartbreak. This style was powerfully employed in the parabolic novel, “Spring Tides,” which is set up with a premise reminiscent of a comic play, with its cast of eccentric archetypal characters on an uninhabited second Eden like island, but as the novel progresses, the shore erodes further and further, and a tide of emptiness rises ever forward, by the time readers have caught on to Poulin’s sleight of hand,  it’s too late paradise is indeed lost once more. In “Autumn Rounds,” Jacques Poulin celebrates a mature and late life love affair, the book community, and the Quebec landscape, specifically that surrounding the St. Lawrence. “Autumn Rounds,” is a pure delight for all of its Poulian details: the bookmobile fashioned from an old milk truck which attracts cats, an appreciation of a classical sense of feminine beauty; but the bittersweet stitching of melancholy, a shadow of doubt, the acknowledgement of mortality, the passage of time, and the onslaught of age. “Wild Cat,” continues to explore the complexity and spontaneity in which human relationships are formed and beholden, while delighting in the various forms love takes, it’s a warm and empathetic novel of fabulist enchantments and qualities. This is what readers have always loved about Jacques Poulin: the deceptive simplicity, the lightness of touch, and a profound depth that is explored with wisdom of a cat, purring and contend, while also knowing. Jacques Poulin’s masterpiece is the road novel, “Volkswagen Blues,” where a man searches for his brother taking him throughout North America, Detroit, Chicago, into St. Louis and onto the Oregon Trail, and into California. At once an existential road novel, “Volkswagen Blues,” draws parallels between the personal journey and that of the history of the French peoples movement through North America.

Jacques Poulin was and is a classical Quebecois writer. A real gem. Poulin’s death on August 21 is reverberated quietly, but poignantly throughout Quebec. Learning of Poulin's passing has been sad, but means I cherish his work even more, for their warmth, their generosity in spirit, their delightful ability to capture with a lightness of touch both the nuances of everyday life, but also their ability to shade them with just enough magic to warrant a new sense of appreciation. My copy of "Mister Blue," from the exquisite Archipelago Books, sits pride of place on my bookcase, showcasing the muted yellow cover page colour and the enigmatic cat who looks down in pondering contemplation. 

Rest in Peace, Jacques Poulin. You are an absolute treasure.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

Horse Trading & Other Considerations of Taste

Hello Gentle Reader,

Recently, two of Japan’s prestigious literary awards: The Akutagawa Prize and the The Naoki Prize, announced that there would be no winner for either award this round (they’re awarded semi-annually), as no book met the judge’s expectations. This is not unusual for either prize, as both routinely opt out of awarding a book during one or both of the times during the year. Critics, however, say this is a stunt employed to inflate the ‘importance,’ of the awards value on the literary scene and economy. Regardless, literary awards are the bread and butter – but also bane – for many writers and publishers. The decision, whether to reserve or withhold deciding a winner is an interesting perspective. Especially, considering many of the ‘big,’ English language awards (Booker Prize, Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award) would sooner award a mediocre book, rather than skip the year entirely. Now, in the case of the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, they have declined to choose a winner. The last time was in 2012, where David Foster Wallace, Karen Russell, Denis Johnson were shortlisted, but none of them could obtain a majority vote. In 1977 the Pulitzer Prize was also not awarded even though the jury recommended, “A River Runs Through It,” by Norman Maclean, but the prizes board rejected the recommendation. As I am not familiar with the structure of the Pulitzer Prize, I cannot comment on what authority the board has, and what responsibility and agency the jury has when deliberating the prize and who has the final say. When it comes to the Booker Prize however, the prize has never skipped a year or the judges coming to the conclusion that through discussion, debate, and compromise they could not come to an agreement on which novel should receive the Booker Prize. No, rather the Booker Prize is a literary award with much flare with a larger production of drama surrounding it. The Booker Prize is never short of a spectacle to raise eyebrows or induce some criticism.

