– LV –

I’d rather talk my ass off endlessly and nonsensically and be accused of fake snobbery then be a cunt of no consequence.

Nádas Péter Dies Aged 83

Hello Gentle Reader,

The term Proustian is at times, bandied about careless regarding, cheapening the term into some literary cliché. Quite like Marcel Proust, many writers have engaged with the individual’s relationship and experience of memory, albeit in very different ways. Patrick Modiano rejected Proust’s gilded perspective of memory and all of its sensuality. The cascading chorus of stimuli welling up from the back of the mind, infusing one with the bittersweet taste of temporal displacement and the ethereal tug and twinge of time lost. Instead Modiano viewed memory as a dishevelled archive. Unorganized and incomplete. Any to all information is fragmentary and questionable. Memory was the bits of flotsam left behind in the ocean of oblivion. The driftwood desperate characters cling to, holding on to themselves and seeking understand their identity and their own history. In the case of Annie Ernaux, memory is a recorded fact. Observed states, experiences, thoughts and emotions, captured in a staccato language flensing away the voluptuousness volume of Proust’s exceptionally pregnant sentences. Ernaux eschews all ornamentation and decoration for staccato directness. Nádas Péter, however, now there was a writer who didn’t rival Marcel Proust, but was perhaps able to match the classic French modernist in style and preoccupation of memory, human relationships and the individual’s relationship to history; specifically, the abject indifference history pays to the individual, caught up in its currents and riptides, whereby they are left to drown and be dejected. Rather like Proust, Nádas employed long labyrinthine sentences which snaked and swirled across the pages and through chapters, crossing and crisscrossing; circling their points with a vulture’s leisure. In literary world which has since turned towards the values of simplicity through subtraction to obtain universality and approachability; Nádas Péter was unapologetically maximalist in his rumination prose, which embraced an almost photorealistic attention to detail, capturing the sensory reality of consciousness and there rippling sensations in the physical realm of the body. Nádas, however, maintained a unflinching and honest obsession in detailing the corruption, trauma and unescapable horrors which made up the mid-century Eastern European history. Countries devasted by war; scared and ravaged by the receding wave of fascism and Nazism; then the slow oxidising corrosion of the Soviet communist regime, wearing everything down with its relentless ugliness, its monolithic brutalism. Nádas Péter, a trained photojournalist, never looked away from these horrors, but instead remained firm in documenting and depicting it with unflinching realism. Nádas was born into a world on fire: specifically, the year 1942, in Budapest during the siege of the city during the Second World War. Tragedy quickly followed, his mother died of cancer while Nádas was a teenager. Three years after his mother’s death Nádas father would commit suicide, leaving the orphaned writer to be raised by an aunt. What followed are the mere scant details of biography, first the foray of photography then the turn to journalism, before embracing his life as a writer, one who heavily criticised the communist regime. “A Book of Memories,” “Parrell Stories,” and “Shimmering Memories Vol I & Vol II,” remain Nádas Péter most recongisable texts. Though “Parrell Stories,” gets special mention for the uncompromising size and volume of text, in a style that the writer himself described as ‘chaos’; while Susan Sontag championed and praised “A Book of Memories.” All of Nádas work remains a testament to literary complexity, not as an idea, but as the necessary means in which to capture the incomprehensible reality of consciousness, memory and living. As a writer, and one of global critical renowned, Nádas Péter was often tipped as a contender for the Nobel Prize in Literature, having been recongised as a giant of Hungarian literature for years now, along with his counterpart and last years laureate Krasznahorkai László.

 

Rest in Peace Nádas Péter, there will never be a writer quite like you in such singular fashion.
 
