– XLV –

Sentimentality is the lowest form of affection.

My Sister’s Blue Eyes

Hello Gentle Reader,

Any bookstore – chain or independent, used or otherwise – or library, will inform even a casual browser or bystander, that there is no shortage of a variety of writers at work or options of books. It’s an endless cornucopia of writers, each with their own trademark. Their own style or school or allegiance to group, either formally or informally formed or one forced upon them by academics or critical analysis due to association. There are writers of epicist traditions, and there are writers of quiet dispositions. There are formulaic writers. The ones who have discovered the chemical composition or mathematical computations required to spin a compelling enough yarn to entice readers. Those books fly off the shelves. They entertain as intended. Afterwards they are discarded. They can be found sprinkled through rummage and jumble sales, untouched and unwanted. While others have since been jammed in free libraries in neighbourhood’s or donated to schools or other institutions. It’s dreadful to think how many end up in landfills or recycling centres. They are cheap paperbacks, produced quickly to fly off the shelves and the distance, but not to last it. They are bubblegum reads. Cheap thrills. Tawdry romances. Nothing regarding substance. Then there are writers of serious concerns. You know, the ones who think of themselves as the real deals. Solemn and reverent. They’re writing the great American novel; or they’re expanding the possibilities of language; or they’re attempting to push the limitations of narrative via language or form; they write to explore moral conundrums and philosophical ideals, creating fictional laboratories in which to examine their hypothesis; while there are others who view true literature having a specific social responsibility, providing commentary on politics or social issues. Great writers, however, are those who can capture it all, without the added pretense and pomposity. The underrated writers, are those of a quiet disposition, who are easily overlooked. These writers are not ostentatious or exuberant in their showmanship. They merely get on with it. The Québecois writer, Jacques Poulin, was one such writer.

Reading and returning to Jacques Poulin, is akin to encountering a distant and old friend again. Picking up were you left off, even after having lost touch for years. There is a sense of comfort and familiarity in returning to a Poulin novel. It’s rather like the comfort of re-watching or rediscovering a favourite or beloved television series or film. Rather like putting on a pair of reliable sturdy old shoes or slipping into a warm coat, the ease in how you fit in keeps you there. All the while new details emerge. Overlooked tropes and delightful particulars; mere tidbits that went unnoticed the first time, can be now be appreciated within the larger context. Rather like revisited landscapes who succumb to the seasons and time, Jacques Poulin’s novels act as photographs, encapsulating and carving out the piece of time, archiving it from the corrosion of Chronos. In the works of Poulin, there will always be the warming archetypes and comforts that are leisurely spiced, kneaded, and woven throughout his novels. They can be cats. Testimonials and admiration regarding Ernest Hemingway; though Poulin is known, however, to broaden his purview in appreciation for those otherwise ‘solid,’ American writers, who are part of that uniquely American pantheon of 20^th century fiction: F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, J.D. Salinger and Raymond Carver, being his personal favourites. There are mysterious women, whose affections slip in through the narrative, they are gentle and comforting, with Poulin never lingering over anything that can be described as overtly erotic in nature. No Poulin novel would be complete without the aloof and somewhat mystical appearance of cats, be it the titular cats of “Mister Blue,” or “Wild Cat,” or the detail of cats drawn to the bookmobile in “Autumn Rounds,” because the mobile library was once a milk truck, and the cats can still sniff out the ghostly reminisce of milk. Jacques Poulin though was a celebrator of his home in Quebec, be it the Vieux-Québec or charting the primeval and wonderous St. Lawrence with all of its islands, such as the magnificent Île d'Orléans or the Les Îles-de-la-Madeleine (Magdalen Islands). Poulin ensured the landscape of Quebec always invigorated the pages of his novels, providing the necessary charm and local flare to his work, all the while celebrating his Quebecois heritage. The St. Lawrence and her archipelago are the beautiful solitary backdrops of both, “Mister Blue,” and the heartbreaking parabolic novel, “Spring Tides,” where the utopian island retreat of Teddy Bear, is gradually eroded and defaced by a continual onslaught of new arrivals. While in “Autumn Rounds,” the Quebec Countryside and the St. Lawrence’s North Shore are at once both backdrop and travelogue, as ‘The Driver,’ accompanies a French carnival troupe on what is his last tour as driver of the traveling mobile library.