Criticism of the Booker Prize is as much a sport, as is speculating and betting on who wins the prize. As a literary award, the Booker Prize is never short of controversy. In 1994 the Scottish writer, James Kelman’s novel “How Late It Was, How Late,” won the award. What followed however, was a lively debate over what constitutes ‘literary language,’ in what is commonly known as “The Battle of Fuck.” Kelman’s novel, is renowned for its unapologetic and uncompromising grit. “How Late It Was, How Late,” employes the stream of consciousness style to trace the thoughts of one down on his luck working-class ex-convict Sammy Samuels, whose rambling thoughts are captured in his working-class vernacular. The language is raw and unfiltered; critics took issue with the novel’s liberal deployment of the term fuck, which was reported to have been repeated no fewer then 4, 000 times, which is ten times per page (minimum). Yet the novel won the Booker Prize and by some admission, Kelman continued a good fight to rattle an insular institution. Rather than showing up in the uniformed dinner jacket, Kelman came in a regular suit. Despite the surprise that James Kelman’s anarchistic novel won the award, Kelman was no less apologetic for its shocking nature. In his speech to give thanks, James Kelman struck back at his critics, using prescient political language to declare his literary career and winning novel as an act of self-determination, shirking off imperial attitudes and repeated attempts at forced assimilation – in short Scottish is not English. While at the time, this language would have induced a few eye rolls and perhaps caused a few to seethe and stew in their own rage – it would now only induce some frantic cheers by the young multicoloured hair and pierced quixotic youth of today, who are transfixed by the romantic pageantry of revolution and ideals. Though, it was on point for James Kelman, whose fierce and unadulterated Scottish pride paved the way for other Scottish writers to write about the rough realities they observed, such as, Irvine Welsh and Douglas Stuart. Regardless, “How Late It Was, How Late,” certainly goes down as one of the more controversial awards. One of the judges, rabbi Julia Neuberger even broke rank with her fellow judges and is on record having described the novel as being not only inaccessible, but also “crap,” and decried the win as a “disgrace,” for the prize. A newspaper editor, Simon Jenkins, went farther in his condemnation of the novel, declaring it “literary vandalism.”

Even, before the winner was announced, there’s was an exchange of literary fire between the years Booker Chair John Bayley, who in one opinion piece described contemporary fiction as being “at best, ambitious and, at worst, pretentious.” This saw, one former Booker Prize judge, Victoria Glendinning, to propose that perhaps John Bayley was perhaps too old to judge the prize. The esteemed literary critic, James Wood, described being a judge as experiencing the “absurdity of the process,” where the entire judging panel is built on horse trading, rather than conversations, where all arguments are laid out and reviewed, opinions are weighed, and a verdict is achieved through deliberations free from personal preference or impassioned allegiances. The experience led James Wood to vow to never join another literary prize committee again; but Woods participation in judging the prize exemplified the shortcomings of literary awards and literary criticism of being barometers of literary taste. Regardless the 1994 Booker Prize is a great example of the prize’s penchant for theatrical productions, as throughout the autumn, the Booker Prize Chair and fellow judges engaged in battling articles with critics. Further insult was induced when the shortlist was described as boring, which is ironic considering how controversial the winner was. Fellow shortlisted writers included Abdulrazak Gurnah whose novel, “Paradise,” was considered the outsider; while Alan Hollinghurst’s “The Folding Star,” was for the longest time the polite frontrunner and was the critic’s favourite. Jill Paton Walsh is the overlooked contender with her philosophical fabulist novel, “Knowledge of Angels,” which became the first self-published novel to be shortlisted for the prize, after all major English publishers refused the novel.

There is an irony in the notion that back in 1994, Alan Hollinghurst was first considered the polite frontrunner. When ten years later in 2004, the entire press went mad when Hollinghurst’s novel, “The Line of Beauty,” won, as the media fixated on the perceived and exaggerated gayness of the novel. The headlines unapologetically ran: “Booker Won By Gay Sex,” and “Gay Book Wins.” Suddenly the literary world was shocked by the admission that a novel whose foundations were from the gay perspective and experiences of the world, would receive the award. You’d almost expect them to go on national television at the time and proclaim: “The Booker’s gone too far this time, acknowledging some buggery book!” Though, framing, “The Line of Beauty,” as a gay novel did it a great disservice, as Alan Hollinghurst has proven in all of his books that homosexuality is a component of the novel, but it is not the entire purpose or even main focal point. It’s merely a fact of nature, a piece of the landscape at times; no different if the curtains were green, and the wallpaper red. Furthermore, Hollinghurst has proven himself as a serious writer and not a one trick pony. His novels from “The Swimming-Pool Library,” to the “Line of Beauty,” and “The Strangers Child,” cover a variety of themes and provide commentary on history, the nature of class, politics, privilege and culture. Alan Hollinghurst’s real talent with, “The Line of Beauty,” is his ability to play three chords and harmonize them: the gay coming of age; the Jamesian psychological portrait and social comedy of manners; and a treatise concerning the conditions of Thatcher England. 