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
 
M. Mary

Causalities of Compromise

Hello Gentle Reader,

In the last post discussing this year’s Booker Prize longlist, there was a short mention of the Booker Prize in 1984, when Anita Brookner proved to be the upstart of the year, and was forever condescended afterwards. J.G. Ballard, famously imperious about the award before, became inconsolable in his disgruntlement, going so far as to snarl at the pre-eminent art historian and academic turned novelist: “You stole my Booker Prize.” At the time, though, Ballard was the bookies favourite with his classic autobiographical novel “Empire of the Sun.” A shoo-in, for sure. No contest. If not Ballard, then it was to the then young Julian Barnes with his classic novel “Flaubert’s Parrot.” Instead, the judges chaired by the historian and academic Richard Cobb; who in turn was famous for his independent mind and thought, in addition to mischievous streak; decided to award the relative newcomer Anita Brookner, with a novel that was quiet and introspective in scope and spirit. What should have been a roaring success, instead proved to be a ball and chain that would forever dog and haunt Anita Brookner through her remaining literary career. Critics (especially the young and arrogant ones) always referred to Brookner as ‘the mistress of doom’ or ‘Modest Anita,’ decrying her novels of continually circling with a vulture’s persistence over the same themes. Therefore, she was most certainly writing the same book. Yet another spinster. Yet another cardigan. Yet another hapless misadventure of a protagonist pining and yearning for the affections of an unavailable man. It was never a case of love lost, but rather, love never found. It became culturally acceptable to outrightly dismiss anything Brookner produced as just another exploration of spinsterhood. What these critics failed to see was Brookner as an accomplished eloquent and elegant surveyor of far more subtler and compelling themes, such as: displacement, loss of illusions, familiar obligations, growing old, and dare one say it, the sheer disorienting experience of being, in a world indifferent to your existence. If anything, Anita Brookner was as much a compelling examiner of the human condition as any of her contemporaries. The difference? She just happened to win a prize. The problem? The favourite to win the prize was already publicly agreed upon, anything else, just wouldn’t do. Furthermore, Brookner was no advocate or marketer for herself. Rather like her work, Brookner took a stoic approach to literary life and success, never allowing herself to be caught up in the entrapment of celebrity, let alone be coaxed into its embrace. As far as Brookner was concerned: the books spoke on their own, succeeded on their own, or failed on their own. For all of that, she would continually be crucified as ‘Poor,’ and ‘Modest,’ Anita, receiving condescending criticism; patronising pats on the head; cast down to the bottom shelf, to make room for those who were considered serious writers. Now, in September, the legendary biographer Hermoine Lee’s commissioned study and biography of Anita Brookner will be published. No doubt, Lee’s biography will renew interest into Brookner’s literary work. Though, one can’t help imagining the difficulty it was to compile some semblance of a biography of the writer who died peacefully ten years ago, with the satisfaction of having left no personal papers, records or evidence for any biographer to pick over, let alone attempt to ascertain the facts. The forthcoming biography though, may still perhaps provide some context and texture to Brookner’s life, which always remained guarded and compartmentalised, reducing the writer’s life to a mere sketch or stencil, rather then full-blown and bodied portrait.

Judging the Booker Prize is no cake walk either. Just ask Ronald Blythe or James Wood. When Blythe was apart of the judging committee for the 1980 Booker Prize, the decision was only reached a mere 30 minutes before the ceremony. Anthony Burgess, refused to attend the ceremony unless he was confirmed to be the winner beforehand. Blythe’s own allegiances and personal favourite was J.L. Carr’s novel “A Month in the Country,” but this novel of steel enforced quiet strength, would lose out to William Golding’s novel “Rites of Passage,” the first in what would become known as “To the Ends of the Earth,” trilogy. It is important to note, the shortlist for the 1980 Booker Prize was a strong one. No wonder the judges were forced to deliberate so late. In the case of James Wood, however, being apart of the judging committee in 1994, was enough to swear him off being a part of any literary prize jury going forward. Then there is the famous incident of Philip Larkin chairing the judges for the 1977 Booker Prize, who threatened defenestration if “Staying On,” by Paul Scott didn’t win the prize. Fortunately, for all windows in Larkin’s vicinity were spared, as “Staying On,” won the award. In more favoured terms, Larkin deserves thanks, for Barbara Pym being nominated and shortlisted in 1977 for “Quartet in Autumn.” Larkin’s advocacy and assessment that Barbara Pym was by far the most underappreciated and unevaluated writer at the time, saw a literary revival for Pym, who was dismissed as being out of fashion and too polite for the daring tastes of contemporary readers. The ones who considered themselves liberated and revolutionised against the stodgy attitudes of their parents and their prim domesticity.

