Regarding the Choreography of Sex

Hello Gentle Reader,

Erato the muse of lyrical and erotic verse strikes an enchanting figure. Though one who has fallen out of serious fashion. Romance is a term which has a variety of itineration’s, forms, textures and meanings. The affairs of the heart; the longing of the eye; the mechanics of sex are compelling subjects, but also spiced with pitfalls and landmines. These subjects are easily dismissed as being too indulgent; while their orbital proximity to the melodramatic only hinders them further. This does not mean human relationships or the exploration of love as an intoxicating state of being are not serious topics of discourse; though the intensity of the subject matter makes them molten to handle, in addition to being a highwire balancing act. All of which requires not only careful management of the subject but precise execution. Any wrongfoot, misstep or misalignment and it all comes tumbling down. Samuel Richardson first showed the possibility of exploring the affairs of the heart with the novel, “Clarissa; or, The History of a Young Lady,” in 1748, which left readers enchanted and enthralled waiting with bated breath for the next installment of dear Clarissa’s story. This novel also cracked open the wellspring of sensibility, from which all other romance narratives pull their strength from. Afterall, who hasn’t pined or longed for just a brush with Eros? In turn, those who have swam in the depths of Aphrodite’s embrace, are equally acquainted with the cold plunge and shock when cast ashore. Regardless, when it comes to prose and exploring the nature of desire, eroticism, romance, writers sail precariously close to the window.

When it comes to poetry, however, there is more grace. Poets such as Pablo Neruda, revitalised the soulful eroticism of poetry. Lines with such aesthetic beauty, reverberate long after they are read or recited as pure depictions of unadulterated love with striking originality and sensuality, they defy the boilerplate cliché conventions, inventing new modes and images of expression:  

From “Poem XIV: Every Day You Play,”

“I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,

dark hazels, and rustic basket of kisses

I want

to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees,”

or from “One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII,”

            “I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
            or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
            I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
            secretly, between the shadow and soul.”

And there are many other poets who continue to grapple with the complex themes related to desires, dreams and yearnings of the heart. The intoxication of attraction. The freefall of infatuation. The passionate hunger of lust. The aches of absence. The all-consuming pains of departures. The bitter grief of separation. Poetry, however, is suited to capturing the intensity of the moments. Bottling the experiences as best they can. The distillation and concision of poetry’s nature, ensures the work is never drowning in treacle sentimentality. For those who have been in love know its intensity is sharp and transient. A tickle. A tremble. A flutter. A shiver. A heartbeat. The moment of breathlessness; a lapse in one’s senses. Any lingering and the flames are extinguished, reduced to dust and ash. The potency is in its instantaneous nature. The spark of it. To this I was once told: we burn bright; we burn brilliant; but we don’t burn for long.

The wellspring of sensibility first cracked open by “Clarissa; or, The History of a Young Lady,” has shown no signs of drying up. This is further exemplified by the industrial production of cheap romance novels, complete with their whisk away plots and sensual exaggerated covers. These romance novels are sprinkled throughout the landscape of our memories and childhoods. The mass market paperbacks picked up at drugstores or grocery stores. They littered kitchen tables, coffee tables, end tables and bedside tables. Residing next to ashtrays, coffee-stained coasters and the television remote. In cavernous houses of wood paneling, shag carpet and linoleum kitchen floors; dreams and desires wilted away just as the flowers in the vase on the windowsill. Days filled with housework. The cooking, the cleaning, the shopping. Interrupted with pauses for daily kept appointments with daytime television, be it soap operas or talk shows. While there were other moments and times. Those interludes were available to crack open the paperbacks. The scene already set; having been pulled from a long list of prescribed templated sets. In the forthcoming and following pages though, they chart the course of the heroine (another stock character) and her whirlwind romance with a male figure dripping and oozing with fantastical sex appeal. Rugged, devotional, passionate, attentive, affectionate. The whole packaged deal. Everything that just happens to be missing in their own lives. Married life had settled into routines. There are no more flowers. No discrete kisses sneaked or stolen in the corners of rooms. He snores laying facing the wall; breath reeking of beer from his night out at the pub. The kids tucked in the for night. Dishes drying on the rack. Tomorrow and the continual chains of days, will carry on with only slight variations.

When we were young, we would flip through these books – what were collectively understood and described as smutty – to find the alleged big reveal. Though we never found anything other then some vaguely described positioning and action. Nothing that could be described as graphic or explicit in nature. Such visual treatment was reserved for men, with their gentlemen’s magazines. Filled with smart articles about sports, fishing, lifestyle, longform journalism, fiction and intellectual interviews; all sandwiched between spreads and pin ups of beautiful young women who stripped down to reveal all; posing seductively and enticingly for what is now described as: ‘the male gaze.’ Each of us knew then, our fathers weren’t purchasing these magazines for their articles, for the same reason as we know why they were stashed out of sight. As we got older, we dismissed our mothers tawdry romance novels as nothing but discounted intimate fantasies. Something to entertain unfulfilled and lonely housewives. While our fathers’ collections of man-about-town magazines were nothing short of pervert material for dirty old men.