In 1991, the Booker Prize was blasted with accusations of sexism, when the shortlist did not contain a single woman writer and spawned the creation of the many incarnated Women’s Prize for Fiction (previously known as Orange Prize for Fiction, Orange Broadband Prize for Fiction, and Bailey’s Women Prize for Fiction) which is unapologetic in its sexist criteria of only accepting nominations for women and awarding women writers. Despite the controversy of having no women writer on the shortlist, the 1991 Booker Prize was awarded to, “The Famine Road,” by Ben Okri, who then at 32 years old was the youngest winner of the prize. Okri, later lost this distinction in 2013 when Eleanor Catton at the age of 28 won the award with her novel, “The Luminaries,” which is also the longest novel to receive the award so far.

1980 was another year for contest, rivalry and a testament to literary vanities. Anthony Burgess, famously refused to attend the awarding ceremony unless he was tipped off that his novel, “Earthly Powers,” was to win the prize. While, “Earthly Powers,” was critically acclaimed as being a satirical ‘blockbuster,’ novel, tackling the complexities and rapid changes of the 20^th century as it wrestled with a variety of themes and historical points in its 82 chapters. The novel lost out to William Golding’s 19^th century naval novel, “Rites of Passage,” which in typical Golding fashion traced the devolution of man as they revert to their most bestial notions and appetites, embracing the shadow of the human nature and relishing in the primeval nature. The judges famously only made their decision 30 minutes before the announcement was made. Additionally, 1980 also introduced a rare exception into the prize’s history, as the Booker Prize is only awarded to novels, but in 1980, Alice Munro’s short story collection turned cycle, “The Beggar Maid,” (“Who Do You Think You Are?”) was considered a novel presenting itself as series of interconnected short stories, which operated in unison and independently, and as such qualified to be evaluated as a novel. 1983 was no better the for its inflated drama of literary egos battling it out, this time between Salman Rushdie with his novel “Shame,” and J.M. Coetzee with his novel, “Life & Times of Michael K,” which saw the chair of the judges, Fay Weldon forced to be the tie breaker. Her speech was less a celebration of the high caliber fiction included on the years shortlist, and instead a scathing critique of the publish industries treatment of their authors. What should have been a night of congratulations, celebrations, and glasses raised in toasts, turned into one filled with tantrums, tiffs, and an assault. The prize that year was packed with then literary star power in both its judging panel and shortlisted writers. Yet when it came down to the crunch, Fay Weldon did not hold back, her critique of publishers was scathing and has become legendary for being one of the finest ‘Booker Bombshells,’ of the prize’s gradual maturation period. No cog in the publishing industry was spared by Weldon, as she walked through their ranks dolling out the strap with punitive pleasure:

“the writer dislikes the rise of the editor’, who ‘smooths over all inconsistencies and all eccentricity, and produces a bland finished product, unexceptional and perfectly controlled and no wonder Britain has the lowest percentage of novel buyers per head of population in Europe.”

I particularly enjoyed Weldon’s description of working in the publishing industry as nothing short of “dignified poverty.” To make it even more dramatic, Fay Weldon’s speech was cut off due to trade-union action, and Weldon was unable to deliver pacifying remarks to follow up such firebrand fury. As the story goes, in a fit of rage one publishing representative rose from his seat, marched over to Weldon’s agent and punched him. It is alleged that Weldon was barred form attending the gala in future.

The 1984 Booker Prize, proved that the prize was not above challenging expectations, as J.G. Ballard’s novel, “Empire of the Sun,” was considered the front runner for the prize, but lost out to Anita Brookner’s novel, “Hotel du Lac.” In a tribute piece remembering Anita Brookner, Julian Barnes – who was also shortlisted in 1984 with, “Flaubert’s Parrot,” – recalled a scene of prevailing dismissiveness aimed towards Brookner's winning novel, particularly when Malcom Bradbury came up to Barnes, slung his arm over his shoulder and conceitedly proclaimed: “I don’t think you should have won. But I don’t think you should have lost to that book.” Naturally the press followed suit. They were delighted to peck, pick, and pull the straw out of the matter, routinely undercutting Anita Brookner by styling her, “Modest Anita.” Barnes reflects how the press and critics neglected Brookner’s distinguished academic career as an art historian, who took up writing as a successful second career. Instead, the media portrayed Brookner as one of her characters, an alienated, disappointed, middle-aged, lonely spinster who wrote novels as some luxury in order to pass the time. They severely underestimated Brookner’s intellectual prowess and character. For years afterwards, readers mistakenly viewed and at times avoided Anita Brookner, viewing her as a literary anti-romance novelist, whose work is nothing more than lavender scented prissy middlebrow fiction, all ladylike and good mannered. What the critics failed to capture or highlight was Anita Brookner’s unwavering dedication to capturing and pathologizing the overlooked themes of alienation, aging, loneliness, the disappointments of life, and the failings of the heart. Brookner’s prose is sharp, biting, witty and ironic, capturing fully, the Darwinistic truth: the hare always beats the tortoise; anything but, is sentimental.