Unsurprisingly, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” has all of these qualities. Reading this novel was in many ways a homecoming to familiar ground. You find yourself treading the same trafficked and time worn floorboards. You know where the boards creak. You wonder if the dripping tap has been fixed. The paint colour has changed and there are new curtains, but overall, you feel right at home. “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” opens serendipitously with the narrator (Jimmy) walking down rue Saint-Jean to leave Vieux- Québec, when he’s startled by the warmth and appeal of a bookstore. Jacques Poulin casually sets the scene with the warm light radiating from the window, and a stack of books set out like a lighthouse, complete with a lantern on top, as if this makeshift literary bookish tower is meant to cut through the late winter to early spring fog and entice customers in. Inevitably it does. Upon entering, Jimmy finds the bookstore changed from his last visit. While he does recall he needs to go up three steps into the main store, where he’s greeted by a potbellied woodburning stove, whose warmth radiates throughout the store. The layout and the organization though have once again shifted. There are no bestsellers right next to the door, instead it’s a haphazard state of unfamiliarity. For the initiated it’s a literary treasure trove of discoveries. For Jimmy, however, it’s a jumbled mess and when he asks the proprietor of the store – a certain Jack Waterman, a fictional author – what principles are used to govern his classification system, the response is:

            “The principle of absolute disorder.”

It is confirmed, your truly in Jacques Poulin territory now. What follows suit is the genesis of an eccentric family unit comprised of Jimmy, who having the talent of hearing the murmur of books according to Jack, becomes the new store clerk; Jack Waterman, the stately and aged author who has been an inspiration to younger writers, supporting himself now with translations and his bookstore; the elusive mysterious sister Mistassini or Mist as its shortened, and of course Charabia the cat. Short vignette chapters gradually reveal their intimate world, and the shadow of ‘Eisenhower’s Disease,’ (Alzheimer’s disease) as Jack calls it that forms the great drama of the novel, as Jack’s faculties are routinely under siege and submerged by the disease eroding his memory, and slowly shipwrecking him from reality and the world. Jack is prepared for this complete erasure of himself, and intends to commit suicide first as a mercy to save his loved ones from watching his slow disintegration into oblivion. Despite the threat and reality of Jack’s condition, the three live in relative harmony, with Jimmy encouraged to go to Paris and follow in the footsteps of Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, and Joyce. It comes as no surprise to find Jacques Poulin taking the time to provide a bit of appreciation to Ernest Hemmingway in, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” especially when admiring Hemmingway’s signature style. However, unlike other novels by Poulin, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” shows an exceptionally amount of generosity to other writers, not just Hemmingway and others of the lost generation. Poulin mentions fellow Franco-Canadian writer Gabrielle Roy, and when Jimmy is in Paris there’s a few lines dedicated to Françoise Sagan and Patrick Modiano:

“During literary programs on TV, I much preferred Sagan or Modiano, both of them rather pathetic, she because she muttered incomprehensibly, he because he never finished his sentences, there was fog in his eyes, and he seemed lost, like ghosts that haunted his novels.”

In this same chapter, Jimmy goes to great comedic and conspiratorial lengths to get one of Jack’s novels read by a French critic and writer. A haughty literary star, which Jimmy couldn’t see what all the hoopla and fanfare was over. Regardless, Jack asked the favour, and so at a café Jimmy ensures the novel is position to be picked up by the unexpecting critic. Naturally, the critic does indeed pick it up, but after realizing its written by a Québécois writer, the novel is returned to Jimmy, but with praise about the opening sentences. This was particularly interesting part of, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” as I am unfamiliar with how the periphery French language writers from Québec or Morocco or Senegal are received in France, and how continental French language authors are received in return. Though my understanding is now the relationship between these two distinct literary cultures is one of amicable respect, with many Québécois writers (Kim Thúy, Dany Laferrière, and Aki Shimazaki) incorporating an international or outward looking perspectives to their work. Regardless, it is interesting to see Jacques Poulin move outside of Québec for a few chapters, to provide further insight into French cultural dynamics, as Poulin himself lived in Paris, France for many years before returning to Québec.

As for literary style, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” continues the tradition of Jacques Poulin’s literary style, one emulating the streamlined ‘closed fist,’ punchy prose of Hemmingway and the reductionist clarity of Raymond Carver. What separates Poulin’s prose from being dourly beige and grey as former’s adherence to minimalist disciple, is there is a continual effervescent quality to it. A buoyant pleasure rippling beneath the surface, rather like a gentle and bucolic breeze in spring stirring meadowlands and new blossoms, as in the following passage:

“To be sure that Mist didn’t go directly to Jack’s place after our walk, I led her in the opposite direction to rue des Remparts, towards the west. I took her across Place d’Youville and the gloomy boulevard Dufferin, then we stepped into the neighbourhood of Saint-Jean-Baptise. The area lacked trees and green spaces, but to compensate and rest our eyes when we were strolling the terraced streets on the slope that led to the Lower Town, at every intersection we were able to admire the vast carpet of light that spread as night was falling from Limoilou to the feet of the Laurentians.”   