The appeal of romance media is the escapism qualities. While I would not go so far to describe love as an ideal or a sustainable state of being. It is, however, a powerful force, which is interwoven into human culture and is a universal subject, transcending borders, cultures and languages. The proliferation of this escapism fantasy continues. It’s an industrial complex all on its own. Publishers discuss how the enduring romantasy genre is not just a trend or a fad. It’s been a complete shift in readers consumptions and habits. While there are articles out there questioning whether or not such novels are contributing to what is being called the normalization of anti-intellectualism or dumbing down books; I am of the school and thought: read what you want; what’s important is you read. Further to this point, the wildfire success of the television show “Heated Rivalry,” an adaption of a couple of novels from the “Game Changer,” series of gay sports romance novels by the Canadian writer Rachel Reid, showcases the enduring appetite readers and viewers have with romantic narratives.

What separates “Heated Rivalry,” from other viral media sensations or contemporary shows, is its unapologetic approach to engaging and depicting sex on screen. To the point where cut scenes and snippets of the show disseminated on social media and on the internet give uninformed viewers the impression that its softcore porn. Needless to say, I was the uninitiated viewer. However, over the course of six episodes and the immediate plunge into these physical affectionate scenes, move beyond the hook and bait catching required to grab the attention and appetites of viewers, and instead begins to reveal an ever-evolving relationship between these two characters. One which was obviously predicated on physical attraction and responses, but gradually becomes deeper, moving beyond discrete nondescript rendezvous and blossoming into a deep-felt love. As with any romance story, the course of love is never shot with a linear arrow. The relationship between Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov is designed to be complex. From the reality of Russia denying sexual orientation as a human right; to hockey’s hyper ultra masculine sports culture, with one character in the show commenting on his own realization that he was different from his team mates and was perhaps that word that was thrown around as an insult on the ice and in the locker room. Then there is the romance trope itself, with both characters operating as rivals on the ice and in public. While it is a useful ruse to further support the concealment of their relationship, it adds further complications.

The conversations regarding “Heated Rivalry,” generally fixate on the shows unapologetic and unbashful display of simulated same sex intimacy without lingering over the conventional build up employed to get to these otherwise volcanic moments. The show is taut, terse and lean. This first season consists of six episodes and moves at an expedited pace. Therefore, sex and the physical interactions between the characters operates two-fold. First by developing and entrenching their characters enduring yearning for each other and second by moving the narrative forward into further emotionally complex territory and great character development. While initially, I was put off by what I perceived to be a torrent of gratuitous sexual exploits of extremely beautiful and virile men; the showrunners managed to handle the passionate and physical nature of sex to capture both its titillating nature, while displaying the sensuality of it, the unmentioned beauty. Even one might go so far as to say, a sense of vulnerability. The sex scenes themselves became more akin to choregraphed dance scenes, showcasing the entanglement and entwinement of two souls, and not just being a romp in the sack. As for the dialogue, it’s what one would expect from young hockey players; this includes their monosyllabic text messaging. There’s plenty of fucks and fuck you’s bandied about, in addition to regular reminders one is an asshole and the other one is boring. While some critics I’m sure take issue with this simplistic dialogue, it’s important to note, hockey players are not renowned for their eloquence, and in a world that routinely advertises – no demands – authenticity in every way, then this is a naturalistic grasp of the direct and otherwise repetitive language employed by these sporting professionals. If I were to issue a criticism, it would be context was often lost on me, which caused the characters to initially appear light or undeveloped. For example, I am still not completely sure what was the catalyst to their relationship or the initial spark to ignite it; but these two brilliant breakout actors who embodied these characters filled them with such subtle details and gestures, this compensated for a lack of context. One of my favourite scenes is when Illya video calls Shane and sees him wearing glasses, which causes a flustered and embarrassed Shane to remove them, yet Illya requests he put them back on and taps his cheek beneath his eye when requesting it. For some reason, I thought this was rather endearing. While in turn, the pain and confusion exhibited by Shane after a particularly cold dalliance with Illya whereby he begins to text after leaving: “we didn’t even kiss,” before deleting the draft. To reiterate, the course of love is never shot with a linear arrow.

