– 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

– XLIV –

Censors are always mistaken in the belief that if they hide the ‘unsavory,’ away, conceal it from public consumption, that it no longer exists. Rather quite the opposite. It becomes treasure. A pilgrimage. A secret indulgence. It thrives in the absence of acknowledgment and spreads.

Thoughts Regarding the Nobel Prize in Literature 2025

 

—    I —

 
 
Last year the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to the (South) Korean writer Han Kang with the prize motivation:  
 

“For her intense poetic prose that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life.”  

 
There was a common theme through last year's prize announcement week, as both the physics and chemistry prizes were awarded to artificial intelligence researchers. Commentators on the science prizes held a lukewarm appreciation to the announcements, viewing it as a foreshadow to dawn of a new reality and age, whereby human achievement, ingenuity, and possibility would give way to the rise of machines and artificial intelligence. There was tongue in cheek commentary regarding the Nobel Prize in Literature being awarded to some artificial intelligence program. Of course, instead the Nobel Prize in Literature was awarded to the (South) Korean writer Han Kang.  
 
After the initial rupture of shock and joy of Han’s award, the announcement became more tempered. At 53 years old at the time of the announcement, in addition to a bibliography considered on the small side and considered by some as lacking serious substance beyond a couple of novels; the critical view of Han Kang’s award was decent but premature. Supporters interpreted the award as motivation for Han to continue writing and publishing. Fiercer critics, such as Mikaela Blomqvist (a former external members of the Nobel Committee, in the post-scandal years) were more scathing in their assessment of Han Kang’s Nobel. Blomqvist views Han’s lacking catalogue with suspicion, but also takes further aim at her literary subjects, specifically surrounding her novels, “Human Acts,” and “We Do Not Part,” whereby Blomqvist argues that it’s the subject matter which solicits interest, rather than how Han approaches and engages with the events themselves. Both novels, recount human tragedy and political violence in the form of two historical massacres from Korea’s formulative and contemporary history – the Gwangju Uprising and the Jeju Uprising – and how their lasting impacts continue to reverberate in contemporary society. Blomqvist argues that Han fails to engage with events on serious literary terms, instead descending into kitsch and parabolic aphorism. Mikaela Blomqvist continues that the gravitas of these historical developments is reduced by prose that is far more concerned with highlighting the emotional responses, consequences, impacts, and resonances, rather than subtlety weaving and highlighting these effects through the text, providing readers the opportunity to come to these conclusions naturally. For Mikaela Blomqvist, the emotive solicitation and sentimentality of Han’s prose eclipse’s the literary potential, as Blomqvist proposes, just because the work is affecting does not mean it qualifies as literary.  
 
Overall, Han Kang’s Nobel Prize is most comparable to Kazuo Ishiguro’s in that it is polite and acceptable. Han’s Nobel is not mired or stained by controversy or political pandering or machinations. In turn it is not considered exceptionally groundbreaking or invigoratingly curious. Instead, Han Kang’s award is agreeable, with a few injections of dissention from critics such as Mikaela Blomqvist, providing the necessary countermeasures to an award that was to easily deemed unanimously acceptable. After the announcement, other commentators on Swedish Public Television – Ingrid Elam, Jonas Thente, and Lyra Ekström Lindbäck – were equally divided on the decision. Elam agreed with the Swedish Academy’s decision, while Thente and Lindbäck remained less convinced with the decision. Victor Malm literary critic of the Swedish newspaper Expressen also viewed the decision as weak. While commentators in the English language world were more euphoric and congratulatory. They highlighted Han’s intimate portraits of violence (be it political or personal), but also acts of resistance when confronted with violence, and private acts of subversion to resist against societal expectations and norms.  
 
The criticism directed towards Han Kang’s Nobel Prize in Literature is not without merit. Han’s catalogue in translation is insufficient and limited. Only four novels have been translated into English by the time of the award, and a fifth arrived early in 2025; an additional two short stories circulating in electronic and chapbook form. While it is true, not all Nobel Laurates have an extensive and robust bibliography – Toni Morrison had six novels published before her Nobel; Kazuo Ishiguro had seven novels and a collection of short stories; both Wisława Szymborska and Tomas Tranströmer are both renowned their small bibliographies, and are exceptional in craftsmanship – there still is a sense that Han Kang’s overall output is under developed, which is the greatest focal point of criticism directed towards the Swedish Academy’s decision. In an overview of Han’s literary works in translation, the Swedish Academy made an effort to highlight not only Han’s more recognizable texts in translation: “The Vegetarian,” and “Human Acts,” but also untranslated works such as “Your Cold Hands,” a story singled out by Anders Olsson as an example of Han Kang’s ability to capture the fractals of the human condition splintering off and shading one another, be it physical, psychological, emotional or spiritual. In reviewing untranslated works, the Swedish Academy justifies their position to award Han Kang the Nobel Prize in Literature, evidencing that they were able to assess and review her work beyond what was available for current readers. Regardless, it is easy to see how many critics have deemed the year's Nobel Prize as perhaps going to a writer whose full potential has not yet been fully realized. If the Nobel Prize in Literature is often viewed as lifetime achievement award and acknowledging their years of work; it is not unreasonable to voice opposition that Han Kang has yet to reach those pinnacles. This inevitably situates Han Kang in that awkward position of some previous Nobel Laureates – such as William Golding and Kazuo Ishiguro – middling and acceptable, but not necessarily exceptional or groundbreaking. For the sake of argument, however, this criticism may yet be Han’s saving grace. Having not yet ‘peaked,’ as a writer, she still may write her masterpieces(s), and the Swedish Academy can be praised for having the foresight for getting ahead of the curb. Additionally, as a fairly large swathe of Han’s catalogue remains untranslated, readers have yet to gain a complete palette of Han Kang’s literary offerings. Though the Swedish Academy does highlight that most startling works of Han’s bibliography are “Human Acts,” and “We Do Not Part,” which contribute to the citations phrase: “[. . .] that confronts historical traumas and exposes the fragility of human life,” as both novels, reckon with gruesome and tragic periods of (South) Koreas contemporary brutal history, as the country succumbing to not only ideological paranoia but authoritarianism in its divided pursuit for independence, all of which contributed to the senseless slaughter of its citizens. In this Han Kang remains a mournful and elegiac writer who eulogizes and recounts how these events have rippled through time, with the consequences still palpable. This is where the Swedish Academy persists that Han’s work captures and encapsulates pain and suffering not as acts of transcendence or catalysts of redemption or remediation, but as fundamental existential experiences. They are the very consequence of being alive, further resonating and exemplifying the brittle and fragile nature of existence and being human.  
 
Han Kang’s Nobel Prize in Literature also raises the question of how much investment and lobbying by national institutions and governments plays into the Swedish Academy’s deliberations and reviews. There is no denying that for years the (South) Korean government has long coveted the Nobel Prize in Literature, which they would see as international acknowledgement and recognition of their cultural exports. An overview of this campaign was first discussed in an article in the New Yorker titled: “Can a Big Government Push Bring the Nobel Prize in Literature to South Korea?”  
 
Then when The Guardian then cheekily commented: “Could K-lit be the new K-pop?!” while there may have been a collective groan and a few eye rolls, there has been extensive investment and effort made by the (South) Korean government to define and shape an idea of what Korean literature is as a national institution and transmitting this idea national literature into different languages and cultural contexts. In his article, “The Paradox of the Nobel Prize in Literature,” Alex Taek-Gwang Lee describes the efforts of the (South) Korean government work towards defining a Korean brand of national literature, to present a unified image and narrative of how (South) Korea would appreciate being perceived by the international community. In this regard, the efforts of the (South) Korean government should not be overlooked or dismissed regarding last year's Nobel Prize in Literature. They’re investment in translating and promoting their literature abroad is remarkable; but also, a testament to how (South) Korea views international awards in relation to recognizing and affirming their own positioning in global politics. Despite the fact that the Nobel Prize in Literature is awarded to individual writers on the basis of the merit of their work and has no concern for state oriented political dimensions. This does not mean, however, certain governments do not covet the award as a token to exemplify their soft power; as in the case of China who treated Gao Xingjian’s award with cold indifference due to his critical text of the government, but were positively giddy when Mo Yan (a state sponsored writer in every way but official title) won. The investments by the (South) Korean government into institutions such as the Digital Library of Korean Literature and the Literature Translation Institute of Korea, have successfully and efficiently disseminated Korean language literature abroad, which in the case of the Nobel Prize in Literature – or any international literary prize – is more than half the battle. 
 
To further illustrate the mission and success of the Literature Translation Institute of Korea, consider the fact that for years, the poet Ko Un dominated western thought regarding Korean literature. Then in 2016 Han Kang and Bae Suah usurped the poet from his pedestal and were leading the charge of (South) Korean writers in translation, and for a while circled each other in contrast. Han Kang, the emotive explorer. The scenographer of the empathetic and emotional responses of individuals as they grapple with experiences of pain, oppression, suffering or loss be it physical, political, social, or psychological. Han Kang’s work is immediately recognized for tracing the affecting nature of otherwise traumatic events, while avoiding mooring the work in the sentimental, sensational, or exaggerated. Whereas Bae Suah is more cerebral in her approach to literary terms. Bae is unapologetically autodidactic approach to writing facilities a playful perspective regarding narrative, with a writing style geared to towards an innovative and experimental approach, as Bae Suah is not burdened by literary allegiance or indoctrination. It is no surprise that Bae Suah is described as the ‘Korean Kafka,’ as her novels and short stories continually digress into the strange and surreal, usurping readers expectations and established definitions of reality, all the while being unapologetic in their digression and critiques on literary narratives and forms themselves. Where Han Kang is the elegiac muse, lamenting the suffering as a state of human existence, both in a historical and personal context in intensely lyrical and affecting prose. Bae Suah is a literary pathologist, autopsying and deconstructing narrative, character, form and language, only to stitch and reconfigure it anew. Perhaps it is the conventional appeal and accessibility of Han Kang, which inevitably saw her take the International Booker Prize and cement herself as a staple in translation.  
 
As the years progressed, however, more Korean language writers have been introduced and found solid ground with readers: Hwang Sok-yong and Yi Munyeol (Yi Mun-yol) in prose; Kim Hyesoon in poetry. This is where I find myself apprehensive regarding Han Kang’s Nobel, as there are plenty of (South) Korean writers that the Nobel Committee and Swedish Academy could have assessed and evaluated, many who have more ‘established,’ portfolios then Han and are equally deserving. Kim Hyesoon for example, is one of the most original and invigorating poetic voices in Korean literature, whose language is agile and experimental as it incorporates violent and grotesque imagery, which is appreciated and marveled at in translation. A rare feat for any work in translation, let alone poetry. By comparing and contrasting Han Kang with many of the other writers in translation there is a sense that the Swedish Academy have inevitably missed the mark. This does not mean that Han Kang is not necessarily undeserving, rather it means not yet. What’s available in translation does not provide enough context to truly appreciate her skill, and this is where I tend to agree that the Swedish Academy in last year's decision acted prematurely, whereas in eight or ten years, Han Kang’s candidacy for the award would be stronger. Regardless, while some in the Korean literary establishment may dismiss the Nobel Prize as nothing more than bullshit and yet another local European book prize, it certainly didn’t stop them from celebrating Han’s Nobel all the same.  
 