These bouts of drama are merely part of the traditions of the Booker Prize. Over the decades there have been many lively exchanges of views, debates, insults and character assassinations shot across the bow. The last big upstart perhaps was in 2011, when the Booker Prize judges remained unapologetic in their push to prioritise and recongise novels of readability over complexity. This inevitably sparked fierce debate amongst literary critics, who sought to delineate works of literary merit for their ‘admirability,’ (relegating a complex novel to the status of fine piece of art: an object to showcase and off, but never crack open and read) to the notion of ‘readability,’ where the books could in essence be consumed and enjoyed by all readers, not just a selective few, which the judges argued was the point of the prize. In the end, the chair of the years Booker prize judges, Dame Stella Rimington, famously compared British literary critics and elites to the KGB in their campaign against that years Booker Prize and its judges. The award ultimately went to Julian Barnes and his novel “The Sense of an Ending,” which was designated the only true literary novel on the shortlist.

In many ways, it is Anita Brookner to blame for invigorating my slight renewed interest into the Booker Prize for the past couple of years. An interest further provoked by Ronald Blythe’s biography, where Ian Collins provided some details into Blythe’s experience as a judge of the prize, highlighting the authors personal favourite: “A Month in the Country,” by J.L. Carr which has now been added to my own list of future purchases and readings. Further review of the Booker prize over the years, reveals a curios list of novels and thematic preoccupations; elderly statesmen writers listed among young upstarts; stylistic achievements which are sadly missing from today’s awards, with a few exceptions such as, “The Long Take,” by Robin Robertson comes to mind. This retrospective review reignited curiosity and interest in many writers who were caressed by the Booker Prize’s Midas light, be it winner or listed contender, such as Penelope Lively with “Moon Tiger,” Anna Burns with “Milkman,” Jim Crace with “Harvest,” Penelope Fitzgerald with “Offshore,” Tan Twang Eng with “The Garden of Evening Mists,” Michael Frayn with “Spies,” Anita Desai with “Clear Light of Day,” Robertson Davis with “What’s Bred in the Bone,” and Tom McCarthy with “C.” This is only a smattering. A mere taste of the eclectic novels and writers who have found themselves in the prizes orbit. Though if I were to be asked which Booker winning author is at the point of being criminally neglected now, it would be Bernice Rubens, the only Welsh writer to have won the award with “The Elected Member,” in 1970, and who was again later shortlisted in 1978 for “A Five-Year Sentence,” another intriguing psychological novel, which I look forward to getting my hands on.

This year, I decided to write down a few titles in my journal that were considered in contention for the prize. The list was miscellaneous in scope, having been compiled and framed by personal taste, having only the descriptions and a few reviews to inform some impressionable early opinion. Others, however, were marked to be included because either the writer had previously won the award or was shortlisted, and it is almost guaranteed they are automatically nominated. Precedence is also telling in the case of the Booker Prize: once a writer wins once, it is expected that they win later down the line. Without further delay here is the list I ruminated on beforehand:

* Douglas Stuart – “John of John,”
            ** Elizabeth Strout – “The Things We Never Say,”
            Ben Lerner – “Transcription,”
            ** Deborah Levy – “My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein,”
            * Yann Martel – “Son of Nobody,”
            M.L. Stedman – “A Far-flung Life,”
            Makeena Goodman – “Helen of Nowhere,”
            Stephanie Sy-Quia – “A Private Man,”
            Neil Tully – “The Visit,”
            * Marlon James – “The Disappearers,”
            ** Ali Smith – “Glyph,”
            * Howard Jacobson – “Howl,”
            ** Sebastian Barry – “The Newer World,”
            Melissa Harrison – “The Given World,”
            ** Will Self – “The Quantity Theory of Morality,”
            Sarah Moss – “The Winter Guest,”
            Keith Ridgway – “Dooneen,”
            Anne Pratchett – “The Whistler,”
            *** Tom McCarhty – “The Rhyl Poster,”

Douglas Stuart, Yann Martel, Marlon James and Howard Jacobon all previously won the Booker Prize.

Eliabeth Strout, Deborah Levy, Ali Smith, Sebastian Barry, Will Self and Tom McCarthy all have previously been either nominated (longlisted) or shortlisted for the Booker Prize. Tom McCarthy received one extra note, as I was not entirely sure his novel “The Rhyl Poster,” was published in the United Kingdom in time to be considered for the Booker Prize.

Of the listed titles, there were only a handful that truly interested me, chief among them was Melissa Harrison’s novel “The Given World,” which had all but surmised as the spiritual successor to Dylan Thomas’s “Under Milk Wood.” “The Given World,” is described as a pastoral polyphonic novel, exploring the notion of community beyond the definition of a shared place or commune, but how individual lives are woven within the landscape and history of place, creating existential and spiritual connections, in addition to a shared history, and an oncoming ecological crisis. Told between the two equinoxes of spring and autumn, Harrison has crafted a novel that has been praised for its evocative and attentive language detailing the rural landscape; while critics have singled out the narrative structure spread out amongst an ensemble of characters, creates an authentic and choir-like voice, harmonising as the natural world shifts and falters under human made change.  