The Booker Prize is rarely shared, having been shared on only three occasions. First in its infancy in 1974, when the prize was shared between Nadine Gordimer and Stanley Middleton for their novels, “The Conservationist,” and “Holiday.” The real controversy though was one of the judges, Elizabeth Jane Howard was instrumental in getting her then husband, Kingsley Amis’s novel, “Ending Up,” onto the shortlist. When accused of unethical conduct, Howard only responded daftly it was, “easily Kingsley’s best book.” The shared prize inevitably turned the attention away from the controversy of the loyal wife advocating for her husband. In 1992, the Booker Prize was once again split, this time between Michael Ondaatje’s novel, “The English Patient,” and Barry Unsworth’s novel, “Sacred Hunger.” Not to be insulting to Unsworth, but Ondaatje often eclipses the award, with many left baffled when they are reminded that the award was split. This time though, the Booker had enough, it was declared from that point on, no Booker Prize could be shared, only one book could be awarded. The decision to split the award by the Chair Victoria Glendinning, was a compromise that appeased no one and was considered nothing short of a piss poor cop out. In 2018, “The English Patient,” was vindicated singularly when it won the Golden Man Booker. As for Barry Unsworth he was a good sport and understatedly remarked: “My book would still be here if I hadn’t won, it would still be as good – or as bad.”

Then, 27 years later, the 2019 Booker Prize would once again be shared, even after the Booker Prize Foundation toothlessly put their foot down, reminding the judges only one book is eligible to win. Regardless, the Chair of the judges Peter Florence, announced the judges could only agree on one thing and that was to split the award between Margaret Atwood and Bernadine Evaristo for their novels, “The Testaments,” and “Girl, Woman, Other.” Both writers rose above the fuss and hoopla; while Atwood (who is in elite group of being a double winner) gave deference to the situation, allocating as much space as she could to Evaristo, who was honest in admitting it would have been ideal to receive the award solely. At the threshold of a burgeoning rabid identity politically motivated movement, the question of a missed opportunity for the Booker to seize the moment and capitalize on giving the prize to the first black woman writer, since the awards creation in 1969, became a lightning rod for racially and sexist motivated criticism. The judges attempt to honour both books within their cultural contexts, inevitably patronized one or both writers, and besmirched the Booker Prizes reputation. Meanwhile Lucy Ellman’s novel “Ducks Newburyport,” gained incredible traction, but it when was short changed over the split decision, its small publisher did not hold back their condemnation of the judge’s insulting decision.

In 2011 the Booker Prize judges chaired by Stella Rimington, were unapologetic in their interest to reading books which ‘zipped,’ along and appreciated readability. Unsurprisingly the literary class took offense. How dare the Booker Prize judges solicit beach reads and cheap thrills, rather than curate serious brooding works of literary achievement. Naturally, Rimington took offense the critics taking offense to the judge’s valuing readability, going so far to compare the publishing industry to the KGB, with their tactics to influence the prize. Julian Barnes, then on his fourth nomination was at last successful with the novel, “The Sense of an Ending,” which was considered the only true literary work on the shortlist, and even then, “The Sense of an Ending,” was plagued by accusations of being middling and average at best, and as such was the only decent title on a shortlist which left plenty to be desired. Perhaps Julian Barnes had a point, when he described the Booker Prize as nothing more then “posh bingo.”

Now keeping with the understanding that the Booker Prize is a literary award on one hand, and a theatre production on the other hand, which can rival reality television with the egos vying for space; for those who enjoy watching filmed literary happenings, the Booker Prize has videos of the prize ceremonies through the years uploaded on their YouTube channel. Curious viewers will inevitably find the Booker Prize videos capture the aforementioned full-blown egos on display. While an assembled panel of three experts (in the loosest definition of the word) are also brought in to share their grandiloquent opinions on the shortlisted titles. Fair warning: these individuals have a strong inflated sense of self-importance regarding their own opinions, whereby they delight in finding fault and issue with every book. For example, in the 1993 prize video, the assembled panel consisting of Germaine Greer, Tom Paulin, and Victoria Glendinning, were practically frothing at the mouth once given the opportunity to disavow and disembowel, “The Stone Diaries,” by Carol Shields. Where previously, in the introduction segment of the video many authors and literary honchos, gave their assessment of the years shortlist and who they were backing. Running up to the ceremony, “The Stone Diaries,” was considered the front runner and favourite. Margaret Drabble was unapologetic in her preference and favour of the novel; while Blake Morrison, the then literary editor of The Independent on Sunday was cautiously optimistic about the novel’s chances of winning. For the record A.S. Byatt backed David Malouf’s novel, “Remembering Babylon,” because she liked the novel and praised Malouf, and perhaps slightly because there would be no way in hell she’d be in agreeance with her sister; while Sir Stephen Spender put his weight behind Carol Shields as well. Regardless and despite this support, there was no way in hell as far as the panelist saw it for “The Stone Diaries,” to be considered seriously, and with skeet shooting enthusiasm, they found nothing but fault with the novel, describing it as quotidian and failing to capture the ‘supposed,’ milestones of an individual’s life – specifically from the supposed perspective of a woman, be it sex or childbirth in particular – and instead fixating on the trivial details of no consequence, such as gardening. Though of course, in typical Booker Prize fashion, the shortlist was already panned by critics prior, due to the exclusion of Vikram Seth’s novel, “A Suitable Boy.” Though in the judge’s defense, “A Suitable Boy,” is a mammoth novel at over a thousand pages long. The 1993 Booker Prize in the end was won by this years Chair of the judges, Roddy Doyle with his novel, “Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha.” While Carol Shields and “The Stone Diaries,” would later win the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1995.