In his article, “The Paradox of the Nobel Prize in Literature,” Alex Taek-Gwang Lee reflects on the strange juxtaposition of a nations cultural ambition versus the individual pursuit of the writer. As in the case of the (South) Korean government, their dream to have an international award or body – however niche or small, including an 18-member academy of Swedish language intellectuals – to recognize their literary and cultural exports, would be seen as a significant acknowledgement of their literature and culture and be considered just as substantial as English literature or Japanese literature or French literature. In preparing for that, Alex Taek-Gwang Lee clarifies, the (South) Korean government curated a national image of their literature, one which celebrated stoicism, resilience, and resistance in the face of violent and wartime suffering in a historical context. Hwang Sok-yong is one such writer, whose work contains these macro national perspectives within a literary context. True to Nobel fashion, the prize inadvertently thwarted these ambitions and expectations by awarding Han Kang, who despite being recognized and praised internationally, was considered a rather minor figure in the prescribed specifics of national literature, because Han’s literary focus remained on the individual experience and intimate individual narratives; not nation defining epics of resilience and perseverance. Regardless, Han Kang’s Nobel Prize in Literature would not be as possible without the investment of the Korean government into a literary network, which saw her work appeal to an international audience, further establishing a reputation abroad and of course Han’s Man Booker International Prize win, which inevitably included her being nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature, and for the Swedish Academy to eventually begin the process of evaluating her work in earnest. 
 
As for the Swedish Academy, they retain the defense and attitude that they do no take exterior factors (i.e. sex, nationality, or age) into consideration when deliberating the Nobel Prize in Literature. However, as the archives have been open and more information is available, it has become apparent these exterior matters are indeed provided equal consideration. As many nominated writers have been outrightly dismissed due to their advanced ages, as in the case of Robert Frost’s nomination in 1961. Both Robert Graves and W.H. Auden were equally dismissed on the nature of their age. In the case of Auden, the Swedish Academy proved to be even more stinging by suggesting the best was already behind the poet. Of course, the Swedish Academy is more receptive to youth, as proven by the recently opened archives for the 1974 prize deliberations, where both Nadine Gordimer and Doris Lessing were included on the shortlist. Both writers at this time were each in their early 50’s, with Gordimer being 50 years old and Lessing 54 years old. As if in unison, both Nadine Gordimer and Doris Lessing had started publishing in the early 1950’s, and by the 1970’s had amassed a sizable and politically engaged bibliography. Nadine Gordimer’s work directly criticized and depicted the appalling atrocities and conditions of apartheid South Africa. Whereas Doris Lessing surveyed racial tensions and colonial attitudes in her debut novel “The Grass is Singing,” (which was highly praised by Horace Engdahl during the 2007 prize announcement), these themes were explored further in the early novels comprising of the “Children of Violence,” series. Then Lessing changed directions in the 1960s, whereby she began to explore more interior and psychological landscapes, dabbling in what is considered soft science fiction and dystopian fiction, before sharply veering into explicit science fiction writing by the late 1970’s. While both of these writers may have been on the shortlist in 1974, they would have to wait to win the award. First, Nadine Gordimer won in 1991. While Doris Lessing (currently the oldest Nobel Laureate in Literature) won the prize in 2007, after she had published her monumental autobiographies, which are often considered to being the deciding factors in her reassessment and award. While it can be contested that Han’s award is relatively green in comparison to other monumental writers who were glaringly overlooked; there was a noticeable discontent that the Nobel Prize veered into populist territory, whereby the popularity of Han’s work in translation may have eclipsed her literary contributions and merit, and that the Swedish Academy is attempting a course correction, by awarding more popular or well-known writers, in order to stave off the usual criticism that the award is too esoteric and inscrutable. Overall, Han Kang’s award is justified, but I do concede that it was granted on the early side. In the meantime, here’s hoping that more of Han Kang’s untranslated bibliography is translated, which will provide a great overview of the writer’s work.  
 
The final note worth mentioning regarding Han Kang’s Nobel, is in the context and the at times uncomfortable intersection between political realities and literature. In the case of Han Kang’s Nobel, this comes in regard to the now former President Yoon Suk Yeol attempts at enacting martial law in December 2024. The last time martial law was enacted in the nation was in 1979, which is a time when (South) Koreas relationship with democracy was a mere idea or dream, more than reality, as the government quickly stamped out all attempts at democratic reform. Since the Korean War a few decades prior, the iron grip of authoritarianism gripped the peninsulas north and south. The only difference was which faction was tolerated by the Soviets, and which one was tolerated by the United States. On which point, (South) Korea is considered a relatively young democracy, having only achieved a sense of liberation after the June Democratic Uprising of 1987. Prior to that, two previous attempts at mobilizing and instituting democratic reform were violently squashed by the government. It comes as no surprise then, when the former president attempted to enact martial law, the people acted quickly and decisively to defend their democracy and their freedoms. As history informs all students: relinquishing one’s freedoms is easy; regaining them is another matter. Despite a heavy military and police presence, citizens, law makers, and political aides descended on to the National Assembly in outrage and revolted against the heavy-handed attempt of an incompetent politician’s attempt to take complete control. In the ensuring chaos, one scene caught the world's attention, that of a fearless woman grabbing and pushing a soldier’s assault rifle away, which had previously been aimed at her. Unfiltered, indignant, and raw this young woman’s actions became a searing battle cry of defiance, and a reminder of citizens inherent responsibility to defend the basic tenets of democracy. In Stockholm as the events unfolded, Han Kang was pressed about her own views on the events unfolding back Seoul. Eloquent, if albeit somewhat evasive, Han could only summarize everyone else’s thoughts on the matter: shock and concern, tempered with hope.  
 
To this point, the Swedish Academy has framed Han Kang within the framework of witness literature, specifically with both novels, “Human Acts,” and “We Do Not Part,” which concern themselves with historical resistance and political acts of violence and massacres in contemporary Korean history; but also, how “The Vegetarian,” is seen as politically subversive, as an individual rebels against a culture of engrained social norms and a demand for conformity and unity to maintain social cohesion. While this designation can be debated – as Han is not writing in the same vein as Herta Müller or Svetlana Alexievich – the commitment to preserving historical injustices and acts of resistance, showcases Han Kang as a writer of serious commitment to safeguarding justice and freedom in the face and continued threat of a re-emergence of totalitarian tolerance. While in Stockholm, Han Kang’s award was at times overshadowed by the political events taking place in (South) Korea, which she naturally and gracefully responded to without wading into the depths of political discourse. The events of that December, with the failed enactment of martial law, and the upwelling mobilization of protest, all seemed to support Han Kang’s Nobel, as the author continues to ponder the question of why violence is an intrinsic feature of the human condition, while juxtaposing it against the fragility of human existence and life within the context of history.  
 
 

— II —

 

 
Over a period of 123 years, the Nobel Prize in Literature has been awarded 117 times to 121 laureates. Literary movements, fashions, and trends have often cycled through the Nobel Prize in Literature, as the Swedish Academy attempts to presents itself as a consummate connoisseur of the highest literary ideals and fashions. In the beginning, it’s apparent that the Swedish Academy in their green naivety, clung to the ideals and values of old. Many of those first-generation laurates have since faded into obscurity and are mere footnotes in literary theory and discussions of world canon. Even more telling were the obvious omissions and traditional Nobel snubs, which will always be pulled out of the cabinet and wielded against the Nobel Prize and the Swedish Academy and their so-called importance, as nothing more than mere imposters, pretenders, and frauds, because they did not award Leo Tolstoy or Henrik Ibsen or Thomas Hardy or Henry James or Émile Zola. Then of course, there’s the glaring omission and explicit understanding that the Swedish Academy viewed the modernist movement with distaste and distrust, which left many modernist masters out in the cold. In those burgeoning early years, the Nobel Prize in Literature stumbled and fumbled frequently, attempting to find its footing as both a literary prize and in an honest effort to honour the obligations of Alfred Nobel’s will and testament: 
 

“in the field of literature, produced the most outstanding work in an idealistic direction.” 

 
While many of these early laureates have been forgotten, during these formulative years, the Swedish Academy received significantly fewer nominations than they do now, which means their laureate pool was on one hand more manageable, while on the other scarcer options to evaluate. The Swedish Academy did however manage to award a handful of writers who have endured as classics; but is relentlessly criticized for all those glaring omissions, snubs, and refusals. To that point, the list of who should have won the Nobel Prize in Literature often exceeds those who have, and as if to add insult to injury, those who were passed by enjoy enduring recognition and established legacies. By the late 1940’s and into the 1950’s the Swedish Academy began to find a more confident footing, awarding Gabriela Mistral, Herman Hesse, André Gide, T.S. Eliot, William Faulkner, and Bertrand Russell during this time. Entering the mid 1950’s the Swedish Academy began to conclude that the Nobel Prize in Literature would be a literary award first, as the ‘idealistic direction,’ penned by Alfred Nobel was a difficult metric to be used to evaluate candidates.   
 
Through the subsequent decades the Nobel Prize crowned an eclectic assembly of writers, whose style, form, themes, and preoccupations varied. A quick survey will unearth the hybrid sensibilities of Kawabata Yasunari’s novels and stories that blend both Japanese literary and cultural traditions with modern western literary styles. The nihilistic and absurdist comedies of Samuel Beckett. The dissident writings of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. The poetic range of Pablo Neruda, particularly the palpable and passionate poetry that elevates the stock cliché of love into the endearing erotic. The gravitas of Czesław Miłosz’s poetry which wrestle with the historical, the political, and the eternal questions of the human condition. The polyhistor Elias Canetti. The epicist and Egyptian chronicler of the 20^th century Naguib Mahfouz. Derek Walcott whose classic poetry was infused with the Caribbean spirit and landscape. The approachable, ironic, and playful poetry of Wisława Szymborska contemplating moral, ethical, philosophical conundrums with humour and earthen sensibilities. The breathless style of Jose Saramago’s parabolic novels. Elfriede Jelinek whose sociopolitical psychosexual critical novels and plays irritate and dazzle with their linguistic zeal and pyrotechnical brilliance. The barometric bibliography of Doris Lessing chronicling a century of catastrophe and social change, charting the behaviour patterns, attitudes, ideals, intellectual fashions throughout the 20^th century, and scrutinizing them in the end with hard won wisdom and with the contrarian clarity of age. The pointillistic prose of Herta Müller, depicting the disposed and disenfranchised landscape of communist Romania and the moral failings of Ceaușescu’s corrosive corruption. Alice Munro’s rustic short stories that expanded the formats architecture and temporal range. Patrick Modiano’s gossamer prose that explored intersecting realms of memory, guilt, and identity. The cartographic writings of Svetlana Alexievich tracing the experience of the Soviet and post-Soviet individual. Of course, allowances need to be generously applied. For every contemporary classic writer there are always duds, writers who fall below the mark, and will likely be retired to the back of shelf.  
 