Further disappointment came when both Deborah Levy and Ali Smith were denied a spot on the longlist. Deborah Levy and Ali Smith are by far some of the more innovative writers in contemporary English language literature. Initially their omission from the longlist, sparked a reaction and immediate accusations that this years Booker Prize judges have shown a complete disregard for innovative fiction. Though this accusation was quickly quelled by the induction of M. John Harrison and his novel “The End of Everything,” which pushes the genre exclusion accusation the Booker Prize is usually charged with. In the case of Ali Smith, “Glyph,” is a companion or sibling novel to the earlier published novel “Gliff,” from 2024. The first novel “Gliff,” was not part of the longlist then, it therefore seemed unlikely that its sibling novel would be longlisted two year later, unless it was to somehow to rectify an injustice by the older omission. While Deborah Levy’s novel “My Year in Paris with Gertrude Stein,” showcases Levy’s delight in always breaking the rules and pushing the limits of fiction into the realm of essay and biography. Deborah Levy remains as delightfully subversive as ever, never confirming. In the case of Will Self and his novel “The Quantity Theory of Morality,” it may not be entirely surprising to see the writer not included on the longlist. Personally, I think Will Self is an acquired taste. Self’s showboating style reveals an impressive polysyllabic vocabulary and delight in word play, which are all homages to the modernist forefathers; but in Self’s hands, it becomes indulgent and inflated.

Perhaps it’s a testament to age, but one does gain a certain appreciation for chamber pieces over larger and longer epicist orchestral arrangements, where volume compensates and hides poor writing. Narratives that are distilled, contained, intimate, even claustrophobic, require a jeweller’s eye to detail and a tuners ear for tone. Despite what might be considered a limitation, diminutive narratives thrive in revealing a world of possibility and depth that are too easily dismissed as miniscule. These are the writers that understand the world is easily contained within a window, not just a globe. “Mrs. Dalloway,” for example takes place within the confines of a single ordinary day. The thought and errand of purchasing flowers becomes the catalyst, by which Woolf voyages into the consciousness, revealing all the impressionistic shimmering watercolours of memory and emotional experience. The temporal fluidity reminiscence possesses in its relation to time. Yet more importantly, it shows the possibility of a life measured within the singular drop of a day, not necessarily through a cartographic exploration of a life recounted in documented detail. Which is perhaps why I viewed Sarah Moss’s novel “The Winter Guest,” with some intrigue. The novel takes place in hotel on Ireland’s west coast on Christmas Eve during a blizzard, whereby two complete strangers are forced into each others company, and by the freedom anonymity of one another confess and reveal their stories. The novel has been described as sharp and playful character study, with a delectable dark twist. I do appreciate works that have a bit more urgency in format, but delight in curating a private atmosphere to both ensnare the characters and readers alike. Most importantly though, I appreciate a writer who values psychological acuity and engaging character studies.

The rest were all intriguing for their own reasons. The autobiographical inspired novel “A Private Man,” by Stephanie Sy-Quia, which reads as an impossible love affair, but becomes a conflux of theological service and passionate earthly desire.  Keith Ridgway’s novel “Dooneen,” appears to be a Dublin homecoming novel, compete with labyrinthine structure and linguistic zeal, as any good Dublin novel would have. Its also a digressive novel delighting in the sleight of hand in its disorientation, embracing the uncanny, the absurd and one might even go so far as to say the surreal, bringing to mind further questions regarding the nature of home (or ones memory of it) and the act of homecoming.