“Heated Rivalry,” follows suit in the critical acclaim and success of other recent film and television series which portray same sex relationships with equal poignancy and enduring poeticism. First there was the tragic ghost love story “All of Us Strangers,” which grapples with the realm of romance and reconciliation of the personal tragedies, while touching on themes of urban isolation and alienation. It’s a beautiful film, which handles its supernatural and fantastical elements with grounded realism, crafting a beautiful heartbreaking narrative which concludes with a tragic realisation. Then there was the historical limited series “Fellow Travelers,” depicting the volatile, difficult and complex relationship between two men from the lavender scare of the 1950’s into the AID’s epidemic. This series as well, ultimately ends on a tragic note, but not without a bit of a fight. Yet it’s rooted in the historical experiences of gay people who were persecuted during this time. This is what separates “Heated Rivalry,” from its contemporary and previous predecessors, as the narrative moves away from tragedy. While in all fairness, in the case of “Fellow Travelers,” there were few options for either Hawk or Tim “Skippy.” They either entered into loveless conventional marriages, undercut with anonymous illegal hookups, or attempted to live their lives as honestly as possible with all repercussions and consequences this would entail, resulting in the contraction of AIDs and death. While “All of Us Strangers,” ends on a bittersweet point of pathos, it remains an exquisite ethereal rendered film. Regardless, it is nice to see a same sex romance narrative end on the precipice of hope. The final drive in the golden hour, the day softens into an encroaching evening with tomorrow holding real possibilities. In addition to this, the beauty of “Heated Rivalry,” is the portrayal of this relationship in the same bewildering and wonderous way as described by Leo from Herta Müller’s novel, “The Hunger Angel,” when he confesses his own first experiences with an illicit tryst in the park: “Something had just happened to me. Something forbidden. Something strange, filthy, shameless, and beautiful.” The relationship of Shane and Illya is portrayed not only as beautiful, but natural and normal. They fall into each other with ease. The unabashed sex may have enticed many viewers into watching the show, but what they were treated to went far beyond the mechanics of copulation.

The other component of “Heated Rivalry,” which separates it largely from its predecessors, is the show exists purely within the harlequin romance fantasy. This show is not looking to bring any social or political critique to its narrative. Yes, Russia’s draconian LGBT Propaganda laws are referenced and brought up, but they are not the focal point of the television show. “Heated Rivalry,” is not designed as a show to take aim and issue with these laws, let alone debate or criticise them. Rather their reality is a feature of the landscape. A complication and shadow of a threat that Illya endures and manages. Some critics took umbrage with the shows lack of engagement with real world issues of homophobia or heterosexism. Here again though, this is not the point. “Heated Rivalry,” splinters off and becomes beautiful because it has decided to be a simple romance story. It does not seek to punch above this; yet ironically in turn hits all the right keys, tones and ques, strikes above the treacle sentimentality the genre is usually tarred and feathered in. The burgeoning relationship between Shane and Illya is littered with enough road blocks and issues; statements regarding international politics, scenes of displacement and disownment, or familiar strife would pull the narrative away from the cloistered world of these two individuals navigating their emotions for one another. The love between Illya and Shane is built on the empathetic understanding that their love suffers from the same level of consequence, uncertainties and risks as any heterosexual relationship, with, perhaps some added levels of complications. Still, love is love.

Romance may have fallen out of serious discussion. While poetry is given greater reign to ruminate on the matter, revitalizing and exploring the eroticism of the soul. Television shows such as “Heated Rivalry,” have begun to introduce a new level of nuance to the escapism the genre expertly facilities. One beyond the bubble gum superficiality which is often associated with it. While other writers, such as Elfriede Jelinek as a prime example, have taken romance novel tropes and contorted them into a viscous psychosexual satire turned sociopolitical commentary; it is nice to see – now and then at least – a television show which appears to accept the limitations of the romantic trope, yet enhance them by embracing them all the same. “Heated Rivalry,” is not perfect by any means; but it’s a beautifully shot show, with incredible actors and plenty of unabashed choregraphed sex scenes between beautiful people, which may leave you longing for your own now departed juvenescence. Though I maintain – for now at least – “Heated Rivalry,” continues the narrative evolution that Patricia Highsmith first pioneered with her novel “The Price of Salt,” (republished as “Carol,”) which upon its initial publication in 1952 brazenly changed the course of the ending of the gay oriented novel, by allowing her characters the possibility of a happy ending. Rather than ending in suicide or some other god forsaken tragedy (marriage) which was the prescribed ending of such stories. Though I doubt Highsmith would appreciate the notion of “Heated Rivalry,” standing on her novel’s shoulders, it certainly occupies similar ground, by continuing to open the door for these narratives of love to blossom not under the threat of oppression or exposure, but as works that define love as a human concept. Free from societal limitations, but made complicated by our own emotional miscommunications. Afterall, all love deserves sunshine.