Through the decades the Swedish Academy never endorsed any particular literary style, format, or subject. The secretaryship of Horace Engdahl, Peter Englund, and the late Sara Danius, curated a variety of writers that inspired both curiosity and controversy. Horace Engdahl and Peter Englund stewarded the prized with steady assurance during their terms. Awarding brilliance in both established titans and confabulating outrage and broadening the literary palette with obscure decisions. Unfortunately, Sara Danius’s tenure was shortened by scandal, but her term showed an inclination to test the waters outside of the conventional literary purview with controversial results. While there are a few nodal points which can be highlighted over the decades as recognizable patterns tethering some laureates together in sharing either similar concerns or preoccupations, be it witness literature or innovation of style, each laureate remained independent in merit. Each award remained heterogenous, as each laureate was yet another attempt by the Swedish Academy to give shape and form to the undefinable concept of world literature. How successful the academy is in shaping – or at least providing context and form to it – time will inevitably tell, as each award is a reflection and product of the circumstance and time of its award. Over the past four years, however, there has been discernible trend where the Swedish Academy has come to endorse a specific writing style. Starting in 2020 with the American lyrical poet Louise Glück, the Swedish Academy has come to award writers whose literary style is noted for its blanched approach to writing, that otherwise reductionist and boiled down style. One that favours clean, uncomplicated, or natural language. For Louise Glück it is the austerity and exacting precision of her poetry. In the case of Annie Ernaux, it is the clinical acuity of her personal examinations within the perspective of social and historical contexts. Abdulrazak Gurnah’s novels embrace a similar natural language when it comes to narrative. The Swedish Academy a considerable effort to focus on Gurnah’s narratives and subject matter rather than style, or lack of.  
 
In the case of Louise Glück and Annie Ernaux, stripping away all ostentatious ornamentation is necessary for both writers to pathologize the intense personal nature of their work. For Louise Glück, the Swedish Academy highlighted the austere language of her poetry, which employees steeled and scalpel sharp language to not only lay the heart bare but autopsy it. Despite the personal nature of her poetry, whereby Glück dissected memory, personal experiences, and complications produced by familiar and intimate relationship, all the while dispelling personal illusions; Glück is not a confessional poet. Though critics were desperate to categorize her as one when she first began publishing. Despite the seedlings of autobiography, Glück’s severe language trims away the self-indulgences of confessional poetry. There’s no tantalizing striptease or burning sensation of self-immolation. Glück’s poetry is too crisp to sustain such sensuality. By pruning out the panache and excess Glück’s poetry provide a retrospect and honest review, which is further refracted and reflected on, when presented and viewed through a variety of personas, be it mythic or botanic. Louise Glück’s poetry is that of the harvester’s wisdom, sober, strict, and undecorated, but what it yields is rich in hard earned and home-grown clarity. If Louise Glück wrote in a saturated style of poetic edifice, the poems would naturally fail and be dismissed as kitsch and sentimental. The clarity and transparency that Glück’s poetry strives for would be lost within the excess. The streamlined and severe poetic language of Louise Glück’s poetry is required for their success and literary value, whereby self-induced deceptions are dispelled in favour of assurances granted by confronting unadulterated realities. Whereas Annie Ernaux carefully delineates literature as a medium and method of record capturing the fluctuations and developments in the ever-changing social fabric and history. Any frivolity or operatic lyricism in Ernaux’s writing would reduce her work to self-indulged histrionic solipsism. Nothing short of trivial tabloid exhibition. Annie Ernaux’s self-described personal ethnographic studies are records of deeply personal and private events. They are intimate portraits capturing with the instantaneous flash of a polaroid the fleeting events of the private life in reflection of larger social and historical contexts. The indulgent exhibitionism of the display is thwarted by the clinical and acute language Ernaux employes. Described as “scrapped clean,” by the Swedish Academy, Ernaux’s literary language eschews the artifice of lyricism and codifies with a blunt matter of fact tone. This bleached language is necessary for Annie Ernaux’s work to be reviewed and understood in a literary context. If Ernaux overdressed her prose with frills and lace it would be criticized as pretense parading itself as literary record. Instead, Annie Ernaux’s ruthless personal and social examinations must be pulled back and boiled down to the marrow, only then can it be assessed as a critical study on the nature of the individual within the social and historical contexts. In this regard, Annie Ernaux observes, recounts, records, transcribes, and remembers the changes in the air, charting the different theories employed to conceptualize and understand the human being as a social animal. For Ernaux the self is the anchor and vantage point to provide narrative decree and understanding of the indifferent events and historical developments happening around the individual. Annie Ernaux’s writing captures in real time the human condition without wringing it out in the realm of dry academia, leaving it to become further sanitized and mythologized, as Ernaux maintains the palpability of the mundane, the trivial and ordinary business and frustrations of daily life. None of this can be achieved, however, if Ernaux failed to render her prose to its transparent and refined bone polished result. To avoid the entrapment of sentimentality and sensationalism both Louise Glück and Annie Ernaux are required to write in a literary language that is described as austere and sharp.  
 
Jon Fosse continues the trend of the Swedish Academy appreciating a more subdued and anesthetised literary style. Jon Fosse’s dramatic writings and prose are noted for their simple diction. What separates Jon Fosse is the arrangement and rhythm of language. Fosse’s prose is renowned for long lugubrious sentences. Channels of text course on and through. Phases are repeated throughout the text providing guidance and anchorage for readers adrift within the flotsam and jetsam of Fosse’s prose; yet its Jon Fosse’s rhythm which elevates his work from being exemplified as bleak minimalism. How Fosse works the language is what distinguishes him from the clinician pathologizing of Ernaux and the exacting austerity of Glück. Fosse’s incantatory prose emulates the tidal cadence with its swelling, crashing, and receding pattern. Narrators, characters, and voices are castaway in this language, a hypotonic stream of consciousness narrative meditating on the perennial themes of doubt, questioning of faith, vulnerability of love, loss, alienation and separation. This lapping language becomes a gentle lull. In turn, through repetition and variation, in addition to curated silences, Fosse’s prose gains further depth enveloping readers as temporal footholds slip away and they to become adrift within the consciousness of the narrative. In his monumental “Septology,” the continuous sentence emulates the rolling and wandering thoughts of Asle; while the sustained circling of “Aliss at the Fire,” finds Signe who drifting through time and space to review and witness the hereditary premise for her missing husbands predestined absence.    
 
This is where I diverge from the Swedish Academy’s assessment regarding Han Kang’s writing style proclaimed as innovative. During the announcement presentation of Han’s Nobel Prize, Anders Olsson highlighted Han’s experimental style going so far as to describe her as a “innovator in contemporary prose.” This was repeated by Swedish Academy member Anna-Karin Palm in the short follow up interview, whereby she mentioned the experimental style of Han’s work. Based on the novels currently translated into English, it is difficult to understand how Olsson and other members of the Swedish Academy came to the conclusion that Han is an experimental and innovative writer. Han Kang’s novels are not regarded for being stylistically revolutionary. While her prose is noted for its wistful and quiet lyricism; narrative and structure remain grounded within the confines and contexts of otherwise conventional literary form. If the Swedish Academy were looking to acknowledge a writer who innovatively usurps literary conventions and status quo, Bae Suah or Han Yujoo would have been more suitable alternatives. Both writers burrow into the limitations of language and deconstruct literary conventions, forms and narratives. Beyond prose there is the poetry of Kim Hyesoon. This is not a criticism of Han Kang’s literary style. Han’s translucent and brittle lyricism is a pleasure to read. The delicate and affecting nature is an attractive feature of Han’s prose, never overpowering in its convictions. Rather Han’s novels maintain a mediative distance. While it can be considered that in awarding Jon Fosse and now Han Kang, the Swedish Academy is taking a course correction with their earlier endorsement of a literary style that is uncomplicated and brass tacks, one which valued clarity and transparency in delivery, as both Fosse and Han have some stylistic flourish to their respective work. Still, neither Fosse or Han, are considered complex innovators. Neither writer can be described as dazzling in showmanship. Their literary preoccupations and themes thrive within a subdued language that immerses rather than explosively showcases. 
 
Where does this leave more style heavy writers such as Nádas Péter, Mircea Cărtărescu, and Krasznahorkai László? These are writers of devasting brilliance. Their work is complex and saturated; burdensome and uncompromising in conviction. As the Swedish Academy’s current stylistic palette has a penchant for economically prudent literary styles. Literary addition by subtraction. The steadfast investment in less is more. What some have called and described as the march towards the abandonment of complexity in favour of striving for universality in the approachability that simplicity of form provides. Where some writers capture the complexity of the world in their distilled dew drop lens; this triptych of maximalist writers are engineers of the cosmos. To them, insinuation is but the shadow of their exploding barrage of imagery. Nothing more than an inconsequential afterimage of their technically charged prose. Their novels swell with a sea of stars. Their sentences are labyrinthine tunnels and burrows of hypermania. They cross and crisscross with manic enthusiasm. In turn they become languid and suffocating in their never-ending dredge of slow-moving magmatic text. Language is not eroded, smoothed out, scrapped clean, boiled or simplified. Language is not static for these writers, never reduced to a utilitarian premise. They embody language as a solution to manipulate, contort, warp, and distort with playful ease, but also to push to transcendental levels by exploring and exploiting the limitations of languages ability to describe, capture, and disseminate experience and memory. These are writers who cannot be undertaken lightly or foolheartedly but will reward readers with perseverance and dedication. While I am not the always the intended reader of Nádas Péter, Mircea Cărtărescu, and Krasznahorkai László, as their works are arduous monolithic mountains, which require not only perseverance but resolute dedication to trudge through and mine for the reward that they ultimately deliver; there can be no denying they are great writers. Whose singular vision are not merely echoes of their modernist forebears, but a sustained continuation.   
 
While it can be speculated that the Swedish Academy is perhaps making a stride in a course correction from the scalpel oriented literary language of Louise Glück and Annie Ernaux by awarding Jon Fosse’s and his rhythmic tidal prose and dramatic writings, and now the brittle lyricism of Han Kang. These are writers who are still kilometers away from the complexity of Nádas Péter, Mircea Cărtărescu, and Krasznahorkai László. The prevailing style of today’s writers stems from milled production of Master of Fine Arts programs, where instructors forge their students in the literary theory of Hemmingway, whereby prose is planed to congruent agreeableness. Afterall, the prose should operate with a sleight of hand touch, pulling the strings of narrative and character without revealing the mechanics of the operations. Any prose that deviates from this school of thought is ostentatious as its gauche. While Hemingway’s concrete journalist inspired prose was certainly groundbreaking during its time, Faulkner’s quip is not without merit: 
 
    “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”  
 
Great writing does not always mean burdensome prose, bloated with effluent sentences flooding forth in a constant uncontainable swelling and upwelling of text, washing away hard stops and periods, capsizing comas and breaching semicolons, bursting through and submerging colons, while supporting shipwreck adrift dashes through the buoyant miscellaneous flotsam; however, the uniform dismissal of complex cerebral and visceral prose in favour of one that singularly endorses a style of manicured minimalism with the baseless excuses and reasoning of facilitating inclusivity because complexity inevitably alienates and disenfranchises some readers from the echelons of intellectually invigorating and experimental literature, neither holds weight or retains water, as this argument patronizes readers while simultaneously underestimating their resolve and ambition for challenging works. Concentrated prose is beautiful for its intensity and ability to distill complexity providing a curated portrait and production of events without revealing the magician behind the curtain. Manufactured literature, however, is soulless and lifeless. Literature should not be a refined piece of plywood insinuating the forest in which was logged from. There must be literature which is expansive and operatic. Epic in scale and scope without apology. This is where Nádas Péter, Mircea Cărtărescu, and Krasznahorkai László exist, in the literature that rejoices in upending and playing with the limitations of language and literary form, and in the process elevating them further through continued innovation. Hopefully, the Swedish Academy does not forget these writers or continue to overlook them in favour of a more reductionist stylists and authors who employee a quieter voice. The Nobel Prize in Literature should seek to acknowledge writers of both innovative brilliance and quiet subtlety. The prize should attempt to circumvent any accusation of allegiances or endorsements of style.  
 