While the longlist was initially viewed as underwhelming, there are a few novels that have since provoked my interest. Chief amongst them is Gwendoline Riley and her novel “The Palm House.” Riley’s literary reputation is founded on the appreciation that she is a meticulous stylist. The kind of writer whose whose prose is controlled and sharp, embracing scrutinizing perspectives cutting away any sentimentality with a pathologist’s eye for examination. Then comes the rejection of traditional linear plots, instead embracing vignettes and chronological fragmentation to assemble narratives of emotional devastation and impasses caused by dysfunctional families or parenteral strife. Gwendoline Riley’s prose as described by critics brings to mind a surgical blade carving into ice: focused, determined and precise; though thankfully not without a certain gallows humour. This drollness saves Riley from being stranded either on the depths of despair or the pinnacles of dreary. In “The Palm House,” Gwendoline Riley continues to survey the existential themes of the contemporary era through the lens of young professionals who are usurped and left despondent with life, which has few carrots on offer, but plenty of stick to strike you with. Critics, however, remain unanimous that it is Riley’s style and language that is the real success of “The Palm House,” employing the poet’s dedication for distillation to economical austerity finishing with translucent clarity punctuated with revealing and understated annihilations. I also think Marlon James’s novel “The Disappearers,” is a true contender for this year’s award. A novel that moves unapologetically in the epic scope, but also as a social critique of a society with strict demands of what is considered normal and acceptable, with all the violent consequences this entails.

Now, the talk of the literary scene though currently is the controversy surrounding Rachel Cusks new novel: “Life of M.” Leave it to Cusk to inspire controversy without fail. Be it her own memoirs on motherhood or her divorce, Rachel Cusk always inspires a strong reaction from literary critics and readers alike. The supposed controversy surrounding “Life of M,” is that it unapologetically takes elements of Natalie Portman’s life and caricaturises it into a grotesque portrait of celebrity and all its superficiality, allowing to it drift away from concrete reality and distort to its own means and measure. Apparently, the actress who the titular ‘M,’ is based on is nonplussed about the depiction. All the while Cusk is able to play both victim and villain from the pillory, she finds herself in – again. The novel “Life of M,” has been called a literary assassination; a complete (alleged) defacement and exploitation of Portman’s character and personal life. Though if anyone knows Cusk or her literary work, the (alleged) brilliance of Cusk’s work is entwined with an unflinching cold and clinical detachment, which in any other terms would be defined and described as cruel. Despite this, Cusk’s unsentimental scalpel prose has never shied away from the utilisation of another’s life or experience for the writer’s own whim. In 2009 Cusk’s publisher was forced to pulp the initial run of the memoir “The Last Supper: A Summer in Italy,” after one man on holiday found himself in the book, and depicted in an unflattering way, for which he threatened legal action. Then there was the bombshell divorce memoir “Aftermath,” which unleashed he hounds of hell who gladly chewed on Cusk, and would affirm her as the most recognisable literary enfant terrible currently at work. Even Rachel Cusks groundbreaking “The Outline Trilogy,” consisting of “Outline, “Transit,” and “Kudos,” were not without controversy, with the Scottish author Damian Barr, commenting that Cusks supposed fictional stencils were “thinner than a thin thing.”

The divisiveness of Rachel Cusk is evident in how she is viewed and described in the literary canon. On the one side, she is one of the great contemporary innovators of the English language. A writer who continues to push the concept of literary self to the point of erasure, showcasing how societal progress has all but homogenised individuality and experience into one singularity. Detractors have argued and surmised her work is nothing short of narcissistic narratives, cipher-oriented novels crafted with eloquent disinfected sentences, with the end result nothing short of discombobulating diatribes of no consequence. Rachel Cusks version of autofiction is an example of the form at its worst and perhaps most indulgent, even when it’s trying not to be. Where Annie Ernaux’s unflinchingly self- flagellation of personal experience, memory and record are boiled down into a rendered chronicle of retrospective of the personal in relation to history and social adjustment. Rachel Cusk’s from of autofiction is a void or black hole. An all-consuming maw consuming, mining, utilising and exploiting the lives around or within her vicinity without consequence. “Life of M,” is no different. Unfortunately, the supposed “interrogation of fame, power, beauty and truth,” has now been besmirched by gossip and questions of literary and creative ethics, especially in the nature of autofiction. These are otherwise tired, old and boorish debates. Still, one can’t help but have some empathy for Rachel Cusk, who is always the ready-made lightning rod of controversy. Forced to defend herself or coyly deny accusations of defacement and slander on the grounds of literary merit or creativity. Yet, the work itself, especially in the case of “Life of M,” begins to move continually closer to tawdry tabloid over literary achievement. Regardless, there is no doubt the controversy certainly helped the books sales.