 

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,"

Not for Your Reading Pleasure

Hello Gentle Reader,

The other night while watching the latest episode of, “Professor T,” thanks to the local United States PBS channel, which broadcasts locally in my area of Canada; I was taken aback when the character, Zelda Radclyffe, pulled the tarot card: The Lovers, and the station took consideration to censor (blur) out the barely perceptible ink drawing of the breasts for the woman and the penis of the man. If Gentle Reader, you feel compelled, you can always look up the archaic card in question, and see how imperceptible these features are on the card. The women’s breasts for example are but two ink curves adorned with pin pricks to signify nipples, her genitals are insinuated by the chalice ‘v’ lines of her waste. While the man’s penis is more difficult to describe, though it is still apparent what those two loops are representational of. This image is not pornographic or erotic in any fashion. It’s an old drawing in the Major Arcane representational of Adam and Eve. Nothing seedy or sensuous about it. Certainly nothing dirty. Perhaps I am too old or of a generation who’s not as easily offended or as sensitive as others, who feel the need to engage in pearl clutching over the nature of anatomy and other facets of the human body or the facts of life. Over the years there has been a discernible change taking place. A dark cloud of puritanical prudishness settling on the internet and other areas of communication. What follows the moral aggrandizing views of people who are not only willfully ignorant but abominably so. Video commentators have begun to either censor their words or themselves with edited bleeps, or talk in hushed tones when mentioning or saying: ‘penis,’ ‘breast,’ ‘vagina,’ ‘testicle(s),’ ‘sex,’ – which is ridiculous these are anatomical words and bodily functions; the process of life. In addition, these same videographers censor others as well: ‘ass,’ ‘arse,’ ‘asshole,’ ‘shit,’ ‘dick,’ ‘cock,’ ‘dink,’ ‘tit,’ ‘boob,’ ‘prick,’ ‘pussy,’ ‘bitch,’ ‘bastard,’ and the other suspects of a more profane degree, ‘fuck,’ or ‘cunt,’ but also ‘motherfucker,’ and ‘twat,’ if the mood suits you.  For the particular faint of heart, there is always, Jesus Christ, Jesus H. Christ, Jesus Fucking Christ, and Jesus Fuck. This communal curb of speech can also be found in other places of the internet, where people will replace letters with symbols in their cuss words or other newly anointed dirty words. For example, a comment I saw the other day was: “what the f**ck are you talking about?” or “He’s got small d*ck energy.” Another statement of equal eyerolling outrage was one where an individual said, “maybe she’s on her pe**od,” as if menstruating is somehow offensive or dirty, and therefore needs to be censored in order to save someone else their blushes. Please, this is asinine.

It is difficult to imagine a filthier word then censorship. A dark word with sinister connotations. Its slick oozing with maleficence. It is the opponent to freedom of thought and expression. Stifler of creativity. It is the objector of truth. Concealer of facts. All while propagating a vandalized version of events. There is no modicum of veracity in censorship. It is the agent of ignorance. What’s worst is how censorship comes into being. It drifts down in a twinkling spectacle of tinselly goodness. All saccharine and smiles, concealing rotten teeth. Censorship has always infuriated me. It is perpetrated by the usual rubberneck, scandalmonger, interloper. You know the type. The know it all. Oh yes, the one with her high-riding opinions. She knows best. She has no qualm telling you how to live your life. She has ideas about a better world. A wholesome world. It just needs to be made in her image, complete with her notes regarding interior design and decoration. I’ve always looked at censors as those who have nothing to do with themselves. They have no sense of purpose. No job. Nothing to occupy themselves. They seek out organizations and causes to rally behind and put their efforts towards. If none exist, they’ll create one. This brings to mind the Parent Music Resources Center (PRMC) from 40 years ago. The mandate for the PMRC was to censor specific music genres, or at the very least, limit their availability and access for younger consumers, due to their alleged content which were perceived, interpreted and misinterpreted of having violent, drug related, or sexual themes, complete with foul language and suggestive or disturbing imagery. This now lapsed organization was founded by four women who were dubbed the ’Washington Wives,’ and with the support of other evangelical movements, went to war with the music industry and recording artists, over what they saw as rampant perversity of musical content, lyrical language, and album art, which was corrupting the American adolescence and youth of the day. Left uncensored, these musical artists with their songs and albums, risked inducing a proliferation of teenage sexual activity and pregnancy. Increased violent encounters between youth and celebration of gang violence and associated lifestyles. They promoted experimenting with drugs and narcotics, which would create lifelong career addicts. Worst still, the allegedly curated a curiosity into the occult, whereby impressionable youth will engage in ritualistic violence and devil worship. As with any parental organization with militant ambitions, the PRMC framed their position as having the best interests of children and youth at heart, and that their work was saving their souls and sparing their innocence from being tainted by the obscene music currently on offer because of a lack of strong parental approved regulations. Regulations they would write and institute by which everyone else is expected to abide by. In this instance, why bother parenting your own children, when the PRMC and other organizations affiliate or otherwise know better.