One complaint, however, with the novel is the discomfort I got from reading what can only be described as a vaguely incestuous relationship between Jimmy and Mistassini. While I am able to theorize and ascertain via some of the text that perhaps Mistassini and Jimmy are not necessarily siblings as a blood relation, but merely siblings within the sense of familiar adoption or youthful pact. Regardless, the relationships physical intimacy – however loving it is – is off putting and does cause for a few shivers to zip down the spine.

“My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” is a delightful return to the charming literary world of Jacques Poulin, a writer whose never solemn, but does hold reverence for literature and philosophy. Poulin just does it without wrapping himself in pretentiousness and imperious attitudes, as so many others do. Despite the underlying current of melancholy brought on by Jack Waterman’s gradual obsolesce via his Eisenhower’s Disease, Poulin carefully manages this to ensure it does not become increasingly melancholic, mooring the novel into the realms of pessimism and drudgery. Do not mistake, however, Poulin’s lightness of touch with superficiality or no depth, as Poulin has proven himself to be a consummate writer whose work allows plenty of room to breathe enough insinuation, allowing reading to fill in any missing information. Returning to Jacques Poulin is a wonderous feeling. Its settling down into a cushiony arm chair for the evening and being swept away in a good book. Reading, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” was at times slightly sad, as I know the author died this year in late August at the age of 87; but being able to get my hands on another one of his novels, is a remarkable way to once again revisit this writer and his work. Admirers of Jacques Poulin and his work won’t be disappointed by, “My Sister’s Blue Eyes,” though they should be forewarned to steady and steel themselves regarding the relationship between Jimmy and Mistassini.

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

Zoë Wicomb Dies Aged 76

Hello Gentle Reader,

The renowned South African writer and academic, Zoë Wicomb died at the age of 76. As a writer, Zoë Wicomb traced the complexities and instability of South Africa as it transitioned from authoritarian apartheid to the state it is today, but also how the remnants of apartheid continue to haunt and linger in contemporary South African society. The novel “David’s Story,” set in the closing chapters of the former apartheid regime. The novel traces the story of David Dirkse, whose life is moved to the ground level, after previously working clandestine organizations and movement to topple the apartheid government and system. Now with the African National Congress legal and legitimate, there is a dawning new South Africa on the horizon, while the previous one gradually fades in its twilight hours. Now with legitimacy granted to previous outlawed organizations, David finds himself with time to trace his own heritage, and the complexity of coloured identity. Political violence, however, is the norm not the exception, and soon enough David’s momentary peace is shattered when he is listed as a target on a political assassination list. What follows are questions of political emancipation and freedom. “David’s Story,” is a complex novel encompassing political analysis and thriller, while questioning the reliability of historical records during times of crisis and political instability. “Playing in the Light,” Zoë Wicomb continues to examine and autopsy the post-apartheid state, the lingering racial tensions and attitudes still maintained or held onto, it explores the reckoning Marion has when the Truth and Reconciliation Commission dredges up information which bring into question her own identity, her family history, proving that in the new state of South Africa, personal interests and national politics are not always delineated. Zoë Wicomb’s work continually examined the complexities of the personal, national, and political in the post-apartheid South Africa. How the legacy of historical injustices and institutional racism reverberates throughout all society and infects personal and familiar relationships; in addition to other themes of family secrets, exile, motherhood, the weight of history and its veracity. Zoë Wicomb’s ability to include the personal life and domestic scenes as they relate to political discourse and change, are key components to her work being viewed as multilayered, grounding extraordinary change within palpable, in addition to her ability to masterfully employ and incorporate metafictional techniques to fragment and reexamine perspectives from multiple lenses and points of view and question truth as it is and as its testified. In short, Zoë Wicomb was a talented and complex writer, whose work continually examined both apartheid and the reckoning of a post-apartheid South Africa.

Rest in Peace, Zoë Wicomb.

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

Post-Nobel Prize in Literature 2025 Thoughts

Hello Gentle Reader,

The Nobel Prize in Literature for 2025 was awarded to the Hungarian writer Krasznahorkai László with the citation:

“for his compelling and visionary oeuvre that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art.”

The announcement of the laureate for the Nobel Prize in Literature remains fashioned into a particular Swedish adoration for procedure as virtue. At 1:00pm (CEST) the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Mats Malm, comes through the beautiful white doors of the Swedish Academy, takes his position behind the little white picket pen and greets those assembled, welcoming them to Swedish Academy and then announces this year’s laureate in literature. This year, however, Mats Malm does not bow out to Anders Olsson Chair of the Swedish Academy’s Nobel Committee, who in years past read a prepared statement on the laureate and their literary work. Due to Olsson being ill, this task fell to fellow Committee member, Steve Sem-Sandberg.