 

— III —

 

 
While the Nobel Prize in Literature has been granted to an eclectic smorgasbord of writers, writing in a variety of mediums, be it prose – novel and short story – philosophy, history, essay, poetry, or drama. Prose is the most prevalent medium of the laureates. Which is understandable. Novels and short stories are approachable. Narrative is an agreeable form. A sentence is merely a sentence, a clang in the paragraph and mark in the story, propelling ever forward to some conclusion. With prose there is momentum. A sense of destination or purpose in its structure. Poetry by contrast is static and imagistic. A primordial form capturing essence and moments. Poetry is a form of the ethereal. A correspondence by air. Which by its nature makes it far less approachable. Over the years, poetry has fallen out of fashion and out of favour. Not that novels or literature in general is fairing much better in today’s world. Poetry, however, is slowly eroding to a mere silhouette of its former self. Reduced to a few lines taken of out context, placed under a mawkish light and then posted on some god forsaken social media platform. Worst still, its mistakenly attributed to other mediums of expression, which lack the inherent sense and appreciation of language, and instead are propelled further by the strum of a guitar or other musical and orchestral arrangements.  
 
It’s a telling state of affairs regarding poetry’s reduced position, when providing a review of the recipient of the then Queen’s Medal for Poetry in 2016 to Gillian Allnutt, the newspapers instead turned their attention to the ubiquitous and unremarkable electric heater deployed in the corner of the room by the late Queen Elizabeth II. The articles praised the late monarch’s eye for fiscal responsibility. Her majesties famous virtuous frugality, with the sensible choice of employing a bargain electric heater instead of requesting palace staff to build a fire; but the articles completely ignored the poet of the hour. Its no wonder why in the same year, the Swedish Academy completely lost the plot when they announced the years laureate and completely went off the rails. A sad state of affairs for poetry indeed. Gillian Allnutt, in turn, is an underrated and remarkable poet, whose verse does what poetry should strive to do and grapples and ponders the eternal subjects of the human condition: history, memory, personal experience, the passage of time, the natural world and the spiritual life. Allnutt is not a poet engaged in the poetics of solipsism or the snapshot sharing line crafter seeking to broadcast their quip with ease and airs of pseudo-profundity under the pretense and guise of poetry; or some quiet thought from the corner, designed to spread with hallmark viral glee through the ether. No, Allnutt displays not only appreciation for language but a fascination with it, digging into the entomology of words to explore their linguistic evolution of and reimagining their meaning in new contemporary contexts, which can be seen in her most recent poetry collection “Lode,” where the word lode contains multitudes, be it a journey or a way, a road; but also a term for guidance; in addition to be a rich source of abundance, be it mineral or other natural resource. Gillian Allnutt is the rarest of creature in today’s literary landscape, a poet whose adoration of language goes beyond the sense of self, but encapsulates moments of history and the passage of time, as can be reflected in the short poem “Puppet,” where a marionette’s memoir captures multiple nodal points of time now concluded and lost.  
 
Contemporary of Gillian Allnutt, and fellow recipient of the Queen’s Medal for Poetry, David Constantine, is one of those remarkable writers who is equally at home in poetry (his first literary love), a master of the short story, and skilled architect of the novel. In announcing David Constantine as the winner of the Queen’s Medal for Poetry, the current Poet Laureate, Simon Armitage, described Constantine as a ‘humane poet,’ which is the poet himself remarked as a huge honour, noting that poetry is shelved as being dry, academic, and slowly being eroded into a state of antiquity. Poetry is no longer held in any reverence or light. It occupies no scope of the public imagination, let alone engagement. David Constantine maintains, however, that the point – the very heart of poetry – is its relation to humanity. Its ability to adequately capture and codify the human experience. The fundamentals of the human condition. One of Constantine’s early poems, “In Memoriam 8571 Private J.W. Gleave,” recounts Constantine’s grandfather, who was killed at the Battle of the Somme during the First World War. His grandmother unable to discuss the matter throughout her lifetime, finally revealed this bewildering and lifelong encompassing grief before she died to the then young poet. David Constantine is also one of the first poets to be published by the now legendary publisher: “Bloodaxe Books,” whose staunch support for publishing poetry could never be praised enough. Founder and editor, Niel Astley, remarked that when he first read Constantine’s first manuscript, he was singular in his originality, a literary voice fully formed with an understanding of both English and European traditions, but also in possession of an adventurous spirit of lyrical and musical quality with language. These same qualities are deployed in David Constantine’s prose, especially in his short stories, which are equally renowned for their clarity in vision and lyrical delivery, but maintaining a devotional interest and concern for the peculiarities of the human condition enlivened by the authors psychological insights of his characters.   
 
Minimalism, what a detestable term. Overused and overwrought, beckoning forth the colour beige or grey or worst still greige. The term is aptly attributed to sterile waiting rooms, be it dentist or doctors’ office. It’s a liminal space lacking in character or charm. Existing perpetually in state of sterility. It’s only a professional threshold. In literary terms, its unimaginative; an emaciated vulture. A literary language lacking in flourish or style. Narratives boiled down to the most milquetoast residue. Poets, however, are not minimalists by design or nature. They are connoisseurs of concision. They understand the primeval composition of language and knead it accordingly. The poet’s ability to distill in concentrate an experience, a moment, the ephemeral into the crystalline structure of a poem, in order to be transmitted and released is a talent, and it shouldn’t be easily dismissed. It's no wonder then, some great prose writers first started their apprenticeship in poetry; diligently attempting to bottle lightning, and despite those failings, understanding the force and impact of language itself, and how to translate this into a codified form. A defining feature of the work of the Icelandic writer Gyrðir Elíasson, be it poetry or prose, is the appreciation for conciseness. While both Elíasson’s poetry and prose are noted for their elliptical nature, they maintain glacial depths. Oneiric, surreal, and slightly mythical imagery are incorporated with an otherwise deadpan and matter of fact expression. In one such poem, “Mountain Hike,” Gyrðir Elíasson begins by recounting the tallest mountain on Mars is 24 kilometers high, and the poet has hiked it in his dreams, in the company of Louis, no Lance, no Neil Armstrong, and waking up with red clay on his hiking boots. In another poem I vorsol (roughly translated as “In the Spring Sun,”) a budding spring day is struck through with a shock of unease, upon overhearing the sound of scythe being sharpened in the distance, foreshadowing autumn lurking in the seasonal wings. This same trapeze act between matter-of-fact language and absence and curated insinuation is found equally in Gyrðir Elíasson’s prose, be it short stories or novels. The Icelandic landscape is reimagined and celebrated, despite being routinely interjected with a sense of the otherworldly, supernatural, or uncanny. Elíasson’s strange, disembodied and alienated narrators, characters, and voices, provide enough assurance to guide readers through. Gyrðir Elíasson success is owned to being an imagist in spirit and scope. Elíasson’s pristine and crystalline prose becomes the polished veneer of iridescent poetry, while disregarding any misbegotten attempt at being described as being uninspired in the beige fashion of insipid minimalism. The world and narratives of Gyrðir Elíasson becomes the impressionistic watercolor of a painter, with light, shadow, and colour dancing across the palette of the painting, providing a ballet of sensation through detail and insinuating depths far beyond the superficial. These iceberg depths are what leaves readers craving more, as Elíasson depicts the expression of moments; vignettes of existence; portraits that echo into further and greater possibilities. In addition to all of this, last year (2024) Gyrðir Elíasson won the biennial Tranströmer Prize.  
 
If Gyrðir Elíasson’s poetry is that of impressionist concision, oneiric details inflecting the extraordinary in the otherwise mundane, then Klaus Merz is the poet of precision, affectionally titled: the Clockwork Poet. Unsurprisingly of course, as Merz is Swiss, and his poetry takes great effort to prune and distill the poems into their most enlightening and ethereal form, whereby the secret where they inch towards is enlightened not by ostentatious illumination, but through the impact of the poem’s meticulous atomized language. In this regard, Klaus Merz is that classic imagist poet, assembling with a watchmaker’s eye, the gears, wheels, cogs, and springs of the poem, image by image capturing the poets subject and pushing the poem forward. Encapsulating with their exemplary fleeting instance, a silhouette of profundity lit by the grace of subtlety. Klaus Merz’s discipline for precision may lean too far into the acute as it balances on the blades edge, whereby the body of poem has since been trimmed back, cut down, and cleared away, leaving behind only the circulatory or nervous system for examination. An impressive technical feat, yes; but Merz talent for reduction and distillation of a poem’s language to its pure metal baseline components – its otherwise elementary principles – is a masterclass in poetic foundry, but during this process, the perceived artificiality, whereby the cumbersome organic and human elements can be lost within the process, which some readers may find alienating. Then again, for arguments sake, the Swedish Academy’s current favour is cast towards writers of an unassuming and quiet voice, which may play to Klaus Merz’s favour. Afterall, here’s a poet of technical draughtsman expertise, who captured continued dialogue of external stimulation processed through the individual interior world. In one characteristically sharp poem, Klaus Merz comments on the time and weather, a rain that causes no fuss, yet changes the tone and narrative in the second stanza by stating: “Actually a love poem / has no need of weather / Darling.” Is this a reflection of loves ability to endure all inclement weather; or is it reference to the fact that lovers lost within each other, are disinterested to external stimuli? A great deal of contemporary poetry is concerned with aphoristic assembly and wading through confessional ‘authentic,’ experiences and manufactured sincerity of poets of a sententious nature. Klaus Merz is the required tonic and cure-all to such an implosion of poetic indigestion, for Merz’s literary language is one of distilled sparsity and imagistic sharpness.  
 
There was a point of pride to learn that the Québécois poet, Hélène Dorion’s poetry from the collection, Mes forêts (“My Forests,”) is included on the French baccalaureate exam. As for the students of the exam, best of luck; as the French baccalaureate is infamous for its complexity and difficulty and enjoys recounting how famous individuals (past and present) have failed to meet its exacting expectations, which includes Emilie Zola. In his Nobel Lecture, Patrick Modiano mentions failing the exam a second time and then meeting Raymond Queneau, who famously tutored him in geometry, but also encouraged his writing. Then of course there is the famous case from ten years ago, where disgruntled French students (11,000 that is) signed a petition decrying the English component of the exam and the alleged impossibility of answering the questions regarding a passage from Ian McEwan’s novel, “Atonement.” Then again, by today's standards, nine out of ten students pass the baccalaureate, which may mean the exams notorious difficulty may rest largely on reputation (though studying and preparation are highly recommended). While Canadian Literature is indeed dominated by world class talent and indominable figures such as: Margaret Atwood, Anne Carson, and Michael Ondaatje, in addition to the late Robertson Davies, Mavis Gallant, Carol Shields, and Alice Munro. Many Canadians are oblivious or left out in dark when it comes to Québécois literature, with Marie-Claire Blais perhaps being the only exception, and rightfully so though, as Blais was a singular talent complete with a hurricane force at that. Marie-Claire Blais’s novels, poems, and plays are renowned for their uncompromising and raw unfiltered language turned lyricism which were a controversial catalyst for a (then) socially conservative Quebec literary scene. Yet many Canadians are unfamiliar with the eccentric dream like world of Jacques Poulin, or the unflinching realistic portraits of French-Canadian society of the 20^th century written by Gabrielle Roy. It’s therefore a pleasure to see Hélène Dorion received warmly abroad in France; even if she is criminally underappreciated in the anglophone remainder of Canada. As a poet, Hélène Dorion, has gradually opened the intimist style of her early collections into a broader and more generous perspective, reconciling the oppositional perspectives of the private interior with external realties, including emerging concerns and crisis’s. In Mes forêts (“My Forests,”) Hélène Dorion charts the topography of the forest; the secret lives of trees, animals, minerals, who all call it home; the orchestral sensation of nature composing and changing with the seasons; while lamenting lost relationship between society of today and primeval wonder of the forests. All of which is captured within sharp, pointed, and sparse lines. 
 