While the United States of America has long had a complicated history with witch hunts and trials, Canada, however, enjoys perpetrating the illusion of delineation from its hot under the collar neighbour. If the United States is reactionary with a mandate of shoot first and maybe ask questions later, Canada’s stance has always been cautious, rational, and deliberate. At least, this is what Canadians tell themselves. In truth, Canada and its provinces have a lengthy history of censorship in all of its forms. Quebec in particular, with the period known as Grande Noirceur (Great Darkness) is but a sampling of the fundamentalist social conservatism enacted in the province before the Quiet Revolution; but also explains why the province is diligent in maintaining their secular values and sense of liberté now. Elsewhere, human rights tribunals and legislation have increasingly been weaponized to either curb, limit, or otherwise gag individuals or institutions or organizations who express opinions, thoughts, views, or works which have been deemed offensive or causing harm or falls into the nebulous definition of hate speech. If the speech, thought, view, or work cannot be curbed, limited, or prohibited, then offended groups often seek punitive actions towards individuals and or organizations in question. Human rights commissions in Canada are but a shadow of themselves. They no longer stand for the promotion of baseline fundamental freedoms and liberties which are the cornerstone of democracy. The very foundations of a free and ethical society. No, now the notion has since been warped and contorted into something that is illiberal in nature and fundamentalist in practice. This corrosive contagion was set to spread during the former Canadian federal government under then Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, who sought to move further towards an Orwellian mandate on thoughtcrimes with the now languishing ‘Online Harms Act,’ which sought to take the same illiberal fundamentalist principles and apply them to the internet.

Now a province has enacted a book ban in all school libraries. The Alberta Government, under the United Conservative Party Premiere, Danielle Smith, in preparation for the upcoming school year, instituted a ministerial order targeting and banning and removing any and all books they defined as exhibiting explicit depictions of sexual acts or conduct. Yet, Danielle Smith and her Minister of Education and Childcare, Demetrios Nicolaide, insist that the ministerial order and the book ban is not a ban and does not constitute censorship. But first, let’s provide some slight context to the situation: under Danielle Smith and her United Conservative Party, the Alberta Government engages in increasingly political theatre by engaging in public engagement with the supposed decision-making processes, especially regarding divisive ‘social issues,’ of an otherwise hot button nature, or any topic that takes the attention away from the actual bread and butter issues for Albertans, such as a failing healthcare system, which Danielle Smith supports dismantling and privatizing; continued rising insurance rates in all of Canada, and being the most expensive in all of Canada; rising power and utility rates; in addition to having the second highest unemployment rate in Canada behind Newfoundland. In order to distract Albertans from their failings, Danielle Smith resorts to political theatre. This sleight of hand shell game ensures the people remain outraged over frivolity rather than her and her governments increasing incompetence. Currently the premier and her cronies are engaged in a province wide tour called the ‘Alberta Next Panel,’ which vaguely fans the flames of western alienation and stirs Alberta separatist sentiments. These town halls have continued to ensure that the premiere continues to distract Albertans with the phantom bone, so they don’t blame her for their continued disenfranchisement, which allows Danielle Smith to shift the blame to Ottawa and the re-elected Liberal Government with new Prime Minster Mark Carney, the sworn enemy of Alberta.

In pushing to institute this book ban, Smith and Nicolaide curated passages from a selection of works, which discussed matters of sexuality, sexual confusion, and masturbation. The books the Alberta Government took immediate issue with were:

            “Fun Home,” by Alison Bechdel
            “Blankets,” by Craig Thompson
            “Flamer,” by Mike Curato
            “Gender Queer,” by Maia Kobabe

The survey itself was vague. It provided no details where the books were pulled from. It did not clarify or confirm what level of school or classroom grade the books were found in. Instead, the Alberta Government zoomed in on what they described as ‘explicit sexual and pornographic content,’ and presented a skewed survey for residents to take issue with and outrage over, in order to get the end result (which they manufactured) which saw them move to censor and ban books in school libraries with a deadline of October 1^st. The caveat though, is the Alberta Government put the onus on individual School Boards to ensure compliance and pruning of their libraries. Which is exactly what the Edmonton Public School Board did, by releasing a list of over 200 books to culled from their libraries to comply with the Alberta Governments blatant political overreach. This list included:

            “The Handmaids Tale,” by Margaret Atwood
            “Brave New World,” by Aldous Huxley
            “Forever,” by Judy Blume
            “Lolita,” by Vladimir Nakabov
             “1984,” by George Orwell
            “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings,” by Maya Angelou 

            “The View from Castle Rock,” & “The Love of a Good Woman,” by Alice Munro     

        