The Booker Prize longlist may not have had much if any of my own speculated inclusions; but many of the novels such as “The Palm House,” “Switzy,” and “The Disappearers,” have moved out of the fray and taken their position as serious contenders for the prize; while “Black Bag,” by Luke Kennard shouldn’t be underestimated as a great satire of the current absurd and maddening times we live in now. The Booker Prize perhaps still has some life pumping in its veins. It may have watered itself down in a deluge when it opened its doors on the premise of inclusion in 2014, but its back catalogue of winners and nominees have plenty of surprises on offer, if you are up to digging and sifting.

 

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

Things That Disappear

Hello Gentle Reader,

There’s a thrill in perusing through an antique dealer. Be it in an antique shop or mall. Curiosity cabinet or junk shop. Flea market or church bazaar. Estate or jumble or yard sale. The best ones are those who have accumulated their wares with a magpie eye and the temperament of a squirrel. Order be damned. It’s a stockpile of chaos. A rat’s nets with no rhyme or reason. Each new acquisition deposited in an otherwise precarious spot. Always under the understanding that transience is the name of the game. There is always the threat of upheaval. Space is occupied and relinquished in an otherwise transactional reality. Nothing is static. Especially with an influx of inventory set to arrive, meaning accommodations need to be arranged, requiring alterations and space to be made for new arrivals or another haul. Its all rather natural. This state of reassembly and reconfiguration. Each storefront a ramshackle dragons hoard where treasure, trinket and rubbish come to co-exist. They form pockets and capsules, orphaned from the river of time. Though saved from the permanent end of the landfill. An otherwise unceremonious burial. Each place will have their own layout and appearance; though the atmosphere is always the same. One might suspect its curated or a staged effect. Its merely consequence of such an accumulation. The lighting soft, almost a resin in its syrup application, pouring over the shelves crowded with an eclectic assortment; cabinets stocked with all manner of objects; tables stacked with odds and ends; an accrual of heaps piled up miscellaneously. What a pleasure it is to shuffle about, reviewing the stockpile. Objects discarded and washed ashore bring back memories due to their familiarity. A mid-century pattern pyrex mixing bowl, transports you back to your mothers’ kitchen. It’ll be autumn, the canning is finished. A bountiful harvest. You helped that year, scalding the tomatoes. Transferring them from the boiling pot to the ice bath. Whereby they were plucked and peeled, chopped and canned then processed. After processing you were shooed away. In the evening the house was interrupted by the chorus of the jars sealing. An echo of popping from the kitchen. In another cabinet, a pink depression glass candy bowl reminds you of your grandmother. An enigma of a woman. Unknowable in a myriad of ways. Though she wanted to be sweet and warm; but was lost in the mist of melancholy. The candy dish forever held the same scotch mint. Grandfathers favourite. Though he was a ghost upon your own arrival. Long since deceased. Despite this, his preferences remained intact, ritualistically upheld. One of those ways we find to preserve the memory and presence. When grandmother died and the house was packed up, the candy bowl would be discarded. Just one of those things no one had use for. The memories of these otherwise impersonal objects are what gives them just a bit more meaning through personal narrative. Though we all know they are not the same ones, they’re produced carbon copies have stumbled into these sanctuaries.

The state of impermanence is perhaps one of the defining literary preoccupations of Jenny Erpenbeck. Having been born and raised in the former East Germany (GDR | German Democratic Republic) to a privileged household; Erpenbeck’s entire early life has all but disappeared. Evaporating into the annals of history. Whereby it can be viewed behind glass enclosures, complete with accompanying text provided some context. In short, a piece of Erpenbeck’s life and existential experiences have all been carted off and away into exhibits. In The Paris Review, in an article titled “Homesick for Sadness,” with almost comical matter of fact understatement her memories of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the inevitability of the unification of Germany:

            “What was I doing the night the Wall fell?

I spent the evening with friends just a few blocks from the spot where history was being made, and then: I went to bed. I slept right through it. And while I slept the pot wasn’t just stirred, it was knocked over and smashed to bits. The next morning, I was told we wouldn’t need pots anymore.”

Overnight the old order fell away. Familiarity and reality had dissolved into obsolescence. How then does one get their bearings, when theirs no hand rail and barely any stairs? The transition to freedom is, unsurprisingly, a bewildering and impersonal experience. To quote Erpenbeck from the same article:

“Everyday life was no longer everyday life: it was an adventure that had been survived. Our customs were now a sideshow attraction. Everything that had been self-evident forfeited its self-evidence within the span of a few weeks. A door that opened only once every hundred years was now standing ajar, but the hundred years were gone forever. From this point on, my childhood became a museum exhibit.”