As far as the Nobel Nomination Archives have shown, the only Estonian writer to have been seriously considered for the Nobel Prize in Literature was the poet Marie Under. While routinely nominated, the Swedish Academy either never took a serious look at her work, or Under’s poetry did not resonate in translation. Since Marie Under died in 1980 at the age of 97, and by then a poetic legend, Estonia had already produced other remarkable writers who would later become perineal candidates in their own right, Jaan Kross (died in 2007) and Jaan Kaplinski (died in 2021), and Doris Kareva. Jaan Kross was a writer renowned for his historical epicist novels; whereas Jaan Kaplinski received acclaim for his poetry which took inspiration and influence from other cultures to create a poetry concerned with universal and humanistic insights. Doris Kareva is a poet whose work is praised for its technical brilliance. Short condescend poems radiate with control and the fact that they encapsulate the passion of the subject without letting it overtake either the poem or the poet. Kareva is often described as a poet of harmony and grace, while her poems are exquisite gemstones or crystals, polished and sparkling with brilliance. Readers should not mistake the distilled nature of Doris Kareva’s poetry as lightweight, while deceptive in their simplicity and miniature in their composition, they are not at risk of drifting aimlessly, these are poems who were written with purposeful intention, capturing both the fragility of the human experience and condition, while ruminating on the yet defined notion of the divine and spiritual; not the same spiritual inspiration found in Kaplinski, but rather a sense of divine reviewed within the context of medieval imagery. In Doris Kareva’s poetry (as noted from the English translations), poems are not provided their own tittles, instead they are grouped within sections, providing the perspective that her poems can be read a continued narrative or rumination on the subject. The précis pearlescent poetry of Kareva also differentiates from the austere refracting poetry of Louise Glück. Where Glück’s poetry sought to refract and reexamine the intensely personal through a myriad of personas; Doris Kareva has no concern for these otherwise unapologetic intrapersonal concerns. Kareva’s poetry is described as ‘high,’ and ‘classic,’ for its intensity and fixation on language, which is distilled not into refined steeled austerity, but polished jewels of harmony and grace. Doris Kareva’s poetry reverberates within the beating chambers of the heart; the unknown cage of the soul; the granite walls of lofty churches with imposing ceilings echoing into the heavens. They pulsate quietly and deliberately, seeking to question and ruminate on the enduring questions of the human condition, while rejecting the gauche and garish poetic principles of many younger poets.  
 
There are of course many other poets who are equally deserving and who are not listed: Tomas Venclova, Ana Blandiana, Esad Babačić, Wendy Cope, Durs Grünbein, Hasso Krull, Amina Saïd, Christian Lehnert, Lorna Goodison, Ewa Lipska, Leonard Nolens, Antonella Anedda, Itō Hiromi, Simon Armitage, Anne Carson, Ivan Wernisch, Pia Tafdrup, Bei Dao, Adélia Prado, Robin Robertson or the eternal and criminally overlooked Adonis. This of course was not intentional; however, this was not designed to be an exhaustive running scroll listing out as a many qualified poets who deserve to be honoured with the Nobel Prize in Literature. Rather a discussion regarding the reduced position of poetry within the current literary landscape. The Swedish Academy can be granted some leniency with regards to poetry, which as a form is braided into the language, whereby poets often delight in contorting, exploring, and exploiting the nuances of language, which on the best of days are difficult to render into a new language, and I imagine it is next to impossible to completely translate or transplant such nuance fluently without explanation, inevitably demystifying the poem, revealing the poets inside jokes, their sleight of hand. This harkens back to the interview Horace Engdahl did with J.M.G Le Clézio in 2008, whereby they discussed the nature of language and fluency versus proficiency; where Le Clézio viewed his proficiency with English as more literary in scope, lacking the fullness of the informal peculiarities of a native English speaker, especially in relation to humour or small talk, with Engdahl commenting:  
 

“It’s probably the sign of having really learnt a foreign language that you can laugh without looking at the people sitting beside you when you’re in a theatre for instance.”  

 
This inevitably describes poetry with all of its tricks and treasures, its mechanics at work, confounding and confabulating in a way where native speakers and readers can appreciate and understand the premise, enjoying the inside joke or point made, without having to rely on footnote or appendix to provide further context. There again though, poetry is not celebrated in the same fashion as it once was. Poetry is perceived as a chore in today’s cultural context. For many young readers poetry brings to mind archaic verses pulled out every so often from china cabinets, where they are stored next to heirloom tea sets on lace doilies, whereby they are dusted more then read. Poetry in these instances stands increasingly on reduced ceremony, not principle. Their verses are old fashioned. All prim with frilled trimmings, buttoned up with restrained romantic insinuations. Strict with meter and fastidious to form. When poems are read it is never for leisure or pleasure, but rather in academic environments, and just as students may dissect a sheep’s eyeball or fetal pig, they too are expected to view poetry through the same pedagogical lens. The majesty and wonder are no longer a consideration or a concern. Poetry is to be examined and investigated. Metaphor, rhyme, alliteration – once poetic devices are now viewed as organs, whereby they are to be identified and chartered. Poetry is no longer enjoyed, it is deconstructed.  
 
There is a perverse irony in the contrarian view as well. While poetry is endangered in the literary wild. It’s been appropriated by the social media machine to feed slogan hungry users. As attentions spans are shaved down to the base veneer by a torrent of dopamine inducing stimuli. Individuals are far more agreeable to review a quick line or a stanza before clicking off towards or some other flashy video or trend. It is painful though, to witness poems disassembled for clickbait dissemination. Powerful lines are amputated from their poems, and while they give punchy performances providing the illusion of depth to their posters polished superficiality. They’ve inevitably been abridged. Review for example the case of Mary Oliver. Throughout her stunning career as a poet, critics were always quick to dismiss the American poet’s literary depth and quality. They routinely pecked at Oliver’s literary language for being to approachable, spare, and conversational in tone and spirit. Then there was the issue of poetic preoccupation: nature. How passé they would grumble. It had been done before. Done better. Perhaps what the critics really took issue with was the publics affection for Mary Oliver, and her ability to reach and engage an already disinterested public. As Mary Oliver was no different than Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, or Henry David Thoreau; not because her work, much like theirs, celebrated and venerated the natural world; but rather because Oliver reflected on the wonders, joys, pleasures, and surprises of life, while reviewing the follies and foibles of the human condition and humanity through the unfiltered prism of the American primitive, all the while lamenting its continued and sustained loss. Now, however, it is not uncommon or unusual to see this wonderous and sharp line appear on feeds and posts or routinely shared or populated throughout the internet:  

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?”  

 
Extracted from the poem, “The Summer Day,” from the collection “House of Light.” The line is pulled from the poem and issued as some call to arms. A rallying cry. Wakeup, carpe diem! You know, the usual nonsense. It’s a line misconstrued and taken out of its contemplative and otherwise peaceful context. This does not stop the line from being readily propagated and produced with a noxious weed’s zealotry. When scrollers (trawlers) – people always on a device – read this line in their continued clicking and swiping, their immediately invigorated and resolve themselves to take action of their life and do something beyond facilitating their technological pacification. Yet, from poster to scroller, they all the miss the point of Mary Oliver’s poem, “The Summer Day,” which is not a rallying cry for actualization and self-determination, but a call to meditation and appreciation for the life one has. Regardless, this line is now featured on tote bags, shirts, coffee mugs, phone cases, and baseball caps, which can be found and purchased from an online store. It’s difficult to imagine what Mary Oliver would think of this commodification of her otherwise graceful rustic poems; just as it is difficult to imagine what Wisława Szymborska would have made by the notion of a radio station using artificial intelligence to replicate her voice and create an ethereal persona for a technological séance. These are just further examples of poetry’s slow and sustained decline. The Nobel Prize can be forgiven on a few fronts for the lack of poetry specific Nobel Laureates over the past decades. For one poetry is a difficult form to evaluate in translation, and while the Swedish Academy may request further analysis from outside experts, the truth is when the mechanics are laid bare the magic inevitable evaporates, spoiling the effect. Then there is problem with poetry itself, whose reading it for pleasure? Does it have a place within the literary canon outside of academic analysis? While I tend to think so as there are many poets who are still willing to pick up the cudgels and fight a good fight, there are others who – that is if they are the future of poetry – perhaps its best if the form is quietly retired. Regardless, there is no shortage of still classic and interesting poets at work today who are equally deserving of the Nobel Prize in Literature, there cases just maybe harder to litigate in favour of.  
 
Then there is the conundrum regarding writers and poets whose countries are engaged in active conflicts and wars, such as the Russian poet Olga Sedakova or the Ukrainian poet Serhiy Zhadan or the Israeli poets Agi Mishol or Amir Or. Previously the Swedish Academy operated on a convention of neutrality, bypassing writers from waring nations. I am not entirely sure if this convention is a formal statute with the academy or one merely employed in deliberations whereby the academy may wish to evaluate any political blowback the decision may have. Personally, I find Olga Sedakova an absolute classic poet, her poetry shines with refined understated elegance, reminiscent of inherited pearls, full of history and endurance with all the wisdom that entails. In the case of Agi Mishol here is a poet of such warmth and humour. Its poetry with personality. Mishols’s poem “Geese,” is one of my favourites, rather relatable too, often leaving me to acknowledge that out there, all my previous math teachers probably look down upon me, not because they’re dead, but because they were always exceptionally condescending. Though, as these nations engage in conflicts, does this mean these poets (and any other writers from them) are for now set aside because awarding them would ignite some indignant fuse or cause some political or public fall out? There again though, this has never been a deterrent of the Swedish Academy before, who perhaps have enjoyed in the little bit of literary anarchy they can introduce.  
 
 

— IV —

 

 
Nobel Speculation is never complete without lists being formed, writers championed, discussions had, debates held, and arguments waged, but still walking away with new writers to look into and be acquainted with. The goal of Nobel Speculation has always been for me, a matter to take the opportunity to learn about new writers and their work, while ideally expanding my bookcase with more writers. Trying to pin down who the candidate is, would reduce the pleasure and the surprise of the announcement. While yes, to an extent one should be somewhat serious in their speculative contributions – no, Taylor Swift does not deserve to be acknowledged as a poet, as she is not a poet – the likeliness of being awarded should at times be a secondary concern. For example, Mircea Cărtărescu and Krasznahorkai László are considered the top tier masters of the innovative literary novel, but despite his advanced age, Dumitru Țepeneag is equally brilliant and innovative and should be discussed in turn. Nobel Speculation often has the benefit of broadening readers palates and perspectives, if nothing else.   
 