Anders Olsson’s recitations are longwinded lectures. They are dry sermons. Quite positively calcifying when viewed against previous award announcements by previous Permanent Secretaries: Horace Engdahl, Peter Englund, and Sara Danius. Back then, the Permanent Secretary managed the announcement solely. Announcing the winner and their citation in the variety of languages they have command of. Afterwards they would engage in a short and enlightening interview. Here the Permanent Secretary would provide a brief overview of the authors work and a few glowing remarks, before recommending a couple of works for interested readers. Anders Olsson either lacks the charisma or the interest in engaging in this impromptu form of media relations. Instead, Olsson comes prepared and delivers the decision with academic authority. Highlighting a few important works, discussing the writer’s oeuvre and commenting on their themes. It’s not a matter that Anders Olsson way of handling the years announcement is bad. Its just not as exciting. It’s more enduring than elating.

For example, when Horace Engdahl announced Doris Lessing as the laureate for 2007, Engdahl paused the announcement to allow the cheers ring out in the Stockholm Stock Exchange Building. There are so few cheers now. Afterwards, in an interview, Engdahl did his best to summarize Lessing’s long literary career, from her debut novel, “The Grass is Singing,” to her monumental, “The Children of Violence Series,” – which Engdahl described as her magnum opus – all the way to the second peak defining Doris Lessing’s bibliography with her autobiographies. Engdahl couldn’t comment on the suggestion that Doris Lessing had been a writer discussed on and off for decades prior, but he did take the opportunity to highlight Lessing’s command of the short story form, which Engdahl noted is often overlooked when compared to her large and engrossing novels.

To reiterate: the current prize announcement format being divided up amongst the Permanent Secretary and the Nobel Committee, fragments the event. It brings into question the role of the Permanent Secretary when compared to the Nobel Committee and the Chairman. Mats Malm is routinely criticized for being wooden and apprehensive when facing the media. No doubt, Malm is an accomplished administrator and academic, but a component of the Permanent Secretaryship is media relations. Then again, perhaps if Mats Malm was actually granted the opportunity to conduct the announcement in a singular capacity, confidence and some charisma could be tended too; and to put it frankly, Anders Olsson is not in possession of these qualities either.

This year, however, with Steve Sem-Sandberg filling in for Anders Olsson, there was a slight injection of warmth. This could come from the fact that Sem-Sandberg is an admirer of Krasznahorkai László, or he just has a bit more ember to his stove then say Mats Malm or Anders Olsson. Yet, this second part of the announcement, whereby members of the Nobel Committee take their position in the white pen, is awkward. In this instance, Steve Sem-Sandberg read through the pre-composed bio-bibliography by Anders Olsson, while fellow committee member Ellen Mattson stands in waiting. It’s a bit awkward to watch. I feel for Ellen Mattson obviously, as the optics can be viewed that she’s being employed to placate or ward off any criticism that can be aimed at the academy for not valuing (or at least appearing to) female voices. In the end, both Steve Sem-Sandberg and Ellen Mattson would facilitate a brief question and answer period. Steve Sem-Sandberg in English and Ellen Mattson in Swedish. Regardless the current announcement set up is logistically awkward and unfocused. Returning the master of ceremonies responsibilities back to the Permanent Secretary would solve a lot of this disjointedness. While it is understandable that perhaps many members of the academy or the Nobel Committee, would like a kick at the can, the current itineration is missing the necessary spark to liven up the event. Instead, it reduces the announcement to a pastiche relay race lacking a cohesive narrative thread to sustain viewers attention or their engagement.

As for this years Nobel Laureate in Literature, Krasznahorkai László, the reaction and reception is universally applauded and acclaimed. Unsurprising, as Krasznahorkai has been considered a perennial contender for the prize for years now, right alongside his countryman Nádas Péter. In a manner similar to Jon Fosse, bestowing the Nobel Prize in Literature on to Krasznahorkai László may not be viewed as surprising or original in scope, and can be dismissed by others as expected, even parading into predictable territory. At the same time, however, the Swedish Academy is routinely condemned and criticized for overlooking or failing to award titans of literature. In recent memory alone this includes: Ismail Kadare, Antonio Tabucchi, Philip Roth, Milan Kundera, and Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o. These are but a handful of recent writers who died without the prize, and had long been rumoured as perennial candidates. It is unfair position then to critise the Swedish Academy on both fronts. One for awarding obscure writers with limited readership but critical acclaim – Elfriede Jelinek, J.M.G Le Clézio, Herta Müller, Patrick Modiano – one year. Then on the second front, critise them for awarding globally recognized and lauded talent – V.S. Naipaul, J.M. Coetzee, Jon Fosse or Krasznahorkai László. One can always lament that there is only one prize and many deserving candidates and writers for the award; but, inevitably, the Nobel Prize in Literature will always fall short. This year, however, the consensus certainly is one of joy. The Swedish Academy has decided to bestow the Nobel Prize in Literature onto a writer whose literary vision is absolutely singular. There are few writers writing and working now, who are as uncompromising in their literary vision as Krasznahorkai László, whose work remains complex, formidable, and inflexible in literary principle. The rewards, however, as any reader of Krasznahorkai László will always be there, which is why his readership has always been cultish and fanatical in the early years, before entering the literary mainstream and achieving universal critical acclaim.