Naturally, Danielle Smith reacted with her usual brand of political petulance, decrying the school boards list as “vicious compliance.” While Nicolaides continued to defend his book ban. Then the international mockery took place. Margaret Atwood even wrote a story for Alberta students who have once again been failed by their government. Rest assured Gentle Reader, the story about John and Mary complied with the Alberta’s Governments prescribed literary parameters, outlining how both John and Mary “[. . .] never picked their noses or had bowel movements or zits,” and while they did get married and have children, no sex was involved. Phew! As expected, the Alberta Government, facing increased criticism and humiliation not only on a provincial level, but on a national and international scale, was unable to defend their censorship mandate, and the ministerial order was soon re-written to only take aim and issue at ‘visual,’ works. Once again though, Danielle Smith (to use her favourite idiom) was caught riding two horses at once, and as per usual fell face first into horseshit. Though in typical Albertan hubris fashion, neither Smith or Nicolaides could admit a huge error of judgement was made or a mistake was issued in their misbegotten ministerial order and their blatant ideological authoritarian mandate. No, they remained steadfast in their convictions and were disappointed that they needed to provide further clarity, to what they could only describe as common sense issue. Regardless, prior to the abrupt policy turn around on their book banning decision, while still weaseling in greasy censorship, Smith was sure to get her bell ringer out, spreading his usual third-rate brand of propaganda, accusing the Edmonton Public School Board of playing games with the governments serious book ban and polluting children's libraries with pornography.

Who were the lobbying groups behind this push to protect children from sex in books? None other than the social conservative Christian oriented parental groups: Action4Canada and Parents for Choice in Education (PCE). In a fashion similar to the now defunct PMRC, these groups are the usual breed of rubberneck, scandalmonger, interloper, who with their high-flying opinion of their own judgements, believe themselves qualified literary critics capable of discerning what other people’s children read, and adjudicate what is available in publicly funded school libraries. The clincher is though, what someone else’s child reads or consumes is not their business. Will they advocate for their book ban to be taken to public libraries next? What about bookstores? Because these works will be on offer for children to view and consume there. Action4Canada and Parents for Choice in Education has no right to usurp the position of para-librarian professionals, librarians, teachers, and parents. by deciding and dictating what other peoples children read and engage in. If parents have concerns about the literary material their children are reading, they need to be active, involved and engaged with their children and inquire about what books they are consmung. It is not up to third party advocacy groups or governments to bring into question any student or child's literary or academic agency, or to restrict, limit, and explicitly deny them the ability to explore the vastness of the literary and book world guided by curiosity. To that I say to Danielle Smith, Demetrios Nicolaides, Action4Canada and Parents for Choice in Education, there is no such thing as a dirty book, just dirty minds. Thank you for confirming which of the two you have.

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

Post Script –
 
For the Students and Children of Alberta, here’s some thoughts and advice from Stephen King regarding your governments foray into authoritarianism:
 

“Censorship and the suppression of reading materials are rarely about family values and almost always about control; About who is snapping the whip, who is saying no, and who is saying go. Censorship's bottom line is this: if the novel Christine offends me, I don't want just to make sure it's kept from my kid; I want to make sure it's kept from your kid, as well, and all the kids. This bit of intellectual arrogance, undemocratic and as old as time, is best expressed this way: "If it's bad for me and my family, it's bad for everyone's family.

  

Yet when books are run out of school classrooms and even out of school libraries as a result of this idea, I'm never much disturbed not as a citizen, not as a writer, not even as a schoolteacher . . . which I used to be. What I tell kids is, Don't get mad, get even. Don't spend time waving signs or carrying petitions around the neighborhood. Instead, run, don't walk, to the nearest non-school library or to the local bookstore and get whatever it was that they banned. Read whatever they're trying to keep out of your eyes and your brain, because that's exactly what you need to know.”

 

–  Stephen King

 
And for all the supporters of censorship in Alberta and Canada: Seeing as I have no kids or family of my own, keep your family values off my bookshelves.
 
One last word of caution for Alberta and its students:
 

“Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings.”

 

–   Heinrich Heine

Horse Trading & Other Considerations of Taste

Hello Gentle Reader,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patricia Highsmith & The Enduring Allure of the Shadow

Hello Gentle Reader,

It’s been almost thirty years since Patricia Highsmith died, yet her literary legacy cuts a haunting figure. There have been a variety of film adaptions of her work, from Alfred Hitchcock’s watered-down version of “Strangers on the Train,” to the first adaption of the “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” rebranded as “Purple Noon,” and then once again made more famous with the 1999 film “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” which remains an audience favourite, despite not being the most accurate adaption of the novel. Then there was the film, “Carol,” an adaption of the classic lesbian novel, “The Price of Salt,” which was not only gorgeously shot and produced, but captured the rarely seen softer side of Highsmith. Of course there are the myriad of other adaptions: “Black Water,” “The Two Faces of January,” “The Glass Cell,” “The Cry of the Owl,” “The Sweet Sickness,” to name but a few. Then there is the plethora of theatrical and radio adaptions, which fail to be accounted for. These past two decades there have been two biographies of Patrica Highsmith, the first “Beautiful Shadow,” by Andrew Wilson was published in 2003; the second, “The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith,” by the late Joan Schenkar was published in 2009. In 2014 Joanna Murray-Smith’s play “Switzerland,” was produced and staged. “Switzerland,” imagines a fictional version of the well-known reclusive, misanthropic, bitter, and private Highsmith, who, secluded in her Swiss modernist bunker-like house, is visited by perhaps her most famous literary creation. In 2021, at long last the infamous Highsmith Journals were compiled and released for public consumption. Previously, they had only been quoted, analyzed, and presented via the biographies, where they took on a dangerous appeal. In hardcover form, the book is almost a thousand pages long and traces the years of 1941 – 1995. Now, Netflix has released a new adaption of Patricia Highsmith’s most famous literary invention: Tom Ripley, with their miniseries “Ripley.” All of which proves that Patricia Highsmith, be it her literary work, life and biography, journals, or character, continues to be the dry ice of inspiration, which we reach out to tantalizingly touch and recoil at not only the burn, but the lasting chill.