For speculators looking for a start or at least some shape, Wikipedia has started over the years to build up a templated placeholder article on their website. The articles list the current members of the Swedish Academy’s Nobel Committee for each year, for 2025 the committee members are: 
 

Anders Olsson – Chair No. 4 [Committee Chair] 

Mats Malm – Chair No. 11 – Permenant Secretary  

Ellen Mattson – Chair No. 9 

Steve Sem-Sandberg – Chair No. 14 

Anne Swärd – Chair No. 13 

Anna-Karin Palm – Chair No. 16 

 
Please Note: Mats Malm & Anna-Karin Palm are noted as Associative Members.  
 
There is no change to the Nobel Committee structure or participating membership. The committee remains split between male and female members, a policy decision which has been in place since the 2018 scandal. This year, however, the Swedish Academy is not at full roster again. Late in 2024, the Finnish Swedish language poet, Tua Forsström resigned form Chair No. 18. Forsström’s resignation was for once amicable, she clarified early on her participation within the Swedish Academy would be a short tenure. Before being elected to the Swedish Academy, I had often hoped about the possibility of Tua Forsström being named a potential Nobel Laureate but was just as delighted to see her named to the academy. I hope during her tenure, Forsström was a welcomed voice to the academy in their deliberations. Forsström’s resignation from the academy is the only amicable one of note, with all other resignations of the academy having been contentious in spirit and tone or in protest.  
 
The Wikipedia article is not all inclusive by any means. How it’s been derived is not necessarily clear either. Though it has the appearance and air of being derived with the singular goal of divining which writers will receive the prize based off the number of books are in the Nobel Library. Therefore, the list is based on more numerical logic, rather than literary criticism or personal preference. The Swedish Academy though has never been a great devotee to logic, so for casual onlookers, review the list with skepticism. For example, there are 39 Swedish language writers on the list (which is why Rosa Liksom and Tua Forsström both are classified as Swedish, despite being from Finland); of those 39 writers, the following are or were members of the Swedish Academy:  
 

Kerstin Ekman  

Tua Forsström 

Katarina Frostenson 

Lotta Lotass 

Steve Sem-Sandberg 

Per Wästberg 

 
Since the 1974 decision which caused a catastrophic and cacophonic controversy for the award and the academy, the Swedish Academy has taken a scrutinizing stance regarding the optics of awarding Swedish language writers, as it’s interpreted as insider trading by the literary world, which gradually began take further notice of the prize in the mid-century. Whereas previously, the prize unapologetically appeared to favour Scandinavian writers in its early decades; but as the award strived to be considered international in its approach and authority, it inevitably opened itself up to scrutiny and criticism. Which is why when Tomas Tranströmer won the prize in 2011, Peter Englund as Permanent Secretary was quick at times pre-emptively quell concerns that the Swedish Academy was somehow playing national or patriotic favourites. There were few gripes (if any) with the academy’s decision, as Tomas Tranströmer is reviewed as a gold standard laureate, whose literary reputation is international and not just contained to Sweden. Regardless, it looks the Swedish Academy upwards of 20 plus years to finally (for lack of better word) take a chance on awarding Tranströmer. That being said, it’s difficult to imagine the Swedish Academy being quick to do it again, be it Gunnar Harding, Agneta Pleijel, Aase Berg, or Kristoffer Leandoer (who was a temporary external member after the 2018 scandal). With Chair No. 18 vacant, it is not outside of the realm of possibility the Swedish Academy may use the Nobel Library to assess potential future members to fill vacant seats.  
 
The article lists the usual perennial candidates for the award as well, with a heavy emphasis on English language writers, such as: Margaret Atwood, Don DeLillo, Anne Carson, Joyce carol Oates, Julian Barnes, Ian McEwan, and Thomas Pynchon. While also including perennial candidates over the years:  Murakami Haruki, Claudio Magris, Cees Nooteboom, and Adonis (listed as Ali Ahmad Said Esber), Krasznahorkai László, and Nádas Péter. In addition to lesser-known writers: Carlos Nejar from Brazil, the Danish writer Dorrit Willumsen, the Icelandic writer Jón Kalman Stefánsson, the Finnish Swedish language writer Kjell Westö, among many others. To reiterate the list is not exhaustive.  
 
When it comes to Nobel Prize in Literature speculation, there is always going to be reference to the pseudo-oracular bookies, whose data will be pulled by journalists in the coming weeks (if they haven’t already) and reviewed like tea leaves in the bottom of the cup. There will be pondering articles of who is considered the front runner for this year’s award based off the bookie’s odds. While easily dismissible as shooting in the dark blindfolded, the betting sites are a unique barometer gauging the public’s changing minds and whims when it comes to the Nobel Prize in Literature. Last year's favourites for the award were as follows (from Ladbrokes):  
 

(10/1 or lower) Can Xue, Murakami Haruki  

 

(16/1 – 11/1) Ersi Sotiropoulos, Gerald Murnane, Cesar Aira, Margaret Atwood, and Thomas Pynchon.  

 

(20/1 – 17/1) Anne Carson, Pierre Michon, Carl Frode Tiller, and Norbert Gstrein.  

 

(25/1 – 21/1) Adonis, Don DeLillo, Krasznahorkai László, Mircea Cărtărescu, Nádas Péter, Salman Rushdie, Lyudmila Ulitskaya, and Kanai Mieko.  

 
Beyond the sudden fever run of Ersi Sotiropoulos burning up the speculation in the closing weeks, and the addition of Kanai Mieko, the odds for last year remained much the same as the year before. Han Kang was a mere drop in the betting sites pool with odds of 33/1 which was shared by Andrey Kurkov, Ananda Devi, Hwang Sok-yong, David Grossman, Enrique Vila-Matas, Jamaica Kincaid, Ivan Klima, Homero Aridjis, and Sebastian Barry, among others.  
 
This year’s top favourites according to the bookie’s tiers are as follows. These odds will inevitably change as the prize announcement grows nearer, and people’s speculation continues to turn in different directions.   
 

(10/1 or lower) Can Xue, Krasznahorkai László 

 

(18/1 - 14/1) Murakami Haruki, Gerald Murnane, Mircea Cărtărescu, Enrique Vila-Matas, Cristina Rivera Garza, Thomas Pynchon, Lyudmila Ulitskaya 

 

(20/1) Ersi Sotiropoulos, Margaret Atwood, Colm Tóibín, Carl Frode Tiller, Pierre Michon, Nádas Péter, Michel Houellebecq, and Salman Rushdie 

 

(25/1 – 22/1)^* - Karl Ove Knausgård, Mia Couto, Adonis, Anne Carson, Andrey Kurkov, Norbert Gstrein, Ibrahim al-Koni, Alain Mabanckou, Emmanuel Carrere, Michael Ondaatje, and Tahar Ben Jelloun 

 
Other writers listed with odds higher then 25/1 include: David Grossman, Marie Ndiaye, Hamid Ismailov, Adélia Prado, Botho Strauss, Ida Vitale, Ivan Klima, Kanai Meiko, Homero Aridjis, Hélène Cixous, Raul Zurita, Astrid Roemer, Claudio Magris, and Ananda Devi.  
 
*Please Note: due to an abundance of writers listed in these odds only a sampling was listed.  
 
It should come as no surprise to anyone to see Krasznahorkai László high on the betting sites odds. For years Krasznahorkai international profile has long been established and sealed with international awards and routine English translations of his work. Even before his mainstream success, the young literatti talked of Krasznahorkai László in hushed tones, like an underground literary rockstar. While film aficionados pilgrimed to Krasznahorkai’s novels to read the source material for Béla Tarr’s equally poetically bleak films, “Werckmeister Harmonies,” and “Sátántangó.” There is no writer I can think of that compares to Krasznahorkai in his singular and uncompromising postmodern literary vision. While I recognize that I am not the ideal or intended reader of Krasznahorkai’s works, I am able to appreciate his commitment to his craft; his ability to ooze text with magmatic qualities, slow moving as it is devasting. A relentless endless cascade of text pouring across the page in long winding, unyielding sentences with few (if any) paragraph breaks or indentions. It brings to mind the manic acerbic monologues of Thomas Bernahrd, but instead pulling away from the misanthropic deranged of the interior and taking on a panoramic view of an apocalyptical world in moral decay drowning in its own absurdity and madness. In the terms of the Nobel Prize in Literature, it may be a dangerous pronouncement, but in the case of Krasznahorkai László, it really should be a matter of when, not if. If academics and teachers are continually decrying the lack of literary work being produced that is considered innovative or challenging, Krasznahorkai László is their messiah. No writer writing in English compares and quite frankly thank God for that, as Krasznahorkai is truly a one-man band, his novels are complex and fearsome monsters, which readers should be prepared to pay attention or not bother at all. While the Swedish Academy in their current tastes appear to appreciate more austere literary languages, overlooking or denying Krasznahorkai László the Nobel Prize in Literature will most likely be tantamount to scandal for the prize. It’ll be a renewed Tolstoy complaint for a whole new generation, if the continued neglect of Adonis isn’t already.  
 
If there is one unique insight gained from Han Kang’s win last year, is a laureate does not necessarily need to be a resounding figure back home. Han for example, was often seen as being outside of the literary mainstream, as Han’s literary focus remained fixated on the individual experience and intimate narratives, which is incomplete contrast to the literary mainstream’s approval and acceptance of nation defining epics of resilience and perseverance in the face of outside oppressive forces. Can Xue is in a somewhat similar if albeit extreme position. Often titled the “Chinese Kafka,” for her surreal, complex, and warping narratives, Can Xue is without hesitation, one of the most purely avant-garde writers in the world. Can Xue describes her work as being that of ‘soul literature,’ which for the uninitiated may sound spiritual or religious in tone, and yet this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Xue’s literary work is formless and structureless. Landscapes form and then shift into different compositions. This sustained continued sense of motion or movement is why critics compare Can Xue’s novels to dance recitals, for their abstract nature, fluttering, fluctuating, contorting, and twisting themselves a new. Narratives are rarely linear or grounded. Images are layered upon each other propelling the narrative ever forward into increasingly strange and nightmarish realms. There is a reason why reading Can Xue’s is often compared to courting vertigo. Despite, how off putting this may sound, Can Xue has found considerable appreciation and success abroad, especially in the English language; whereas in China, Xue is an outsider, and was declared insane by some critics. This lack of critical appreciation, however, also stems from Can Xue’s criticism of the Chinese literary establishment, which has created an insular insulated environment, founded on selective literary ideal which alienates writers like Can Xue who are uncompromising and autodidact in their literary apprenticeship. Despite the renown and appeal abroad, there is hesitation to Can Xue’s potential candidacy. There can be no denying Xue is like Krasznahorkai, a writer of singular and uncompromising literary vision, but this cerebral writing can be alienating for readers who may find it incoherent. Then there is the question of legacy set out by the late Göran Malmqvist, who was the Swedish Academy’s resident sinologist and whether or not the academy acknowledges it or continues to deny it, was instrumental in both Gao Xingjian and Mo Yan receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature. The case of Mo Yan is often described as one of those ‘Nobel duds,’ whereby even Yan’s ardent defenders and readers now find the quality of his work ‘lacking.’ I suppose in the fullness of time Mo Yan’s writing aged like milk. Yet Mo Yan’s Nobel Prize in Literature did reveal the Chinese governments obsession and coveting complex over the award. The question is now, did Göran Malmqvist advocate for Can Xue or dismiss her as a writer of overcomplicated writing to compensate for a lack of literary talent? Furthermore, now six years after Malmqvist’s death, if he advocated against or for Can Xue, do the arguments still have any bearing on the academy’s deliberations? I think Can Xue would certainly be a laureate who would blow the cobwebs out of the bookshelves. It’s difficult to imagine any laureate whose been quite as daring in their vision.  
 