In awarding the Nobel Prize in Literature to Krasznahorkai László, the Swedish Academy has also done a necessary course correction on breaking up the stylistic monotony of the previous Nobel Laureates. While, Jon Fosse and Han Kang, where considered attempts at moving away from the autumnal austerity and clinical acute literary language of earlier laureates Louise Glück and Annie Ernaux, with Fosse’s rhythmic repetitious tidal language and Han’s brittle lyricism. Still, one would not call either Jon Fosse or Han Kang exceptionally innovative writers in stylistic terms, at least not when compared to Krasznahorkai. A defining feature of Krasznahorkai László’s novels is his magmatic text. Pages and pages of dense black text, with sentences running on in an unspooling labyrinth. Readers will always find themselves swept away in the current of Krasznahorkai’s torrential and unrelenting text, oozing forth without fail, into an apocalyptical landscape, be it a failing and collapsing Soviet era collective farm; an insular village tucked away in the Carpathian Mountains, whose residents stand on the precipice of anarchy, succumbing to their baseline chaotic and violent tendencies, all that is required is the necessary catalyst to ignite this degradation; or a German village besieged by violence, arson, murder, vandalism, and the sustained paranoid surety of the end of everything, but also the strange amalgamation between this bleak finality and the beauty of art, the sanctuary of it. After reading “The Melancholy of Resistance,” the American writer and critic, Susan Sontag, styled Krasznahorkai László the “master of the apocalypse,” and this crowning title follows with ominous airs, both enticing and warning readers of what to expect. Krasznahorkai’s world is always already dystopian with an ominous understanding that the collapse is not happening, but has yet to happen. The decline, the decomposition, the decay of everything is the ultimate and final state of everything. Krasznahorkai’s writing is not polite in or poetically waxing about themes of impermanence or absence. No, Krasznahorkai’s vision is the preoccupation turned premonition of the end. This has always been the defining feature of Krasznahorkai László’s bibliography. It picks up after T.S. Eliots, “The Wasteland,” and surveys subsequent cycle of new wastelands created in the collapse of civility and perceived political and social order, and the cosmological collapse.

In their extended review and presentation of Krasznahorkai László, the Swedish Academy highlighted Krasznahorkai’s lineage to Central European literature, with particular reference to the literary forebearers, Franz Kafka and Thomas Bernhard. Especially in relation to a fixation on the absurdity of existence. The fallacy of meaning. Our communal condition I attributing meaning to circumstances and events, even when none exist. This is the gallows humour of Krasznahorkai, which follows in the tradition of Kafka and Bernhard. Finally following suit, Krasznahorkai has a particular penchant for the grotesque and exaggerated, showcasing how easy it is for people to step outside of their civility and devolve into their instinctual and primal forms, when the conditions present themselves. False prophets and conmen, each come with their greasy promises of saviour, but ultimately, they lead their congregation into further decay and ruin, or rob their customers blind, leaving them with piss in a bottle, marketed as a tonic and cure-all. Then, Krasznahorkai László changes direction once more. The novel “A Mountain to the North, a Lake to the South, Paths to the West, a River to the East,” and the fragmented novel or short story collection, “Seiobo There Below,” begin to examine the remedial qualities of art, beauty, and pure aesthetic pleasures within the world, providing if not complete sanctuary from the sustained and expedited march towards destruction, then at the very least, a point of reprieve. Late modernist hellscapes of “Satantango,” “The Melancholy of Resistance,” “War & War,” and “Herscht 07769,” has now evolved into something more interior, mor abstract, philosophical and meditative, captured within the complex, convoluted and intricate magmatic prose that has come to define Krasznahorkai’s work. Now, however, the sentences fold in and onto each other, repetitions spur new digressions and negations. Admirers of complex and innovative prose, could not get enough of it. If Krasznahorkai’s literary talents were even in doubt or in dispute, they were quickly quieted. “Seibo There Below,” is beloved and admired for the author’s apparent final release of his style, allowing his sentences to continue to swell and expand course forward without barrier or dam and flood the pages with and relentless torrent of thoughts, sensations, observations, reflections, admirations, digressions, and philosophical treaties.  