It can be argued until everyone is blue in the face and unconscious on the floor, but the decision to open the Booker Prize up to writers outside of the United Kingdom, Commonwealth, Ireland, India, and Zimbabwe, and allow the United States of America (American) writers to be eligible for the prize, has homogenized the award into one mediocre middlebrow literary prize of milquetoast tastes. This decision in 2013 evidently meant the Booker Prize would be watered down, with the flood gates open to American authors to dominate the nominations, drowning out the unique voices which could at times be found within the Booker Prize. While 2012 remains (by my own memory) one of the strongest shortlists in recent memory, and while it was expected by some unwritten convention that Hilary Mantel would win the prize for a second time with her novel, “Bringing Up the Bodies,” the follow up to her previous Booker winning novel, “Wolf Hall.” The shortlist highlighted remarkably talented writers: the dark horse Deborah Levy and her novel, “Swimming Home,”; the brilliant debut novel “The Lighthouse,” by Alision Moore; Will Self’s modernist tribute novel, “Umbrella,”; and Tan Twang Eng returned with another gentle and penetrating novel of historical fiction, “The Garden of the Evening Mists.” Building off Hilary Mantel’s second win; only four writers have received the Booker Prize twice: J.M. Coetzee, Peter Carey, Hilary Mantel, and Margaret Atwood. The Booker Prize is routinely criticized for ignoring emerging talent, while continuing to award and shortlist the same old previously established writers. For example, Kazuo Ishiguro has been nominated five times, making it to the shortlist four times, and winning once; whereas Salman Rushdie has been nominated seven times and winning once. Beryl Bainbridge, often referred to as the perennial Booker Bridesmaid was nominated a total of six times. Unlike Margaret Atwood, Ian MacEwan, J.M. Coetzee and Iris Murdoch, Beryl Bainbridge never received the Booker Prize; however, after her death in 2010, the Booker Prize organized the “Best of Beryl Prize,” whereby the public could vote on her previously nominated novels “The Dressmaker,” “The Bottle Factory Outing,” “An Awfully Big Adventure,” “Everyman for Himself,” and “Master Georgie,” with “Master Georgie,” declared the winner.

Even after opening the prize up to the American contingent, the Booker Prize has continued to generate its own storm of publicity, by inciting controversy, soliciting criticism, and encouraging rebuttals to the criticism. The Booker Prize spares no blushes, and openly parades the venomous vanities of its publishers, its judges, and its nominated writers for the public to view. A literary side show for your entertainment. At its best, it’s been a literary mud wrestling match, with dueling opinion pieces, articles and op-eds fired back and forth. At worst, it’s an onanistic exercise, whereby the haughty, arrogant, and insufferable literary blowhards are provided a platform to engage in unadulterated self-gratification, displaying how well read they are; why the nominated books are terrible; while lamenting the state of novel within society – you know the usual. At the end of the day, the Booker Prize is a horse trade, the judges barter with their chips of who they want to win and eventually, the strongest personality dominates and their book goes through. The results are generally a mixed bag, with the prevailing theme for years now being subpar at best. While this year’s longlist has some exceptional writers listed, I am cautiously optimistic about the prospect of Jonathan Buckley moving forward on to the shortlist. While Sarah Jessica Parker, has been accused of being in an alleged conflict of interest, as her production company is in the process of developing a film based on the novel, “Golden Child,” by Claire Adam, who happens to be one of the longlisted writers. In typical Booker Prize fashion this adds to the drama, the spectacle of the prize. Oh yes, how the Booker Prize loves a good literary bruhaha. It enjoys the battle; the poisoned pens; the insults and bruised egos. It feeds the prizes sense of relevance, while adding to the entertainment value. A former Booker Prize judge, AL Kennedy has described the prize as nothing short of “nonsense,” and is determined not on a matter of who wrote the best book, but rather:

“who knows who, who's sleeping with who, who's selling drugs to who, who's married to who, whose turn it is.”