In the case of Murakami Haruki, that ship left port ages ago. Murakami’s magical realism narratives charting urbane isolation and sexual frustration appear to have peaked in the noughties and never quite moved beyond. Rather than branching out or exploring new literary themes, methods, or styles, Murakami has been a writer stuck on loop, replaying the same soundtrack under different titles. It’s a shell game, cheap and unrewarding. What’s worst, is any literary merit has since been rendered away, as Murakami becomes increasingly more concerned with creating a pop brand then maintaining the visage of a literary figure. All writers are entitled to an iota of self-indulgences, but a book devoted to your t-shirt collection comes across as scraping the bottom of the barrel. While his recent novel, “The City and its Uncertain Walls,” is merely a remixed version of an older one. At this point, Murakami Haruki is merely a parody of his former self. The Nobel Prize in Literature may indeed be awarded to writers of questionable or laughable quality – Pearl Buck, Dario Fo, Mo Yan – but awarding Murakami at this point of his career with his output as it’s been, would be a new low and insult to the prize. If it is one thing Murakami Haruki and Kanai Mieko have in common beyond nationality, is both writers have an otherwise indifferent and strained relationship with Japanese literary establishment. Murakami’s estrangement stems from his blatant foreign nature of his work, one which is not rooted in Japanese culture and is often considered Americanised. As for Kanai, her work is noted for being abstract and vague, unapologetically postmodernist in playing with the metafictional elements of the novel. The short story collection, “The Word Book,” was an attempt at presenting this unique literary vision in translation. The result was lukewarm and that’s being generous. The attempted multifaceted narratives came across as coarse shards of glass rather than different edges of a diamond. Yet, last year Kanai Mieko was featured prominently on the betting sites as a newcomer, due to the recent publication of her novel, “Mild Vertigo,” which was published by Fitzcarraldo Press, who has three laureates in their catalogue before they won the Nobel Prize in Literature: Olga Tokarczuk, Annie Ernaux, and Jon Fosse. “Mild Vertigo,” was enthusiastically received in the English language. It is an amorphous novel of extensive sentences that captured the minute, mundanity, the nonstop stimuli of the modern commercialised world, taking the stream of consciousness narrative and reshaping it into a method of capturing the white noise and cacophony of modern life. Kanai Mieko’s introduction into Nobel speculation on the betting sites last year has renewed some interest in her work back in Japan, with, “Mild Vertigo,” set to be reprinted. Does this mean English readers will get the opportunity to see more of her work translated into English, be it her visceral grotesque stories which follow in the vein of her famous story, “Rabbits,” or perhaps criticism and essays on cinema and photography. If anything, Kanai Mieko’s inclusion in the Nobel speculation last year has only piqued further interest in her work, not only abroad but in Japan.  
 
Over the years though many writers are dredged up from the well and considered the year's top contender. Reviewing old notes and working off of memory, over the past few years there have been a handful of writers who were summoned forth in speculation, considered in hushed tones, the serious contenders for the prize. Though considering the timeframe, it may not have been as farfetched in some instances, as Katarina Frostenson was found violating the Swedish Academy’s statues of secrecy by disclosing the working shortlist to her husband Jean-Claude Arnault. For all anyone knows these writers could have been in serious consideration. For a couple of years there was certainty around the Belgian-Flemish poet Leonard Nolens. Another year there were whispers about the very obscure German writer Ulrich Holbein. Heaven knows though, if either of these writers then or now, would have won the award, the English language press would have blown a conniption fit. Beyond Patrick Modiano – who even Peter Englund commented on as being little known outside of France – and Abdulrazak Gurnah, the press has otherwise been placated with their usual outcries of “Who?” followed by charges of the Swedish Academy once again playing in the obscure sandbox of European literature, which no one else could be bothered to read. 
 
In 2020 the attention turned towards Jamaica Kincaid, where speculators pondered her potential as a safer choice for the Nobel Prize, after the prize’s postponement in 2018 and then the dual announcement in 2019, with Olga Tokarczuk announced as the retro laureate for 2018 and Peter Handke the laureate for 2019. The rationale regarding Kincaid’s heightened odds was critics viewed her as an otherwise safe choice for a couple of reasons. First Kincaid is not European, which swept away the routine criticism of the prize being Eurocentric. Yet, more importantly, some critics viewed Jamaica Kincaid as the antithesis to Peter Handke, specifically Handke’s disagreeable political apologist positions. For many, Peter Handke came to define the epitome (and I despise writing this) of white privilege intelligentsia, whereby the writer can hold appalling or controversial opinions without suffering severe reputational damages and still be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature. By contrast, Jamaica Kincaid is the complete opposite and therefore a remedial force required to remedy the scorched earth stance of Handke. Kincaid is an unapologetic critic of colonialism, surveyor of postcolonial identities, observer of the tensions between Caribbean culture and the Western canon imposed on it, the exploration of macro political elements from personal experience, meditations on mother and daughter relationships, scrutiny over sexuality and a woman’s position within society, in addition to a foray into garden writing.  
 
The themes of colonial and postcolonial experiences from the perspective of the refugee have since been acknowledged in awarding Abdulrazak Gurnah. While topics of classicism and the personal experience in juxtaposition of macro social and political environments have been attributed towards Annie Ernaux. Personally, Jamaica Kincaid’s candidacy always seemed questionable. While Kincaid’s oeuvre is diverse with literary columns, harangue, novels, short stories and garden writing, it is limited in cohesion. Kincaid’s bibliography often struck me as a writer who – as my father would say – is a ‘jack of all trades, master of none.’ What constitutes the litmus test for the Nobel Prize in Literature is difficult to ascertain, but I can’t imagine the threshold is so low that a writer’s chances of receiving the prize intensify simply because they are the antithesis to a previous laureates’ controversial political opinions. Regardless of if they are extraneous of their work or not.  
 
Another curious dark horse contender whose been whispered about over the past few years as a potential candidate, is Robert Macfarlane, whose literary work is often categorized as nature writing, considering Macfarlane’s concerns with environmental issues, societies relationship with the natural landscape, ecology, geography, and the natural world as the wellspring to the human imagination. In “Mountains of the Mind,” Robert Macfarlane traces the enduring appeal and cultural impacts of mountains and their relationship with people; while in, “The Wild Places,” Macfarlane journeys to and cartographs the endangered and remaining wild landscapes of Britian and Ireland. “The Old Ways,” is a fine achievement of nature writing, showcasing the genre’s ability to weave a tapestry encompassing history – social and natural – anthropology, folklore, geography, and geology. “The Old Ways,” sees Robert Macfarlane revive the ancient connection between mankind and the natural world, by treading and retreading the same paths, walkways, and lanes people have carved out, walked on, and trekked over centuries and generations. In doing so, Robert Macfarlane summons them to the contemporary world, channeling their stories to the forefront, revitalizing them once again. It’s a beautiful celebration of the world; its natural wonders and our own long history intertwined within it. There can be no question that Robert Macfarlane is an appealing and popular writer, whose works traces and celebrates the symbiotic relationship people and the natural world. While viewed as the academic version and answer to the adventurer Bear Grylls, Robert Macfarlane is relatively young for the Nobel Prize in Literature at 49 years old (then again Han Kang was 53 at the announcement of her award), and while I think Macfarlane’s literary subjects are indeed fascinating and beautifully written, and perhaps in the coming decades his consideration will move beyond the speculative realm of a dark horse, becoming a laureate in the vein of Elias Canetti, Svetlana Alexievich, and Annie Ernaux, whose work moves beyond the traditional confines of Nobel Prize in Literature, be it novel, short story, or poetry. However, personal preference for a nature writer receiving the Nobel Prize in Literature, would have been the late Ronald Blythe.  
 
Referring to Ronald Blythe’s work as nature writing lacks nuance. The term is too broad to define Blythe with any sense of accuracy. While its true, Blythe did write about nature, showcasing his remarkable understanding and breadth of knowledge regarding the flora and fauna of his piece of pastoral paradise in the English countryside, he would not describe himself as a naturalist. I’ve often found Ronald Blythe more philosophical and meditative in approach, rather than scientifically scrutinizing, seeking to chart and distill the natural workings of the world to their preordained and natural physical laws or Darwinian instincts. In turn, Blythe always maintained a certain distance, a transparency regarding his own character, ensuring Blythe’s interior and private life were never on offer. As such there were no misery memoirs detailing how reconnecting with nature became a cure all or brought a renewed sense of perspective. The description of ‘rural writer,’ or ‘country writer,’ were at the very least in spirit if anything better at defining Blythe’s literary themes. It is often no wonder why Ronald Blythe was often considered the spiritual successor of the rural poet John Clare. As for Ronald Blythe’s bibliography, it is a diverse treasure trove which ranges from novel to social histories, short stories, a treatise on aging, and his prolific mastery of the essay form, whose themes ranged nature and gardening, to the liturgy, history, literature, and art. From his corner of the world, a beautiful overgrown chaotic wonder, which every reviewer and interviewer marveled at, the famous Bottengoms Farm, Ronald Blythe observed the marvels of life itself and nature marking the passage of time. Unlike many writers, who as they age tend to decline in output and quality, Blythe became more prolific. The now legendary “Word from Wormingford,” column with the Church Times, showcased Blythe’s remarkable talent for transforming the seemingly quotidian into a dazzling new perspective. The columns housed observations of the changing seasons, remarks on the weather, reminisces and memories, notes on local history, erudite essays of the liturgical calendar and traditions, in addition to assessments of literary work. At their finest, Blythe’s columns moved between essay, diary entry, conversation, meditation, sermon, and prose poem, with such natural ease, they turned the otherwise mundane into a euphoric sensation. Though Ronald Blythe’s literary reputation generally rests with his monumental social historical chronicle, “Akenfield,” tracing a vanishing way of rural life in the English countryside in the 1960’s, by interviewing the tradesmen and people who lived it. The account is not nostalgic or sentimental. It captures both the remarkable elegiac beauty of the old ways as they fall away into obsoletion, but also their cruelty and their harshness with distinct clarity. “Akenfield,” remains an enduring classic of agricultural and social history, capturing a way of life on the precipice of extinction. Ronald Blythe would have been an exceptional and interesting Nobel Laureate, who was not entirely settled in any distinct literary category. Though of course I am rather bias in this case, as I enjoy buzzing between Blythe’s books like a drunken bee delighting in the abundance of the banquet on offer. While it may have been easy to dismiss Ronald Blythe as being too provincial in spirit and preoccupation, it is difficult to imagine a writer who has been so devoted and masterful in turning a dewdrop into the prism reflecting on the universality of the human experience, the wonderous miracles of the natural world, the divinity of the everyday, and the seasonal passage of time, all graced with weather worn wisdom, which some may describe as rural and rustic due its palpability and warmth.  
 