As a laureate, Krasznahorkai László is similar to Jon Fosse, in his work is free of political association. This means, Krasznahorkai’s award is free from the usual questions of political maneuvering and questioning. While, the Swedish Academy maintains that all their decisions and deliberations are exempt from political motivations, it is not difficult to corollate some inference of political gestures with some of the awards. With a rise of a tolerance towards totalitarianism, an upwelling of violence as a means of political solution, terrorism as political discourse; the apocalyptical vision of Krasznahorkai’s oeuvre is the prophetic vision and testimony of the time, as the world slides further and further into madness and violent lunacy. When the basic tenements of democracy are under siege, not only from external forces, but growing autocratic insurrectionist forces, by radical and incompetent individuals, Krasznahorkai provides an increasingly alarming literary portrait of similar events, in more dystopian and allegorical landscapes. These are not novels to provide comfort, and they are no longer issuing warnings. They threaten to become prophetic visions of an impending all consuming destructive end. Choosing to award Krasznahorkai László the Nobel Prize in Literature, the Swedish Academy has acknowledged not only a masterful visionary writer, but also one with prescient understanding of the self-destructive impulses that reside at the core of the human condition. What is an award though if it only acknowledges the forewarning of our inevitable destruction, be it through divine exhaustion in the form of the rapture, or our own manufactured climate catastrophe. Afterall, prophesying the end of the world, has been a human proclivity since we first gained the capacity for language and communication. Therefore, it is necessary for the Swedish Academy to also acknowledge and elevate Krasznahorkai’s interest and literary ability to not only create exceptional works of literary beauty, but also affirm and reaffirm the power of art in all of its forms.

In a manner similar to 2023 and 2015, the Nobel Prize in Literature lands solid footing. While a few may gripe about the award going to an ‘obvious,’ candidate, the award itself is one of merit and settled. If the only criticism is its obvious, then these are but minor blemishes that can be brushed aside. Krasznahorkai László is an exceptional and talented writer. If anything, the Nobel Prize in literature for this year is at rest and at home, with a writer of purely literary merit. When it came to speculation about Krasznahorkai and the Nobel Prize in Literature, the prevailing thought was always a matter of when, not if. Though it was always tempered by caution, as many great writers were and are always being tempted by the notion of ‘when,’ not ‘if,’ and this includes the perennially neglected Adonis. While I recognize, I am not the ideal reader for Krasznahorkai’s dense, uncompromising, torrential, lava flowing oozing novels, I am capable of recognizing the merits and greatness of Krasznahorkai’s work. This years Nobel Prize in Literature has certainly been granted to a writer of brilliant achievements. It leaves me curious to what kind of deliberations the Swedish Academy engaged in when discussing his novels which move between apocalyptic visions to detailed digressions of aesthetic appreciation and wonderment. When deliberating Samuel Beckett, members of the Swedish Academy viewed his plays and novels as being in complete contrast to Alfred Nobel’s will of an ‘ideal direction,’ for their morbid sense of humour and nihilistic landscapes. Did this assembled version of the Swedish Academy face the same discussions? Did they attempt to reconcile the differences between Krasznahorkai’s view of the human condition, to that of Alfred Nobel’s willed stipulation of ‘ideal direction,’? Or was the vagueness of the notion of what constitutes an ideal direction, abandoned in favour of reviewing the author on purely literary terms. Afterall, Krasznahorkai László had won the Man Booker International Prize, the National Book Award for Translated Literature, the Best Translated Book Award (twice), and the Austrian State Prize for European Literature. This is not a writer of no merit. Regardless, the decision is welcomed and breathes new life into the award, disrupting the conformity of writers who write in subdued and quiet voices, and instead celebrates a writer who surveys and sails amongst the cosmos. If there is any complaint on my part is perhaps, it’s getting a bit old that the Nobel Prize in Literature continues to alternate between a man and a woman writer, and feels the need to return to Europe to reset before moving into different literary landscapes. Still if this is how it needs to be for now, then I am more then content that it went to Krasznahorkai László.

This years Nobel Prize in Literature is well deserved. Warmest congratulations to Krasznahorkai László, this will certainly be a popular award for decades to come.

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

The Nobel Prize in Literature 2025

Hello Gentle Reader,
 
The Nobel Prize in Literature for 2025 has been awarded to the Hungarian writer Krasznahorkai László

“For his compelling and visionary oeuvre that, in the midst of apocalyptic terror, reaffirms the power of art." 

Congratulations are in order for Krasznahorkai László!
 