Patricia Highsmith remains an enduring and alluring figure for a variety of reasons. In discussing her literary output, critics agree that Highsmith has been (pun intended) criminally miscategorized as a crime writer or thriller writer; and while her works certainly revolve around criminal inclinations and devious acts; Highsmith was more concerned with the existential and psychological aspects of these mindsets. Crime novels, during Highsmith’s times were concerned with upholding the moral integrity and probity of good always overcomes the nefarious, dubious, and diabolical. They were cozy reads of an otherwise garden variety. Puzzles for readers to sniff out the killer lurking amongst the pages, while justice as a virtue would ultimately prevail. Patricia Highsmith in turn obliterated these concepts. First, Highsmith began to autopsy the placid normalcy of daily life, revealing layer by layer the festering filth and debauchery which lurked within everyone’s psyche. Thoughts people never spoke of. Be it threats of violence, or fantasies of murder, or compulsive obsessions. As “Strangers on the Train,” eloquently calculates that in desperation and debauchery, murder can change otherwise unhappy circumstances, be it the death of an unfaithful wife, or an oppressive father. Murder was no longer reduced to an unforgivable act of moral failing and falter, but evolved into a somewhat cooler arresting concept resembling a mundane transaction or basic commerce. When Agatha Christie caused an outrage and controversy with the twist ending of “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd,” Highsmith, a prolific alcoholic, quite literally said: “hold my beer,” and continued to push that literary envelope. Yet, Highsmith’s treatment of crime and murder went beyond a thriller novel’s usual resume and output. When Graham Greene styled Highsmith “The Poet of Apprehension,” it was with good reason, as Patricia Highsmith, was more interested in spelunking and analyzing the character traits of her otherwise placidly normal people who had finally begun to entertain and entreat their darker thoughts, fantasies, obsessions and desires. This is perhaps why throughout her lifetime, Highsmith had a warmer reception in Europe for her work, where they viewed her as an existential modernist, whereas in the United States of America, she was viewed a crime writer who broke the conventions of the format.

Patrica Highsmith’s character and life remain a fascinating display of mercurial contrary paradoxes. Both biographies of Patricia Highsmith (“Beautiful Shadow,” and “The Talented Miss Highsmith,”) agree she was a complex and difficult woman, which is further supported by her journals. Throughout her life, Highsmith was militant in her defense of her private life. Publicly, Highsmith presented a cold and aloof personality. Highsmith never married, and openly remarked on her preference for bestial company to that of people, going so far as to proclaim her distaste for others by being quoted:

            “My imagination functions much better when I don’t have to speak to people.”   

Solitude was preferable. The late sage of Suffolk, friend and frequent visitor Ronald Blythe, remarked she often grew tired of his company. Fun fact, both Blythe and Highsmith were gay, though they kept this part of their lives to themselves, and yet still they still initiated and attempted sex. The nature of her sexual preference, was a bone of contention for Highsmith. In her youth she attempted psychoanalysis to rid herself of her infatuation of women. It obviously didn’t work, as Highsmith would go on to have a laundry list of lovers who she intensely and passionately adored and desired, and then abruptly abandoned and discarded. A few turned up in her books as victims, brutally murdered, proving that Highsmith had no sympathies for victims. Still, after a lifetime of curating and assembling a public persona that was obviously cold, bitter, and warningly misanthropic, it came as a shock for readers to learn that Highsmith was not reptilian, but warm blooded. She did, however, remain cruel in the end. In her later years, Patricia Highsmith had carved out a home within the sunless Swiss mountains, which physically emancipated her from public life, and facilitated her solitary lifestyle, which she viciously protected like a brown recluse spider. Overtime, Highsmith’s misanthropy graduated to equal opportunity offender, where she would unleash onslaughts and tirades, regardless of venue and revel in the indignation. She was known to spew venom vitriol with equal liberty and without concern. Otto Penzler (a former editor and publisher of Highsmith, before dropping her) described her as:

“She [Patricia Higsmith] was a mean, cruel, hard, unlovable, unloving human being…I could never penetrate how any human being could be that relentlessly ugly.”