Another writer whose work does not fit neatly into the conventional literary categories and can be considered a dark horse possibility, is the British psychoanalytical psychotherapist Adam Phillips, whose essays delight in their literary playfulness while orbiting and playing with psychoanalytical thought, such as a celebration or perhaps consolatory acknowledgement regarding the uneventful and boring life, “Missing Out: In Praise of the Unlived Life,” and recently the meditation “On Giving Up,” regarding the understanding that sacrifices need to be made not only for longevity, but what must be given up to sustain or incite the sensation of being alive. Other books of note are “On Wanting to Change,” and “On Getting Better,” “On Kindness,” and “On Kissing, Tickling, and Being Bored.” When it comes to psychoanalysis, however, Phillips views it more akin to poetry then medicine. Where medicine seeks to treat or cure or eliminate disease or suffering – at minimum mitigate – through clinical analysis, via tests and results; psychoanalysis dances with demons and finds harmony in the delirium, providing interpretive structure to the cerebral incorporeal realm of emotions and thoughts. The relationship between literature and psychoanalysis is explored in, “In Writing,” whereby Adam Phillips traces the deep connections between literature and psychoanalysis, by providing his own deep reading of his favourite poets engage in a dialogue with psychoanalysis, even when the term was either non-existent or refuted as a fad. The Swedish Academy has indeed awarded an at times eclectic brood of writers whose works and literary pursuits were not always ‘literary,’ in the conventional manner. Theodor Mommsen for instance is an exemplary classist, whose scholarship on Ancient Rome, and a pioneering expert on Roman public and constitutional law, and charting the complex legal system of the ancient empire. There can be no overlooking Bertrand Russell, the father of analytical philosophy, the Anglican antithesis and remedy to the existentialist and continental philosophies of the 20^th century. Adam Phillips would fall into this select few writers, blending the poetics of psychotherapy and psychological theories with the flare of enjoyable literary prose. It is not difficult to see how the public and press may react, however. Regardless of Phillips literary qualities, the exploration for understanding the human condition, and effortless style, Adam Phillips can easily be dismissed as a pop psychologist, and a testament to the growing proliferation and rampant consumerism of therapy happening today, with ‘therapy speak,’ now entering the mainstream, where poignant and powerful words: gaslighting and trauma for instance, have lost their potency do to their rapid-fire deployment in ubiquitous conversations. Regardless, Adam Phillips is an interesting writer, whose writings slip in between the psychoanalytical and literary are indeed interesting.
 
It is easy to dismiss the abundance of writers speculated about or included on the bookie’s sites. There is never a shortage of reason or rationale which can be introduced to disregard a writer’s chances. The reasons vary from, they’re too old: Adonis, Ida Vitale, Adélia Prado, Ivan Kilma, Lina Kostenko, Circe Maia, Elena Poniatowska; they’re too young: Robert Macfarlane, Benjamín Labatut, Serhiy Zhadan; they’re geographically too similar: Kanai Mieko, Ogawa Yōko, Kim Hyesoon, Bae Suah, Mai Văn Phấn, Can Xue, Bei Dao. They nullify writers’ chances based off their sex, because as it stands no two female writers have received the Nobel Prize in Literature in succession. Others are disregarded regarding whether or not their nations are engaged in arm conflict or not. A writer can be dismissed due to a lack of substantial output. Conversely, if a writer is too prodigious – an accusation leveraged against Joyce Carol Oates – then certainly they can’t be considered, as it brings into question the quality of their work. In this regard for speculators, a writer must be both industrious and discerning in their production. Some are dismissed due to a lapse of recent publications. In short, as some might say, the easiest task in the world is poking holes in happiness. The Swedish Academy does not help matters either. When asked what qualities they look for in their candidates as they assemble a shortlist, they remain eternally vague. They mention literary quality or merit, in addition to the divine spark. It’s an abstract answer. Without any concrete definition, there is no stable structure to springboard from and speculate with any sense of certainty. This means all speculation – including the betting sites – are shooting in the dark. Inevitably all speculation is based off some personal reading habits and literary tastes. As I imagine all nominations are. This is what makes the Nobel Prize in Literature speculation a treat. Regardless of whether or not a writer has any opportunity or chance in winning the award, it’s a chance for readers to be acquainted with new writers and their work.  
 
Over the past five years, the Swedish Academy has been relatively safe in their decisions. Outside of Abdulrazak Gurnah, there have been no surprising Nobel Laureates. Though one could argue Han Kang pulled the rug out from quite a few of us, despite her name floating around in general speculation. The consensus really was Han’s candidacy was not going to be taken seriously for another eight to ten years. Perhaps this year the Swedish Academy will return to another Eastern European master, be it Krasznahorkai László, Nádas Péter, or Mircea Cărtărescu, but what about the Bulgarian magician, Georgi Gospodinov? Georgi Gospodinov is an impressive writer whose work have a playfulness and complexity in form, structure, and narrative. Gospodinov’s themes are universal and compelling with a focus on memory and the complexity of personal histories versus collective historical narratives; but also, the interconnectedness of past and present, the undying influence of the past on contemporary perspectives and life. Furthermore, Gospodinov provides a review of the weaponization of nostalgia as a political maneuver to rewrite history or change the lens of the narrative. It also doesn’t hurt that Georgi Gospodinov has won the International Booker Prize, which both Olga Tokarczuk and Han Kang have done, while Annie Ernaux was shortlisted. Other writers of equal safe consideration include Peter Stamm, a Swiss writer of pathopsychological novels and short stories, exploring existential questions, written in cold brutalist prose complete with streamlined concrete sentences. Then there is Jenny Erpenbeck, while neglected in Germany, she is a revered figure abroad. Erpenbeck’s prose follows suit with previous laureates’ literary styles, it’s not a celebration of the ostentatious or operatic, it’s not burdensome in any lavish baroque stylings, it’s a literary language that is parred back and boiled down, with themes which contemplate the impermanence of reality at the onslaught of time. Absence, loss, transience, disappearances, the erosion of certainty, these are the hallmarks of Erpenbeck’s work, which is rich in historical and material context, but always inevitably at risk of being lost. In Erpenbeck’s world the only certainty is an end and the drifting displacement of what’s left behind. The final writer is the Mozambican ‘smuggler,’ writer Mia Couto. After receiving the Camões Prize in 2013 and winning the Neustadt International Prize for Literature in 2014, it was determined that it was a matter of when rather than if, for Mia Couto to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Couto is one of the contemporary giants of Portuguese language literature and is one of the most important Portuguese language writers from the African continent. Mia Couto’s novels are known for eschewing the delineation between realism and mythical interference, leading critics to quickly assert that Couto is a magical realist writer, in the same vein as Gabriel García Márquez or Ben Okri. The defining feature of Couto’s work is language. Mia Couto’s magpie eye for language and appropriating words, slogans, and sayings from other languages and reconfiguring them anew, were the defining features for winning the Neustadt International Prize for Literature. The recent death of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o follows echoes the similar sentiments regarding Chinua Achebe, and the Swedish Academy’s increasing failure to act with major literary talents in the world, specifically from the African continent. There is no reason to wring their hands regarding Mia Couto.  
 
 

— V —

 

 
As the sun sets on September, while summer is now confined to memory, an otherwise youthful dream. The fields are picked and scraped clean, leaving behind a harvested stubble of fawn. October looms over the horizon, a glowing harvest moon at its heart, while frost twinkles and highlights the grass in the morning and throughout the night. In two weeks, we will learn who this year's Nobel Laureate in Literature will be. At this point it’s difficult to declare who the frontrunner is. The bookies of course follow last year's belief that this year will be Can Xue’s year, followed closely by Krasznahorkai László. Two solid and safe predictions. Both writers have an international reputation and appeal. They are praised, lauded, and admired. What really distinguishes Can Xue and Krasznahorkai László is their singularity and commitment to their literary convictions. Awarding either of these writers would end the Swedish Academy’s valuation of a literary voice which can be interpreted as more subdued in presentation. This is not to state that Louise Glück, Abdualrazak Gurnah, Annie Ernaux, Jon Fosse, or Han Kang are not deserving; but if every laureate has a similar idiosyncratic literary language or style, it does get tedious and uninteresting. Can Xue or Krasznahorkai László would be a welcome change of pace in style. This being said, one can think of a plethora of reasons why neither writer should be awarded. In awarding Krasznahorkai László, the Swedish Academy would be accused of returning to a Eurocentric predisposition. Where in the case of Can Xue the Swedish Academy may get cold feet over awarding another woman writer with such a short turn around, thereby breaking the now established convention of female to male laureate pattern which has become de facto since 2020. Then there’s the question of awarding another Asian writer in such a short time frame. While this would certainly show the Swedish Academy’s willingness to move beyond their conventional processes in how they operate and award laureates; it would not be a stretch of the imagination to see them criticized for what could be considered perceived pandering to external lobbying to open themselves up beyond their cloistered set precedence. In short, the Swedish Academy is once again in an unenviable situation. Can Xue and Krasznahorkai László have as much opportunity to receive the prize as any other writer being discussed or not. Personally, as always, I do hope for a writer completely left field, someone barely known or discussed, who will ignite the match to the English press to cry foul and scream: “Who!?” 
 
As for the Swedish Academy they have set themselves an impossible task, by attempting to be the connoisseurs of international literature, attempting to define in whatever semblance what international or global literature, looks like. According to the current Chair of the Swedish Academy’s Nobel Committee, Ander Olsson:  
 

“[ . . .] Now we are looking much more for the global totality. I mean we have, really. It's necessary for us to widen our perspectives more and more. Previously we had a more, let's say, Eurocentric perspective of literature and now we are looking all over the world.” 

 
The accusation of Eurocentrism is axiomatic to the awards history. Former Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy Horace Engdahl, did not help matters when rebutting criticism of a lack of American writers receiving the award during his tenure, was due to the insularity of the American literary establishment, with its institutional and willful ignorance to the outside literary world; while pronouncing Europe the centre of the literary world. Despite these charges, the Nobel Prize in Literature often hit the mark on global totality naturally, without forcing the issue. Now that Anders Olsson is attempting to steer the award into a globalised perspective, the award has become increasingly conservative and less daring in some of their decisions. The laureates over the past five years have been interesting in literary preoccupation and theme, but it’s a stretch to say the prizes perspective has become any more cosmopolitan in nature. Last year's prize saw the award return to Asia, the first time in 12 years, while the award has been awarded to two more English language writers at the beginning of the decade, and another two European writers. While I can appreciate Ander Olsson’s goal to reshape and aim the prize to having a more global reach in laureates, the results have been underwhelming in practice and minimal at best. The laureates are not underserving, but the prizes perspective is not expanding. In fact, these five years have shown the Swedish Academy grow increasingly conservative with their decisions, rather than being more daring. In retrospect the secretaryship of Horace Engdahl, Peter Englund, and the late Sara Danius, were by far more enterprising and open to pushing boundaries, by awarding obscure brilliant writers and international giants. The Swedish Academy’s mandate with the Nobel Prize has always been herculean in scope and impossible to fulfill. Ander Olsson’s ambitions have only added an onerous level to contended with. Still, the Swedish Academy does their best to rise to the occasion. They’re efforts may fall short, but the fact of that they make the effort is remarkable. Their insights into what is considered ‘world canon,’ can never be considered truly holistic, but they present a unique and insightful perspective in which readers can gauge and review within the full context of time. In fifty years when the nomination archives are open, the years laureate, the shortlist, and all other nominations, in addition to all other considerations and deliberations, will provide a unique temporal review of the literary context of the time. As, I imagine, the notion of a literary world canon continues to involve, however endanger it is of being overtaken by a monolingual uniformity.  
 
On October 9^th, we find out who this year's Nobel Laureate in Literature is. As in previous years, here’s hoping it's a surprise, a new writer to delve into. If not, here’s hoping a renowned master whose finally been acknowledged at last.