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

Its Pronounced Bouquet

Hello Gentle Reader,

The qualities of the British are as a stereotypical as their weather. Coincidentally enough, the weather is not only a meteorological phenomenon, but an intrinsic component of British culture, national character, and a quality unto itself. Yes, the British are renowned for their adherence to ques and the act of queuing. They are regarded for their polite – if albeit distant – exteriors; hence why weather is a frequent component of conversation, its polite, non-controversial, and usually disagreeable, perfect to remark and complain about. As manners are governed by the principles of politeness, it is paramount to note, to be British is to adhere to the principles of stoicism, fortifying oneself, picking up the pieces and carrying on. Push through, because what else can you do? Humour, is perhaps their greatest quality. Their love of situational comedy, endearing irony, biting wit, and an appreciation for the absurd. British comedy is top tier; while classic British comedy has proven itself timeless and continually funny, with likes of “Monty Python,” “Are You Being Served?”, “Last of the Summer Wine,” “Fawlty Tours,” inevitably paved the way for “Mr. Bean,” “As Time Goes By,” “Absolutely Fabulous,” “IT Crowd,” and “Miranda.” They are enjoyable for their own reasons and on their own grounds. “Miranda,” is wonderful for its slapstick physical comedy; while “As Time Goes By,” and “Last of the Summer Wine,” and “Are You Being Served,” are clever, cunning, situational, and based on character and situation. The writing is fresh and witty, delivered by accomplished actors. Delighting in “As Time Goes By,” now once again anew, has been a marvelous past time, taking me back to when comedy seemed to based on a sense of humour and existed in the everyday, the delights and absurdities of life itself. 

Dame Patricia Routledge died peacefully on October 3^rd 2025 at the age of 96. For those who are unfamiliar with her, she was a phenomenal actress, capable of moving between comedy, drama, and musical with effortless ease. While an accomplished stage actress, Routledge is best remembered for her famous televised role as the comedic social climbing housewife, Hyacinth Bucket (the running joke is her insistence that its pronounced Bouquet) from the sitcom, “Keeping Up Appearances.” She also played the astute and assured Henrietta ‘Hetty,’ Wainthropp in, “Hetty Wainthropp Investigates.” In addition, she performed two monologues written by Alan Bennett, first in “A Woman of No Importance,” Routledge played Peggy, an indispensable clerical worker, who gradually finds herself remanded to hospitalised solitude. Then again in Bennett’s “Talking Heads,” television series, where Routledge was cast twice. First, as Irene Ruddock, a nosy busybody woman, whose penchant for complaining in correspondence reveals the depths of her isolation and social solitude, and ends with an ironic twist of companionship and new found freedom in incarceration. Second as Miss Fozzard in “Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet,” where the titular middle-aged department-store clerk falls into a bit of pornography with her new foot fetish chiropodist, and in the process finds purpose and meaning with her life. Dame Patricia Routledge brought depth to her characters, showcasing a profound understanding not only of their motivations but their inherent humanity. I’ve always admired Dame Patricia Routledge, since I first watched her on “Keeping Up Appearances.” I understood then and maintain, she was a consummate performer. An actress who wasn’t just out their reciting and delivering lines on cue, but an empathetic purveyor of the human condition; donning costume and character and revealing the depths of our shared inherent humanity. In addition to her work as an actress, Routledge was Patron of the Beatrix Potter Society, which shows her interests going beyond that of the stage, and those of literary and conservation bent. At the age of 96, there could be no denying that Dame Patricia Routledge lived a long and exceptional life. One I’m sure was complete with numerous lessons and hard-won wisdom. Last year, I stumbled across retrospective Dame Patricia Routledge provided regarding the context of time, and our cultural apprehension – if not apparent fear – regarding old age. In it, from a blog called ‘Jay Speaks,’ Routledge provides assurance and wisdom to the inevitably of aging.

For Dame Patricia Routledge, life didn’t become more settled or take on a more defined shape until she had reached her forties. Her youth was marked by uncertainties and doubting questions. Despite having performed on provincial stages, in radio plays, West End productions, and Broadway, it was all underlined by an unsettled feeling. What might best be described as an existential sense of unease. One I’m sure most youth are familiar with. At age 50, however, life changed when Routledge accepted the now iconic role of Hyacinth Bucket of “Keeping Up Appearances.” The show transported Routledge into the homes and hearts of not only those in the United Kingdom, but also abroad, and is considered yet another golden hallmark of English humour. The success took her by surprise, but gave her career the solid foundation it needed. For the next forty-six years, Dame Patricia Routledge continued to work but more importantly embrace life. At 60 she strived to learn Italian, to sing opera in its native tongue. In her 70’s she would return to Shakespeare not as a junior performer, but as an accomplished actress who with wisdom and grace, could slip into the archetypes of the characters to not perform but embody in full. Her 80’s were occupied with watercolour painting. Then finally in her 90’s she learned to bake rye bread, and enjoyed laughter, but had come to appreciate the quietude’s of life. In her retrospective, Dame Patricia Routledge proves one’s life contains multitudes – if you allow and facilitate it. Life is ripe and always ready for the picking, if you strive for it and achieve it. Though it does require some cultivation and tending to. Dame Routledge testifies that aging is a gift. A privilege. It does not have to be marked or mired by decrepitude and suffering. Age brings clarity and understanding, in addition to a wealth of experiences, and of course the contrarian clarity of the years. The final act does not mean the end, or resigning oneself to one’s fate. Rather old age is a chance to continually blossom anew.