The late aged Patricia Highsmith is the most recognizable image of the author. Reclusive and unapologetically misanthropic, whose mean-spirited endeavors rivaled Olympic sporting events in both agility and testament to skill. What has since come about, is Highsmith was a mercurial and complex individual and writer, impossible to pin down and completely ungraspable. Forever shifting and ambiguous, with quicksilver changes, Highsmith defied concrete definitions and compartmentalization’s, and didn’t suffer those fool hearty enough to try to force her into any pre-conceived notion or expectation. To summarize Highsmith as being hardboiled and embittered, and venomously vicious when provoked or disturbed, overlooks her penchant for mordant humour, caustic wit, and unique insight into the consciousness of guilt, apprehension, and obsession. The truth is, Patricia Highsmith was amorphous. A shifting shroud of shade and shadow. One moment on the attack unleashing a torrent of racist and antisemitic remarks. The next, dreaming about some frivolous notion of domestic life with a woman she might love. At her best, however, she was hunched over her Olympia typewriter at her roll top desk, punching away at another novel or short story that delved into the abnormality and darkness of the human soul. Then the pendulum would swing back once again, whereby fueled by cigarettes and alcohol, Highsmith would once again recount, document, record, and scribble in her journals, be it an observation, idea, a list, fantasy, or any other notion. Highsmith loved and hated in equal vein and with the same intensity, often felt simultaneously as a singular experience.

While I haven’t finished the series, “Ripley,” just yet, I’ve enjoyed it thus far. It's a slow burn. Masterfully shot and stylish. The atmosphere is taut with apprehension and menace. The climatic confrontation between Ripley and Dickie is perfect. Ripley, never loses control, carrying out the act with meticulous cold precision. I have found it so disappointing in some reviews the fixation on the ambiguity of Highsmith’s famous American antihero, Tom Ripley’s sexual orientation. The infamous “clothes scene,” seems to have some viewers convinced that Tom Ripley is gay. For the record, Patricia Highsmith dismissed these theories long ago. Furthermore, the term ‘queer,’ when used in the show is not used in its new fashionably remediated format. It’s the old form carrying the tar and feather motivation such an insult was meant to invoke and incite, to purposefully denigrate an individual with no basis, into a category that defines them as somehow a corruption or mistake of nature, perverted and foul. Hearing the term used makes my fingers curl. The subject of Ripley’s sexuality is rather an unimaginative talking point in turn. Sex, much like con artistry, forgery or murder, for Ripley is merely an application or a tool, it is purely utilitarian. What is alluring and so enduring about the talented Tom Ripley, is his nebulous nature, completely chameleonic, shifting and adapting, measured and controlled. Ripley is the cuckoo bird or a changeling, the believable imposter. In the case of Dickie Greenleaf, there may have been adoration for the wayward prodigal son, as Ripley saw a cash cow which he could syphon and symbiotically leech off of. Its climatic conclusion was not the end for Ripley, it was only the beginning of an even more rewarding life. This is what is perhaps most compelling about Tom Ripley as a character, he's not outwardly deranged nor interiorly disturbed. Ripley (much like Highsmith) longed to be inducted and included among the elites. The two of them wanted a life of leisure and pleasure. The amicable good life. Ripley’s transformation is nothing short of Gatsby in its achievement.

Patricia Highsmith, never had the success in her native homeland of the United States. She was perennially shunned because she refused to subscribe and disseminate the virtues of justice and moral probity. Instead, Highsmith kept company with a more nefarious breed, plumbing the depths of the darker recess of the mind. Highsmith was the eclipse on the ideals of American justice, which she found not only hypocritical but puritanically misapplied. As a writer, Patricia Highsmith wrote as a dark mirror reflecting the hidden noctuary of the human condition, all the lusts, envies, greed, obsessions, strange desires, and all the devils clawing at the door. In existentialist fashion, she sought to bring readers face to face with these unacknowledged corners of our own consciousness. As a compelling character and individual, Patricia Highsmith strikes a profoundly complex figure, one who completely refuses to be captured in some neat portrait. Highsmith’s figure shifts unapologetically from the beautiful young woman of her youth, striking and gorgeous, to the gorgonized hardened gargoyle visage of her older years, which remains the most recognizable version to many readers. Her literary works remain compelling, dark glacier wellsprings which readers and writers often return to peer into the dark inky ice ridden depths, as if summon some new form of inspiration. Almost thirty years after her death, and Patricia Highsmith experiences an almost reoccurring sense of renewed appreciation, which was so lacking in her own lifetime. If anything, Patricia Highsmith has proven that there is an enduring allure to the shadow, the inscrutable and unknowable darkness of the human consciousnesses. As a writer, Highsmith was surveyor and spelunker of these amoral landscapes, exploring the depths of guilt, the thralls of obsessions, and conductor of the apprehension.

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

M. Mary