Now, it should be clarified, what sparked and urged this retrospective review, was what I thought was the dismissive and unfair treatment of Anita Brooker, who has continually been miscategorized as a ‘woman’s writer,’ which brings to mind all those sensitive trimmings, the sensible and usual plot points, all done up in neatly mannerly manicured prim and proper prose. For years, it was the critics tradition to take their cheap shots at Bookner as much as they could, describing her work as sexless, loveless, and worst of all, characterless. Anita Brookner was viewed as the antithesis to Philip Roth – the disappointed loveless spinster versus the self-indulgent horny perennial bachelor. True, “Hotel de Lac,” was not a spectacular bombastic harrowing octane adventure of wartime resilience and survival like J.G. Ballard’s, “Empire of the Sun,”; but its dismissal as being a grade above twee seemed to be more an admission of the critic’s failings to see beyond the end of their own nose, completely overlooking Brookner’s themes of missed opportunities, disappointing lives, failed romances, the emptiness of solitary homes, and the resignation to one’s fate; all the while bypassing her intense psychological portraits. Anita Brookner’s themes have in many ways become prevalent and topical of today, as people continue to fret about the impending “loneliness epidemic,” unfolding now. In that manner, sometimes the Booker Prize gets it right, it’s just a pity that throughout her writing career, Anita Brookner endured – I imagine with disinterest or without any care – critics continually going on about, yet another solitary spinster in need of a cat; while readers turned their noses up at a writer of serious social concerns, because they mistook her as a writer of anti-romance novels, whose pages would smell of stale lavender. A forthcoming biography of Brookner written by Hermonie Lee is now apparently in the works; it’ll be interesting to see what the renowned biographer can discern by a writer who was equally legendary in maintaining her privacy, while being an accomplished purveyor of the veracity, without being moralistic or didactic. As for the Booker Prize, we’ll see who enters the shortlist on September 23, with the announcement taking place (for the first time) at a public event. Regardless, one can’t help but wonder if one year, the Booker Prize judges reviewed the nominated list and declared without even an iota of irony: its all shit, and as such there will be no prize this year. Now there would be a bombshell for the Booker Prize history books; of course the likeliness of that happening are slim, as in the year 1992, the Booker Prize Foundation decided that a winner must be decided and it can only be one; but as they did in 2019, maybe on year the judges really would just pull the rug out for a spectacular fuck you, complete with front row tickets to the meltdown that would follow.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

Amitav Ghosh, Named the Future Library Project Writer for 2025

Hello Gentle Reader,

Amitav Ghosh joins a list of writers who will be contributing to the Future Library Project. Previous contributors include, Margaret Atwood, David Mitchell, Han Kang, Sjon, Karl Ove Knausgård, and Judith Schalansky.

Last years contributor, Tommy Orange has yet to handover his manuscript to the Future Library, due to personal and family health problems, but will reconvene the project administration to hand over the manuscript at as of yet undisclosed date.

In the terms of Amitav Ghosh is a writer renowned for being concerned with the ‘big,’ themes of literature, be it the sustained continual echoes of history and their ever-prevalent influence on the modern condition; tracing the trajectory of migration through history in reflection of the rise and fall of empires; the emerging and paramount climate catastrophe looming over horizon. Amitav Ghosh is never a writer for the quiet or small-scale drama, his works celebrate the epicist scale unapologetically. The Future Library Project’s founder Katie Paterson praised Ghosh’s literary tapestry, for having “[. . .] a rare ability to weave the intimate with the planetary, the visible with the invisible, Ghosh gives voice to the forces – human and more-than-human – that shape our shared future.”