We reawaken in spring. Endure summer. Rest and celebrate in the winter. Autumn, however, seems to be when everything bursts forth with life. Beneath overcast grey skies. Days of retracting light. The trees aflame with their invigorating colours, their leaf’s leaving. Bears on the prowl, looking to eat and shore up for winter. Birds migrating south; the geese honking their goodbyes. The mornings solemn without the bird song. Burrows prepped and stocked up. During this time, I find myself more aware, reflective and attune towards the world, reflecting on my own life, and the passage of time. Autumn is more enjoyable then ever before. In a fashion similar to Dame Patricia Routledge, all the jitters and suspicions of youth have been swept away and aside. There’s a renewed sense of possibility. Old age perhaps brings the harvesters wisdom, and much like all wisdom its always late and behind – blame the postman they say – but the nature of life comes down to action and acceptance. In short, it’s a mere matter of getting on with it, and reinventing it. Mistakes can be fixed and ironed out. Those that can’t can be mitigated. Time moves quickly my dears, best not waste it on nothing. Read poetry, bake bread, travel, have a drink, enjoy good food with great company. 

Rest in Peace Dame Patricia Routledge, to quote the famous and beloved character, Hyacinth Bucket: “Tell God its Bouquet.”
 
 
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

 

For Further Reading

Jay Speak Blog: "Growing old ... Ooops up,"

The Independent: "Dame Patricia Routledge’s moving reflection on life resurfaces,"

Ivan Klima Dies Aged 94

Hello Gentle Reader,

There is a perverse irony to Ivan Klima’s life. The absurdity is almost nihilistically comedic. Klima’s life is sandwiched between two totalitarian horrors. First Nazi persecution and the holocaust. As a boy, Klima was incarcerated at Terezin, a former aristocratic holiday resort repurposed as a ghetto and concentration camp under Nazi occupation. More then 150, 000 Jews were interned here, of which 15, 000 were children, who remained there for months and years before being transported to an extermination camp – either Treblinka or Auschwitz. From 1941 tor 1945, a child turned prisoner, Klima lived under the constant shadow and threat of being sent to Auschwitz. This experience became the cornerstone of many of Klima’s memorable and powerful works, such as “Judge on Trial,” which touches on these inhumanity and extraordinary horrors of those years. Yet, the majority of Klima’s work took aim at the Soviet Communist regime which followed liberation, and spread like a corrosive rust throughout Eastern European in the postwar years. As in the case of many quixotic youth, Ivan Klima first hedged his bets on communism being an adequate replacement after the expulsion and defeat of the Nazi’s. The Soviet bureaucracy was equally as absurd in function and autocratic in its deliberations and delivery. In 1968 during the Prague Spring, Klima saw firsthand communisms own vicious form of oppression, when an estimated 750, 000 troops marched on Prague and disbanded the protestors. This harkens back to the line from Viivi Luik’s novel poetic novel “The Beauty of History,”:

“A Czech boy pouring petrol over himself and then lighting a match does not really go with the carpets in the living-room of Europe, so the television is switched off.”

Unlike other writers who entered exile – Milan Kundera as an example – Ivan Klima would return in 1970 from a state approved sabbatical abroad in the United States. Upon his return, Klima became an important underground literary figure and publisher, working towards smuggling texts to the west, and hosting a prohibited literary salon, populated by dissident writers and intellectuals. This endurance and talent for survival, first in the appalling conditions of Terezin, then the never-ending political oppression of Communism, Ivan Klima became one Eastern Europe’s greatest distillers and surveyor of the human condition. This is evidential in that Klima’s narrators are never heroic or grandiose in their political dissention, they like everyone else made compromises carved out caveats in order to live. As a dissident writer, Klima was inevitably forced to take menial jobs throughout his life to support his hidden literary ambitions. These included street sweeper, brick layer, and a hospital orderly. These positions would later inspire many of the stories that make up “My Golden Trades.” After the fall of Soviet Union and its iron curtain blockade of communist satellite states, Ivan Klima observed and wrote about the form officials and servants of the old regime, who found themselves displaced and adrift within a thawing democratic society full of freedom and choice. Throughout his literary work, Ivan Klima confronted the weight of history and the consequences of memory, both shared and collective. Klima’s witnessed the serial horrors of the 20^th century, and his memoir “My Crazy Century,” recounts it with bellowing anger in its testimonial regarding the faceless, merciless, and unrelenting oppression of totalitarianism, with particular vitriol aimed towards communism, which he views as a conspiracy and ever-present threat against democracy. Despite the dour subject matter, Ivan Klima was a writer whose work carried within its pages, a sense of hope. All dissidence and criticism at their core maintain a sense of hope.

Rest in Peace, Ivan Klima.

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