Despite this, as writers such as Herta Müller, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Imre Kertész, Svetlana Alexveich, Ismail Kadare, and Václav Havel, pointed out the Soviet Union and its ironclad communism was an oppressive authoritarian system actively asphyxiating the populace. It would be a stretch, if not a blatant farce, to call it a socialist utopia (as so much soviet propaganda heralded it as such). Regardless, it is interesting to read another perspective from behind the Iron Curtain. In “Things That Disappear,” Jenny Erpenbeck takes inventory of the state of loss. A growing refugee camp of items no longer required because they are out of sync with the times or out of fashion. Their functions, their values, their features all harken back to a lost world. Erpenbeck describes their abrupt desuetude with lamenting precision:

“Things disappear when they are deprived of their means of existence, as if they, too, have a hunger that must be satisfied.”

The inventoried items having been lost or at the risk of being lost to the dusts of history before their gradual fade into oblivion, having been catalogued in “Things That Disappear,” vary in scope and size. There is the mundane drip catcher (Tropfenfänger) which is deployed on coffee pots to save the starched clean integrity of table clothes from unnecessary dribbles. To the vague question of whether or not manners are still exercised as a form of social courtesy, or if it too has been abandoned as being out of step with the times. Other losses, however, are far larger in scale and scope, as in the case of the demolition of the Palast der Republik, a monument to the former East Germany, a glittering structure of brutalist geography with bronze tinted glass. Upon reunification its demolished. Erpenbeck, however, reminisces over its representation as some shining ideal. The ideal being the egalitarian nature of the former GDR, where the state house was by nature, the peoples house, housing bowling alleys and cinemas. Until, it too went to dust.

Jenny Erpenbeck succeeds in “Things That Disappear,” by cataloguing the material and mundane loss that inhabits the everyday life. Look no farther then any flea market, church bazaar, or antique store to see the wonders of yesteryear now being sold as vintage or a throwback. True gems though go for a higher price. This sense of palpability of the past is what makes shows such as “The Repair Shop,” so beautiful and endearing. Through refurbishment and repair the past is no longer alien or memory being summoned from the ethereal recesses of the mind, but instead given renewed and rehabilitated shape to shine once again. For a new generation to love and adore. Ultimately though, as Erpenbeck continues to survey and exemplify, nothing will last forever. Not the objects in question; not the manners; not the customs, traditions or rituals; not the buildings or monuments; not the memories; not even the countries. They are all at risk of being washed away or written off or retired. While time marches forward and what is loss is readily abandoned. Jenny Erpenbeck in “Things That Disappear,” finds and outlet to at least mourn and provide some obituary to what is being forgotten. Tiled stoves she advises should not be abandoned. Central heating is a contemporary luxury and expectation, but never be quick to denounce a redundancy in the event of a crisis, hence the advise to keep tiled stoves. Then there is the frustration when your favourite pastry is metamorphosed into a different something else that no longer resembles it. Erpenbeck succeeds capturing this private almost absurd moments of grief and frustration.

“There’s an isle of the Blessed somewhere in Eastern Germany where a Ferris wheel rises above fields of rapeseed, bran, and oats, where a boat swings, where the pop hit of sixties echo across the grounds, merci, merci, merci; where the llama grazes alongside the cow, for the hours, chérie, chérie, chérie, where the fox from the petting zoo plays with the boss’s pug, where a cup of coffee costs fifty cents, including powdered creamer and sugar cubes from the family-sized pack. Once you’ve entered this paradise (1 child + 1 adult = 12 euros), all the rides are free, even the bumper cars, for as long you want. The only things that cost extra are shooting and throwing games.”

This scene from the short column or essay “Middle of Nowhere,” describes the fate that befalls all objects and societies as they are phased out. The wistful decrepitude and eventual decay. Another touching column detailing a coal merchant, reveals a man lost and abandoned in a new world, which no longer requires him. While change is inevitable; in the same vein as progress is inevitable. The poignancy of this is realised after the world you knew and recognised and has been reshaped and recalibrated, leaving you behind in the process. “Things That Disappear,” was an interesting introduction into the work of Jenny Erpenbeck, her curated exhibit of the losses and the alienation one feels when their world has abruptly changed.

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

M. Mary

 

For Further Reading: Jenny Erpenbeck: "Homesick for Sadness," (The Paris Review)