Amitav Ghosh will submit his manuscript in either May or June of next year, where the title of his future literary work (be it prose or poetry) will be revealed, all other details will be kept under wraps, until the work is finally published decades from now, into the future.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

I Never Dared Hope for You

Hello Gentle Reader,

It’s the small ceremonies – the little rituals – they’ve all been abandoned. True change is inevitable, but that doesn’t mean its always warranted. Some virtues needed to hit the rubbish pile. They were cruel. Generosity and kindness never need to be concealed in barbwire. The old excuse, the firmly held belief: ‘cruel to be kind,’ overpromised the benefits, if there were any. Still, it was routinely prescribed and administered without protest. There are others, however, cast out all the same. For no apparent reason. Out of fashion they say. Out of step with the times. What are the times though now? Now days everyone zips along. They zig and zag without fail, stop, or break. Hurried whirlwinds they rush through. It’s difficult to imagine if the day passes them by or if they overtake the day. Time is finite, true, but still their itineraries never cease. Today everyone seems to live and work towards a series of metrics which measures and track the trajectory of their life. Can’t imagine what for. Life inevitably ends at one destination. How you get there and what kind of life you lead before hand, now there’s the testament to a life lived and time spent. Though, there is merit in the perspective, if you have no idea where you’re going or no destination in mind, you’ll never get there; however, it’s difficult to cede that packing one’s day with activities, errands, meetings, and events is any more productive. Time not wasted, does not constitute time well spent. Then there is summer. A youthful season. Tax free is how Carol Shields once described the season of sun. This summer was on course to be another punisher. A drought inducer. May didn’t bloom or blossom gradually. It ignited. Spring was immolated on the pyre, the ashes swept away. Though June and July changed their tunes. Meteorologists – who only prior cautioned that it would be another punishing scorcher – lamented, how the recent bout of wet weather had made it a ‘bummer summer.’ On such a evening, a few days ago, a thunderstorm pushed through. The wind wet with the downpour lashed at the siding. Rain washed down the windows. The marvelous tip tap of water pelting on the roof, flinging itself against the windowpane. Thunder bellowed, while lighting strobed above and through the clouds, and bolts of lightning feathered undertow. The day itself was soaked grey with on and off again showers. An evening storm capped the day off with unexpected, though brilliant force. Tea is rarely served during the summer. Who wants to bother with a warm drink when it’s a scorcher outside? But as the rain bared down and the thunder continued its arguments, a cup of tea became an apt accompaniment with an evening closed up indoors. At which point I began to wonder: whatever happened to these small ceremonies; those little rituals of no importance? When as a society did, we begin to stop eating a proper meal at a table? Enjoying a cup of coffee or tea? Not on the go or in transit, but just together in each others company, be it at home or in a café. The joys of life; the beauty of the world; come not from the continued unrelenting forced march forward, but when one excuses themselves to an otherwise nondescript corner and retires, whereby they can take in the scenery. One such writer who presents himself as being routinely unconcerned with the aggressive upwelling rush and push, is the late French writer, Christian Bobin.

Christian Bobin is that otherwise uniquely French writer. Where English language publishers are concerned with the taxonomy of what a book is. There are the top-level concerns from which everything can be atomized and specified further down. Everything is rendered and distilled to its most essential components, whereby it can be lumped together with like minded books of form or genre or preoccupation. There’s no room for back-and-forth indecisiveness. No time for this or that. Everything needs to be defined. It must have a concrete certainty of what it is. There is no room for ambiguity. Yet, a writer like Christian Bobin defies this logic. Described as a poet one moment and then essayist the next. Logically then they conclude, he is a prose poet. And yet, no. Bobin’s writing is too palpable, lacking the prose poems untethered concerns with reality, willingly detaching itself to drift away chasing a vacant thought, running its course to a vapid end, and getting lost in some fantasy. While in turn, Bobin has no concern for narrative or character. If these are essays, they certainly don’t read as such. They’re too elusive, and they do not behave or appear to operate in the way readers have inevitably introduced and oriented to the form. Bobin’s supposed essays pay no mind to the rules; the very scripture readers have been instructed to abide by. As readers first encounter the essay as students in academic or educational environments. Ah yes, academia, the lamprey. Oh, how it enjoys to suck the life and blood out of an interest. From the cabinet and the tireless arsenal of academic tools, the essay is the tried and true. Even the word itself: essay, elicits responses of annoyance, exhaustion, and exasperation. It is a medium of tedium. Rather than a vibrant literary form of its own merit. Unsurprising though. The essay, in all its forms – be it report or review or article – is thrust upon students, and like all education is followed up with red ink, criticisms, and a subpar evaluation. Despite being the least defined in form, pedagogy appropriated its malleable structure to educate and inform students of the mechanics of academic writing requirements; be it positional papers, argumentative or persuasive proofs, exercises in polemics or rhetorics. It is the form required for them to stake out their position, define their thesis, argue and defend their propositions, and conclude concisely. The essay is never introduced to students as a form of endearment; it’s a vehicle to drill, prescribe and administer. The essay is the wet stone in which students sharpen their pens. Crueller educators and teachers serve it up with a gravy of punitive inclination. Unfortunately for the essay, the form of Montaigne and many great writers – Ronald Blythe, Thomas de Quincy, George Orwell, Virgina Woolf – are left to be neglected, as the term, essay, induces an unpleasant cold sweat Pavlovian response. Thankfully, Christian Bobin’s meditative lyrical essays are not cut and dry pieces of observational and evidential text. They’re too impressionistic. In a manner similar to watercolour paintings with their mercurial appeal, they flirt with the ephemeral, the play between light and shadow, and the cross-pollination between the two. This explains why many then define Bobin as a poet, as his writings often present themselves having been transcribed by a writer who enjoys the quiet luxuries of being lost with the fairies, or just day dreaming in contemplation by some window or in a quiet corner. Perhaps this is why, the English publisher was quick to add to his titles “I Never Dared Hope for You,” and “A Little Party Dress,” the subtitle: lyric essays. This way, potential readers won’t be turned off by the thought of having to decipher and decrypt poetry, while also being spared the punishing reminder and rod of the essay of their primary and secondary education.

“I Never Dared Hope for You,” is composed of eleven lyrical essays. They wax and wane, but patient readers will be whisked away in the generous ever flowing prose of Christian Bobin’s work, which refuses to commit either poetry or essay; which is why Bobin’s writing is best captured by the French’s simple shrug as they call it le fragment, whereby it can exist on its own conditions unconcerned and unbothered with the fussiness of definition. The first piece, “A letter to the light that lingered in streets of Le Creusot, in France, on Wednesday, December 16, 1992, at around two o’clock in the afternoon,” frames itself as a letter, capturing as best as it can, the delicate fleeting light of a December afternoon. As in the case of all winter light, this one also occupies a fragile state, on the precipice of being extinguished, lost to the onslaught of an early night and darkness that only winter harbours. Bobin’s attempt to capture the afternoon light of a December day, is the genesis for a meditation on the nature of hope and the entrapment and consequence of melancholy. In another piece, “Passing Through Images,” Christian Bobin turns towards the subject of nothing. Not in some philosophical nihilistic lecture. No, its a meditation on the aimlessness, the emptiness of the day, the “vanishing presence,” of a life ensnared by its allure:

“It’s stronger than you: you have to turn down a considerable number of invitations just to preserve a thing that is best described by the word “nothing,”: doing nothing, saying nothing, almost being nothing. it’s where you discover the subtle heart of time, pumped by nothing of blood in your veins. It’s a border state that is vital to you, a thin line of nothing, by glance at the day’s sky, for example, from the bed where you lie, an active invalid doing nothing in your far niente of writing: a transparent light. A blue without density.” 

In the same meditation, Bobin reflects loosely on Peter Handke’s novel, “The Afternoon of a Writer,” which aptly describes the premise of the book, being about: the afternoon of a writer; but also, how the writer is a creature anxious and concerned that he is losing his literary abilities and his relationship with the world, as the relationship is framed within a literary context. Christian Bobin praises the novels’ contemplation; the disregard and demand for narrative, plot, story, character driven exercises, and just marvel at the exceptional nothingness of an afternoon; the minutia of everyday life, its sights, sounds, the lighting; all the backdrop of life that is disregarded as background noise, ambience, or inconsequential texture. It is there in the periphery where Christian Bobin thrives, his essays or fragments sail through, delighting in the profundity of the everyday, celebrating the pleasures of solitude, reflecting on the glorious nature of love, railing against the ubiquitousness of evil, propagated further by television and news reports.  

“I Never Dared Hope for You,” in a fashion similar to “A Little Party Dress,” proves that Christian Bobin is a tonic of a writer. A masterful writer of contemplation; with a poet’s sensibilities for design, coupled with the architectural elements of prose, Christian Bobin explores the sensations, the bewilderment, the extraordinary realities of life, and the profound beauty of the quotidian. While his work may at times be refracted through the lens of Catholicism, Bobin’s work is never verse and chapter, or static scripture. Its celebratory. Even during those bittersweet moments. Those wistful scenes; the fleeting instances where youth is now retired to memory; where hope and joy is but a flutter and flicker of light straining through the endless grey. Christian Bobin’s talent remains apparent in his ability to vacillate between poetic introspection and essayistic delivery. A truly remarkable – albeit underappreciated writer in English – it is no wonder why Bobin and his work is cherished in France. For all the rush forward and through everything, meeting milestones and checking boxes, Christian Bobin is a writer who celebrates days without an agenda or an itinerary. Days vacant, vapid, and filled with the emptiness and small ceremonies, that are required to allow an individual to wander, dream, and reacquaint themselves with the world anew.

Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary