The Short Story Review (No. IV)

“Dusk,” by Saki (H.H. Munro) – From “The Complete Saki,” by Saki – Section: “Beats and Super-Beasts.”

“Dusk,” is a story by Saki which is the pseudonym of Hector Hugh Munro, who is considered a master of the short story. Most of which satirise the entire Edwardian Era and its culture. His witty and sarcastic tales with the paint stroke of the macabre. “Dusk,” is not like the other tales that I have read by Saki. It does not have the humour; however this also shows Saki’s versatility. With working nights, I see three things in the sky. At the beginning of my shift I see the sunset, and the eventual sunset. During the near end of my shift I see the sunrise. The title of this short story (“Dusk,”) which is what attracted me to it in the first place. There is something about this time. This time of change. Children have already headed in doors for a night of washing up, watching some television with their parents, and then heading to bed. The dogs can be heard crying out and howling. The sidewalks appear less populated. Lights are on, illuminating the streets, unnaturally. Their pale orange glow reflected dully in the pavement, and the sidewalks. Shadows are cast in the alleys. Shifting and scurrying dancing in the lights. The tiniest moth becomes a large bat. People even start to change. More people can seen in a state of amiss, or in a sense of unassembled appearances.

“Dusk,” by Saki is just about that. About the people that crawl out of their homes, their situations, and take up residence in park benches, that once upon a time earlier that day had rested the buttocks of a mother watching her child, play in the park, or an elderly lady dressed up as if to go a church service, or a wedding, and in some cases a funeral; who waited for a bus. These benches would soon in time become the spots where the vagrants, the disposed, the stressed, and the hopeless swimming in despair took up residence.

There is a lushness to the prose of “Dusk,” by Saki. Also a very tightly controlled plot, and manoeuvre throughout the entire short work. This is the strength of the short story form. Some authors like Saki and Yasunari Kawabata (the Nobel Laureate of Literature nineteen-sixty eight) are able to work the wonderful short story form. Just reading a Saki short story is tightly plotted, tightly controlled, and tightly done. It moves like any story, or novel would. At least in the traditional sense. It follows a beginning, a climax and an end.

When we are young – or at least when I was young; we are taught that every story must have a problem. Now in such a young mind a “problem,” can be something so grandeur. Not to mention that stories sometimes have the most grandeur problems. A magical ring that a giant eye wishes to have in order to enslave the world. A magical man who wishes to live forever (out of fear of death,) and have complete control over the world. Stopping a countdown to doomsday. These conflicts are of the most exaggerated and large scaled. However this is what is primarily thought of as a typical “climax,” or what a “climax,” should be. However in a short story form, the climax cannot always be so simple, and so easily spotted. Sometimes it must be something else. Something different, something smaller. Like small conflicts of life itself. The misplacement of keys; or getting soap in your eyes, or not having butter or milk for breakfast. These are the conflicts that may be used in a shorter story.

Dusk is the tale of those that come out at night. Escape their predicaments. Their hopeless situations. One of these situations is a man traveling or visiting London – presumably from somewhere else in the country, maybe another city. He explains how he went to check into the hotel that he had hoped to be staying in, only to find it had been torn down. The cab driver then told him of another place he could go and visit, that was nearby. But the young man’s unfortunates were not about to stop there. He went down to a chemist’s shop to buy some soap. He does not like to use the soap that is supplied in hotel rooms. However upon getting the soap the man had since become lost, and does not have much money and is in need of some good charity. All this is relayed to the narrator of the story, who quickly spots a falseness though to it as well. The fact is the young man might as well be lying – there is no soap, and so the young man quickly leaves. However the narrator finds the box of soap on the ground and quickly chases the young man, and gives him some money and then departs back to where he was perched before, only to have another man come by and say that he has lost a box of soap. It’s a story of judging circumstances at face value. There is always going to be mistakes, and rewards for good deeds. But the time of Dusk is really what Saki writes about in this story. A time when things in the city change. When different groups of people emerge from the holes, of the landscape. Almost as if the city itself works on night shift and day shifts, and the switch comes at dusk.

“Yuriko,” by Yasunari Kawabata the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight – From “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories.”

The short story Yuriko by Yasunari Kawabata (the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight) is a different piece of work by the author. It’s more of a fable then his other works. “Yuriko,” (which means “lily child,”) is a tale about being someone else because you adore or love them. The title character (Yuriko) always tried to be someone else, since she was young. When she was young her friend (she found) was most adorable when her hands and ear lobes were red from the cold. So she would soak her hands in cold water before she went to school, and then splash some cold water on her ear lobes, so she could be adorable like her friend. When she married she did everything her husband did. She wore thick rimmed glasses. She did not apply make up to her face. She dressed like him, and even walked with that slight bounce (I always though it looked rather arrogant,) that men usually walk in. Her husband forbade her to do such things.

Yuriko explains though why she does what she does: “—it’s just too lonely when the person i love and I are different.”

Yuriko then falls in love with God. When she prays to God to show him or herself, clearly replied from the sky or heavens or universe, and told Yuriko that she shall become a lily and love everything. So Yuriko is turned into a lily.

The entire way this story was written is in a light-hearted sense. Not light-hearted in the sense of comedy, but just the way the fabulist story is portrayed. How the one who wished to be the one she cares about, finally becomes a lily and loves everything. I can only think and assume this is what an Italo Calvino story feels like after reading it. It just leaves you with a sense of alright that was nice, feeling.
“When It’s Human Instead of When It’s Dog,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section: “Reasons to Live.”

I quite enjoyed this short story by Amy Hempel a lot. This is where the neatly well crafted sentences work to her advantage, of the story she wishes to tell. Sentences no matter how well crafted they are must be, able to fit together like pieces in a puzzle. Consider the entire concept of any piece of writing like a puzzle in that sense. That every word, and every sentence, is a piece of a large puzzle. The finished product which is the story itself is the finished puzzle. All the pieces neatly placed together. However some stories or novels will leave parts missing. Done correctly this works. If it is not done correctly it is a complete mess. When this is done, then the reader is supposed to fit the missing pieces with the information they have, together. However this does not always work. In Amy Hempel’s story “When It’s Human Instead of When It’s Dog,” is done precisely with the concept of the puzzle piece. Every sentences works accordingly to the precision to the story itself. It is a truly touching story. Lately I appear to have been in a really touching mood, and touching stories, seem to amuse and entertain me. Much like “Pool Nights,” last line really touched me last time. So has this story in all its way shape and form. There is something about Amy Hempel’s world, that in some way or another, one almost feels like they are inhabiting the same space as the characters.

Mrs. Hatano (I presume is an immigrant) who cleans a house, and makes dinner or supper and in return receives forty dollars for her services. Now this may sound boring but is not really boring at all. Amy Hempel has been said to write in the minimalist literary style – not quite to the extreme that the Nobel Laureate in nineteen-sixty nine Samuel Beckett wrote in his later years, but in a more precise way. It’s more or less these splinters of the mundane or superficiality of someone’s reality and life. Not a whole lot though is revealed about Mrs. Hatano’s life. All we know is she cleans the house, and makes dinner for a man by the title the Mr., and someone else by the title the Mrs. As the reader learns the Mrs., was never well. Presumably ill as the story progresses. But Mrs. Hatano tries her best to avoid such a personal feeling, and moves on with her usual routine. When she first arrives at the house no one is home, and she goes to kitchen, grabs a piece of paper – the kind of note pad paper people may have by their telephones to take down a message; and writes down dinner options for the Mr. She then moves upstairs where she does light dusting according to her schedule, and vacuum. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, she finds a room that is usually locked. Upon entering she lights a lamp, and though it is claimed it is not in her nature to pry, she reads a sympathy card. By this time the Mr., has returned home, and decides to help Mrs. Hatano with the bed. Which has been stripped and new linen, waiting to be placed. It is then declared that the Mr., stares into the bedding. Life continues on though for Mrs. Hatano, as she continues her routine. There is a real sense of detachment to the way she holds herself and interacts with the Mr., and the events that have befallen the household.

Mrs. Hatano though is in one way or another tossed into the circumstances of the household. When she discovers a stain, that she remarks look like a piece of geography on a large map, she tries to clean it. Though all attempts fail. She makes calls to others; she knows to see if they know how to get rid of the stain. Though no such luck. It becomes clear now that the enigmatic Mrs., has since passed away. As Mrs. Hatano finishes her cleaning the Mr., passes by the stain which now looks like a body outlined at a crime scene. The Mr., retreats up stairs. Mrs. Hatano grabs the forty dollars, and replaces a five dollar back, because she could not get the stain out.
Reading just a simple outline or summary of a story is not the same as actually reading the story my dear gentle reader I do promise you that. There is something about Amy Hempel’s story “When It’s Human Instead of When It’s Dog,” is incredible. Something that struck a heart string. Plucked it and made it vibrate. The vibrations like the saddest little violin song, that could resonate throughout my body. The vibrations just pulsating throughout. Though in a vulnerable situation with starting work at night, one might be a bit vulnerable to such emotional things. But it still was a story that hit home for me. A story that just places recognition on oneself to say that: “yes I am human. I feel emotions.”

“Deep-Holes,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness.”

When I first read “Deep-Holes,” by Alice Munro I for some odd reason or another, thought of “Death of a Salesman,” a play that I hated reading. For a few reasons, plays should be performed not read, like a short story or a novel. Oh well, I suppose some people get a good kick out of making people read plays. Especially plays that are just really boring, and quite frankly influenced by the political feeling of the era, to the point of just disgusting. I mean in no way shape or form am I all for capitalism, nor am I the person who would run around and scream communism is the way comrade, either. But it is quite obvious that the writer Arthur Miller, was pro-communist; something that was quite popular of his era. In fact being pro-communist was something fashionable as Kingsley Amis said, about his communist party membership. Other famous writers noted for their communist sympathies which have since dissolved for whatever reason are Doris Lessing the Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and seven, Italo Calvino (it should be noted that he lived under Fascist Italy,) Jean-Paul Sartre (though embraced Marxism never did join the communist party, and denied the Nobel Prize for Literature which is why he is not named a Laureate,) Simone de Beauvoir (though she may or may not have been like her friend and lover Sartre and may have embraced Marxist ideologies; she certainly was a feminist, but may not have joined the communist party,) Elfriede Jelinek the Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and four, Iris Murdoch (she joined for ‘religious,’ reasons). Any how the entire story of the relationship between the father and son in the play by Arthur Miller “Death of a Salesman,” was something that was depicted in “Deep-Holes,” by Alice Munro – that being said any story that has a father or son relationship can be compared to any one or another. But in this case the father and son relationship in Alice Munro’s story “Deep-Holes,”

Things start of rather normal. Much like all of other Alice Munro’s stories in this collection of stories. However beneath the surface of the idyll, and normality of life, the very earth may give way and shatter all around. The normal picnic of this family has a certain sense of something wrong to it. There is just an undercurrent of something wrong within the family. The way the husband looks away when his wife Sally, breasts feed their infant child Savanna. The way the father treats his children – but it does certainly become apparent to me that he singles out Kent more. Perhaps there will always be a sense of complexity to the relationships of fathers and sons. The relationship between Kent and his father Alex could be seen as the complete down fall of the family itself.

It’s hard to say or why it had happened – though the experience that Kent had experienced when he fell down one of the holes in the ground of where the family was picnicking when he was younger that lead to his own unravelling and undoing. The split from the family. The absolute search for something that he may never find. There is something about this story; something that just felt off at sometime or another. The entire gratefulness, the appreciation, the gratitude, that Kent bestows upon his father, all seem out of place, and the way they are brushed off by his father. Just like how Alex pushes off the entire ordeal as nothing. As if loving his son, Kent is torture. He scoffs off the fact the, that he saved his sons life when fell into one of the “Deep-Holes,” that the family picnicked at. Yet the dynamics within the family changed considerably. Kent appeared to have gained his father’s approval and perhaps pride, in his high school years when he (Kent) studies the sciences. The harder sciences. Alex himself is a scientist a geologist in fact. Then all of a sudden the family dynamics shifted once again. Kent disappeared from college. He disappeared from his family. He left without a word. The relationship between the family and their now estranged son Kent gradually becomes worst and deepens considerably.

In fact the entire relationship – though Kent surely protests against such a word, especially with his family that he may or may not despise. It is odd though. This almost normal family – all families have issues that is part of life; just split apart. Could Kent blame his situation on his piss poor relationship with his father Alex? Could he blame it on the fact that he could have died when he fell down the whole himself, and was saved by his father? They could all be answers. But what is odd in some other way or another, is that they are never answered. Sometimes one can suppose in some way or another, whether or not they want to admit it, nothing truly ties up nicely. The relationship that Kent has – or the resentment of a relationship that he once had, and now refuses to have, are never answered. His brother and sister (Peter and Savanna) are both successful people. Even his mother Sally, has an interest in geology. We cannot choose our parents. We don’t get to choose our children. As much as we hate to admit they are both a part of us, and also individuals, completely unique on their own. The successfulness of her other two children, and the comfortable life she lived with her husband Alex, are all contradicted in her son Kent. Who if one were to ask me in some way or another, is simply running away from something, or searching for something he will most likely never find. Kent’s lifestyle, his resentment, and maybe slight subtle anger and hatred, all in some way or another, also affect his mother, who is not entirely sure how to deal with him, and his lifestyle. It is a challenge that she as a modern woman faces, and may and most likely will have to cope with.

“Incubus: Or The Impossibility of Self- Determination as to Desire,” by Will Self – From: “Grey Area”

“Incubus,” or if one prefers to call it: “The Impossibility of Self-Determination as to Desire,” – was first commissioned by publishing house Serpent’s Tail for their anthology titled “Seduction.” Serpent’s Tail used to be an independent publisher (or may still be considered a independent publishing house) was bought out by Profile Books in two thousand and seven. Serpents Tail is an interesting publishing house, in a few ways. It is noted for publishing predominantly publishing left wing or center leaning political oriented novels. It is also noted for its translations, of European crime fiction. It is also the publisher (I think before she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature of two thousand and three) of Elfriede Jelinek, not to mention another Nobel Prize Laureate in Literature, of nineteen-ninety four and the second Japanese author have been awarded the prize Kenzaburō Ōe, whose prose much like Elfriede Jelinek lean towards the left. But interesting enough Serpents Tail also publishes an authors who in my opinion is not left leaning, because of her life ruled under the dictatorship of the Romanian Communist Party and the larger Union of Soviet Socialists Republics. Herta Muller the Nobel Laureate of Literature of two-thousand and nine. Though her prose could be seen as a bit centrist in a political spectrum. However her novels predominantly deal with the power and fear and terror of communism – which is somewhat interesting because Elfriede Jelinek the Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and four was a member of the communist party for many years. Serpent’s Tail is also noted for publishing some of the more risqué and more transgressive fiction.

The entire story of “Incubus,” or if one prefers to call it: “The Impossibility of Self-Determination as to Desire,” – is about a philosophy professor and his research assistant, that he has, and how he wishes to seduce her. The funny part about the entire story is that the entire seduction, takes place in some sex-worshiping Christian cult. If one were to ask me this professor should be more interested in occult and teaching the occult rather than philosophy. Or perhaps one would consider the occult a form of philosophy. I mean if the entire New Age ideologies get their own way they would consider their rather quack theories a form of philosophy – though I care to disagree.

In all this entire story is quite strange. An interesting concept is taken so far, and in typical Will Self fashion is exaggerated and blown over in that same surreal fashion. It’s all been done; it appears in the past few stories beforehand. After a while, this over blown way things are done, that is typical (or so it appears) in Will Self’s stories becomes, a bit repetitious and cease to lose that sparkle, and the charm that was once held, becomes lost.

So is the case with this story, and was the case with the last story. When an author begins to repeat themselves over and over again, or their writing style becomes so predictable, then they cease to hold the interest of the reader. Which is why a author should always keep being fresh and write about something different, always, or else they are just writing the same book with slight variations over and over again.


“Blow it,” by Patricia Highsmith – From: “The Selected Stories of Patricia Highsmith”

I shall certainly confess it, that I find Patricia Highsmith a much more interesting person then I do her work. I find the misanthropic, reclusive, pessimistic, sultry, bitter, turbulent writer and her life, far more interesting than I date to admit I find her work. Her home country of America rejected her, throughout her life. Many would not know in her life time who she was, as a writer, but she was quite popular in Europe. Regarded by most as a crime writer, and the grandmother and trendsetter of the psychological thriller, in Patricia Highsmith’s time, she broke all the rules of crime fiction and noir literature. She made her own rules. She wrote about how she saw the world around her. A world deprived of logic, reason, and meaning. Not everyone paid their dues. Not everyone paid for the crime they may or may not have committed. Private detectives, police officers, homicide detectives – anyone whose job it is to catch the criminal or to solve the crime is incompetent and inadequate in any attempt to solve the crimes or murders that are committed. It is no wonder that Patricia Highsmith was ignored by her home country. She refused to play by the rules. For the rules themselves, were useless to Patricia Highsmith. Why try and make order and a world full of random events, and has no order itself. This explains why murder in Patricia Highsmith’s stories and novels, works more like a reaction, then anything else. There does not necessarily have to have much of a meaning to any meaning at all behind it. It just happens. An extreme emotional response. Why in the traditional noir and crime fiction, murder is something planned. Planned by someone evil; this bad person then is to be hunted down by the troubled private investigator, who has relationship problems and a less then happy emotional state of well being; then justice is served. Not in Patricia Highsmith’s world. Never in Patricia Highsmith’s world.

“Blow it,” by Patricia Highsmith was a bit different then the other stories that I have read by Patricia Highsmith. It delves into the more mundane. I much prefer this rather than the hurried quickness of getting to the murder, that can happen in her short stories, and sometimes the bits of information that are left out like one characters knowledge, about something, and no real explanation for how the character could have gotten the knowledge. It is further more appropriate then Patricia Highsmith’s sketches or attempts at what would now be known as flash fiction – her “Little Tales of Misogyny,” were just not that good if one asks me. To write in such a restrictive and restraining style takes much practice and restraint, something I don’t think Patricia Highsmith had, to write such fiction. Let’s face the facts, that is something that she cannot do. Yasunari Kawabata the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight could pull it off – in fact he said the true essence of work can be found in his “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories.” Amy Hempel, one of the writers of the nineteen eighties short story Renaissance in America, who prefers the title “miniaturist,” to the term “minimalist,” which is best to describe Samuel Beckett the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty nine; however Samuel Beckett if anything is he would be considered (in my most humblest of opinions anyway) avant-garde.

“Blow It,” is a bit creepy and a bit different, then her other work. Far more subtle and I quite like that. A reader can always tell when something is being forced, and at times Patricia Highsmith’s fiction, has a sense of being forced. “Blow It,” reminds me somewhat of the other story that I quite enjoyed by Patricia Highsmith “Broken Glass.”

The Short Story Review (No. IV) Introduction

Hello Gentle Reader

Working nights certainly does make it a bit more difficult to blog, and make sure that everything goes according to schedule, while fitting in with the current schedule that one works. Working nights makes it a bit difficult because you work however long, you go home, you’re tired and sore and stiff, and you just crawl into bed and fall asleep for however long until you wake up. My time varies to be honest. However I am still making the effort to read, and review. Let’s face some facts for sure Gentle Reader, you were here first, so was the blog, so were the books. It is only justifiable that I do make the attempt to keep up with the blog, to keep up with the reading and the reviewing, while working nights.

Just the other day while I was walking home, I have to cross a busy street, and the button on the signal for walkers to cross wasn’t working, but I went when the cars going in the direction that I was going in. Of course, half way across the road, the light turns yellow, and only a few seconds would it turn red, so I ran across the street. Thinking to myself, just how much my feet hurt, but wasn’t particularly looking forward to getting run over. So running across the street was how it goes usually you could say. Though I can only think of how many people sat in their cars laughing at me as I ran across the street. Though I’d rather have them laughing at me as I ran across the street, rather than them getting impatient and deciding to teach me a lesson and run me over with their car. After that, walking down the walking path the birds were chirping. In a garbage disposal bin where a restaurant appears to dispose of their garbage (or perhaps the entire strip mall) there were two crows sitting on a cardboard box, beating the box with their beaks. The thump, thump of the drumming of their beaks on the cardboard, was an interesting sound, with the mixture of the chirping calls of the red winged black bird. One can only wonder if this is the sounds of the nature and urban life joined together. The pesky feeling and the calls of the crows and the red winged black birds. The less the harmonious squawk of the ducks; or those honking calls of the geese (which have all but left though). Still it is interesting to see urban life and nature trying to live peacefully with the each other.

The last Short Story Review (which was No. III) did not have an introduction, based on the short time period that I had reviewed all short stories. Pressed for time and not sure what to say No. III was not able to have an introduction. However The Short Story Review (No. IV) will have an introduction as you can see, by reading this.

The last short story review, was partly a fifty/fifty feeling to it. I know personally from reading some of the stories, that there were hits and misses, particularly from Will Self and Patricia Highsmith. For some reason or another I think these two authors are good, I just had trouble getting into their last stories. Will Self for sure, takes an idea and runs with it far and wide, twisting and exaggerating the said idea, until it is something completely different yet original from the first concept of the idea. Patricia Highsmith’s stories are dark little jewels. An irrational world. A world full of no meaning whatsoever. Nothing can be explained. Murder is just a reaction, and everything that follows after that, is just the chain reaction to the explosion of the murder.

Let’s hope the selected short stories are chosen are much better than the stories that were selected last time. It does appear that Saki and Yasunari Kawabata (the Nobel Laureate of Literature in nineteen-sixty eight) Amy Hempel, and Alice Munro are unable to disappoint me, but then again nothing is ever truly certain. So far they have yet to disappoint me.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

Mondays With Mr. K (No. VII)

Most people in some time or another came into contact with Mr. K at least once in their life. Most of all though, those who had come in contact with Mr. K were most grateful for the encounter with Mr. K. Such a case was when a few youth’s presumably three – for four would be one too many – much like a cat. The youths were stumbling around town, and just happened to catch Mr. K’s attention, one night when he happened to be outside, enjoying the last warm nights of summer. He sat on a park bench; his eyes cast forward watching the stars twinkling above him. The moon in the distance – though it still looked magnified; glowed its pale gentle glow upon the earth below. The rays like gentle arrows of peace, piercing the world below.

However Mr. K’s enjoyable quiet night or early morning – references may differ you see; when the three young men – not adults yet; stumbled into the area that he sat on a park bench. Mr. K could smell the stench of alcohol coming seeping from their pores. He knew the young men’s parents. He respected them very much. He knew how much their parents spoke so highly of them. Mr. K then decided to take the boys in, and give them coffee, hoping to sober them up.

One, two, and a third cat – but not a fourth – much like the young men themselves; were already awaiting Mr. K and his new guests. The cats themselves, look up and over at the new guests and at Mr. K, with cold stares, showing how unimpressed they were with this new intrusion in their life. However they quickly went back to their own business after the intrusion. The three young men sat down on the sofa. Each one trying to squeeze in as much as possible. Though they found this all quite humorous. The cats on the other hand were only a little more annoyed with it, twitching their ears with annoyance at the laughs at the young men.

Mr. K came back with coffee, and had the young men drink coffee. Even when they protested against it. However when the young men were as sober as they could get, each one thanked Mr. K kindly. As the sun began to rise, the young men quickly tried to get home, and sneak inside, and tried not to be seen by their parents, who they had betrayed. The cats however stuck behind sleeping in their corner. While Mr. K himself quickly shut off the lights and headed back to his own bed to grab some rest.

“Gratefulness is something we all learn at the oddest moments of time. Sometime we learn what gratitude is from stranger’s kindness. Other times, we learn what gratitude is by the punishments we receive. However in time we all learn gratitude and what it means to be grateful. Such small moments of kindness can last a life time.”

The Thief and The Dogs

Hello Gentle Reader

It is still safe to say that North Africa is still feeling the winds of change brushing through its streets. Now it is up to the people though to keep the hope. To keep the ideals alive. To keep it all working, and moving. A better future. A better life. A better world. This is what every person – or so I am told; believes in. Everyone wishes to better their own lives though. By bettering their own lives, then that person is able to better the rest of the world. Or so some people think. Though it can be said is true. Some rather wealthy people have made some outstanding contributions to the world, through charities, and other events. While others are far more interested in their own lavish parties, and other events. However when one makes money, it becomes their own money. They can make the deals. They can call the shots. It is their money. But the protests in North Africa and the Middle East, continue to simmer and bubble on the surface. Even though media attention – which/whose attention can only be described as Attention Deficit Disorder; or who has the attention span of a door knob or welcome mat; has chosen of late not to focus on the issues happening in North Africa and the Middle East. The fate of Egypt’s revolution are all but difficult to find. Will change come? Will some reforms be made to a country whose beaten and bruised; whipped not only with the desert winds but with the sound lashing of the political tyrants as well. What of the current state of affairs of Lebanon, and now Syria. One can only hope – but keep realistic expectations on what may or may not happen.

These idealistic tendencies that these young and educated people are screaming – much like Fahmy in Naguib Mahfouz the nineteen-eighty eight Nobel Laureate in Literature’s first novel in his grand trilogy of novels “The Cairo Trilogy,” (the first instalment) “Palace Walk.” Though idealism also has a less flattering side to it. In Naguib Mahfouz’s nineteen sixty one novel (publication date of course) “The Thief and The Dogs,” – which was also made into a film in ninety sixty two; but also in ninety seventy five was made into a television series that only lasted for one season; shows the other side of idealism. Said Mahran the protagonist of the novel or novella, is an idealistic – overly idealistic; man who has a pretentious attitude towards intellect and justice. A petty thief – something he doesn’t appear to have much shame in; is released from prison after a four year sentence. Presumably for thievery. Prison has done little to change Said’s idealistic outlook on life – though he does appear more angrier and bitter towards the betrayal that he himself claims has happened on to him. His good friend Ilish; his former wife Nabawiyya; and old mentor Rauf Ilwan have all betrayed him in some format or another.

Said’s worldview in some format or another was never one, to realistic. In fact it’s fair to say that it was rather overtly zealous, pious, and rather pompous. He sees a world cruel, and unforgiving. A world that has betrayed him many times before, and will not cease to betray him. However while the world has beaten him. Lashed him with whips in prison, he also picked up a skill – tailoring. After four years of prison, and picking up a new skill, would one think that Said would be able to live a normal life. Learning his lesson? Seeing the error of his overtly ways? It appears not. Seeing as he could have easily gone and worked in a tailor shop, enjoying a quiet and easy life, reading his books and getting to know his baby daughter who has since grown in his absence, and even have started a relationship with her; it appears that Said is or was far more interested in exacting revenge against the people he called “the dogs.” The people who had sent him to prison, who had betrayed him, and taken everything away from him. Whatever sense of intellectual pursuits, and rational mind he had, had since been corrupted by the thick thorny veins of vengeance and bitterness.

Said makes on claim, and one claim only. That he will display his own sense of judgement, his own sense of justice, and his own sense of peace with himself and the world, with the elimination and nullification, of the three people who have betrayed him. Who destroyed the life he once had. Who had warped him into a beast. Who have turned his daughter against him. Who left him for four years in prison to rot, and be tortured. Said blames the society he lives in quiet simply for his defeat. For his sentence, and for his current predicament. The putrid and disgusting society that he see’s disgusts him so much, not only in its attempt at justice, but its outright mockery of the justice system has left a rather disillusioned thief by the name of Said, whose main purpose is the murder of the three dogs, who had betrayed them. He makes it is his statement that he will kill them until he himself is killed.

If I remember correct from my edition of this – which comes with an short, simple and sweet introduction for each of the novella’s; this novella was the first time Naguib Mahfouz used the stream-of- consciousness in his writing. Which it does regardless. The stream-of- consciousness technique had allowed Naguib Mahfouz the opportunity to search deep inside the very twisted, tortured mind of Said and his abysmal soul. The stream-of- consciousness technique used in “The Thief and The Dogs,” is generally different then Naguib Mahfouz’s other work – or more specifically his earlier work; like “The Cairo Trilogy,” which is grounded more thoroughly in a realist style fiction of Charles Dickens and Honoré de Balzac. “The Thief and The Dogs,” is much more Marcel Proust and Virginia Woolf in its more modernist approach of exploring the mind of the character. However Naguib Mahfouz’s novel “The Thief and The Dogs,” is not a complicated read at all. It is a tightly plotted novel. It is quick paced. Not to mention direct and decisive. However the shortness of this novel which can almost be called novella; let’s not split hairs here; also has a lot of potential that is not entirely grabbed in this work. There is a lot of potential to explore the past of Said, and his acquaintances and friends and former colleagues. There are a few scenes, where Said remarks about the palm tree he climbed like a nimble monkey in his younger days to grab his future wife, but also future former wife. But the more detailed version would be also quite nice to see. It would be really interesting to see Said before, and then Said after his prison time.

That being said; to see the main character Said after prison is quite interesting. As the reader one does not get to see him before hand. They are only left with a rather unstable and abstract man who sees himself, as a personal form of justice. A form of justice that wishes to take a sense of vengeance against those that had betrayed him. Cost him four years of his life; one thousand four hundred and sixty days; not to mention countless hours, minutes, and seconds he spent wasting away in prison, waiting for his opportunity at freedom, only to find the world has changed in four short years. His mentor Rauf Ilwan is a wealthy journalist and businessman. His former wife Nabawiyya has betrayed him and married the treacherous dog Ilish. All this confounds, and confuses a man, who expects the world to be as it was. Perhaps the only person that had not changed, and meets and greets Said with open arms is the Sheikh – who is more a metaphysical being in his confusing riddles taken from the Koran; yet a good hearted and good natured man. Though somewhat paradoxical in many ways, such as the time he said that he was reciting some of the saddest verses of the Koran to himself, though in a happy state of mind. Then there is Nur, the prostitute. The oddest of creatures in this entire novel. Why she loves Said is beyond me; though her devotion is unflinching and sometimes startling. Though the Nur part could have used some expansion. Certainly it could have used some more explanation, as to how Nur and Tarzan had come to know Said.

“The Thief and The Dogs,” in some retrospect or another is a lesser known novel of the first Egyptian Nobel Laureate in Literature Naguib Mahfouz. It is the first novel to imply the stream-of- consciousness writing method in the Arabic novel, sealing Naguib Mahfouz as a pioneer of the Arabic novel and Arabic Literature in general. It is not one of Naguib Mahfouz’s greatest novels though. Certainly there is room for improvement. Political in many ways – but can a novel or short story or poem or essay ever leave the Middle East and translated into another language and not be called political? Facing the facts the Middle East is a political zone. Full of religious extremists and fundamentalists. A place full of the wealthy and the downright poverty. Where hairs are split over the interpretation of the religious holy land of the world – not that its much holy as it is a giant sandbox! It is a place full of war lords and tyrants. The east versus west conflict is also something of hot debate there. Any novel that came out of the Middle Eastern area, or the North African area, or any area over there, would be considered political. “The Thief and The Dogs,” is also a considerably political novel, on its study and dissection of idealism. Its abstract study of justice, and its warped nature. But also a interesting look into the psychological destruction of a man, betrayed and hating the putrid world, that longs to hate him just as much back. A frightening portrait of a bitter thief, who is more interested in being a concept or avatar of justice rather than, picking up his life. Placing the pieces of it all back together and moving on. Instead Said Mahran went down in the darkness with guns blazing.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

P.S. Dear Gentle Reader, one (one being me in this case) has a new job. Hopefully this will provide some funds in order to get some more books, in order to read, and review. This job however is at night, and does make it a little bit tricky on the scale of how I am going to balance reading and all that. I know one of the more larger concerns at the moment is “The Short Story Review,” which is posted monthly. But I will find a way in to balance work with some reading.

Four Seconds Shorter Then Yesterday Four Seconds Longer Then Tomorrow

Hello Gentle Reader

The Canadian summer already feels like it has already come and gone. Well it does when one thinks of, the fact that the days are now growing shorter and shorter, with the subtraction of four seconds every day. The days grow short. The nights grow long. June was a wet and rather soggy month. Cold and damp. Overcast and grey where the skies of the filtered grey light, which can only be equated to the light of winter. The same filtered cold light of winter. That sterile Siberian feeling to it. But now with July heading in, the sun has come out. The flowers have a chance to bloom. How lovely the site is indeed. My peony has open its blooms. Those lovely nice bright lemon yellow bloomed flowers. Are quite something. The grass of course still desires to be cut once every week or every two weeks weather depending. Not that I have been paying much attention to the lawn, because of my cold that I am suffering from at the moment. That being said Canada Day was still a lovely day. I did not go and see any fireworks. Though instead, I was able to enjoy a bonfire instead. To the American’s I hope you all had a lovely Fourth of July, had a bonfire, saw some fireworks, and ate a hot dog or two.

Last week or the last week or half week of June; or the few days that were left in June I was able to post “The Short Story Review (No. III),” though my dear gentle reader you will notice that there is no introduction to the short story review like there was for the past two. Now this is partly done because of the time crunch that the review had to be done right then and there. My procrastination had made that, the problem. Though of course, sometimes in life, other chores or other aspects of life need to be dealt with first, rather than doing something for fun. June was also a poor month reading wise. With “The Black Book,” by Nobel Laureate in Literature of two thousand and six, there was an empty gap or hole in the bookshelf – or it certainly felt that way. There are still books to read, but it certainly felt like there was nothing to read. I know on a few occasions during the past week, and partly the week before that or so – the past little bit has all but been a bit of a blur. Time had appeared to have no meaning whatsoever. The attempts at reading Iris Murdoch’s “The Black Prince,” and Marcel Proust’s intimidating voluminous novel “In Search of Lost Time Volume 1: Swann’s Way,” also left me feeling both uninterested, bored, and wondering why I was wasting my time.

With the prospect of what I have for books to tread, being nothing more than boring, and a waste of time, and not something that I wish to read, I did some looking for some new authors, and some new books to read. I’ve even included poets in the list. It has been many years since I have had even the slightest inkling of interest in reading some poetry. Personally the uninteresting and frustrating aspects of poetry can be blamed on the way that poetry is taught in schools. The entire anatomy and structure, style, diction, symbolism (which is rather literary risqué) rhyme scheme, metaphors, similes, meter, stanza, and the iambic pentameter. When students are given these odd looking bits of literature. These lines that barely coherent together, and are told dissect the diction. Amputate the rhyme scheme. Place the iambic pentameter under the microscope. So on and so forth, can leave some of the most rotten tastes in people’s mouths about poetry. It wasn’t until the other day that, by chance a poem by titled “The Silence of Plants,” crossed my path on the internet. The Nobel Laureate in Literature of Nineteen-Ninety Six Wisława Szymborska wrote the poem titled “The Silence of Plants.” Listening to the poem on the internet (though the sound effects where not at all particularly enjoyable and often interfered with the words of the poem) there was an epiphany when listening to the words of the poem. This in some way or another interested me into the world of poetry once again. This of course does not mean that by any means necessary that I will run out, and grab some poetry collections, and start reading the poems of Walt Whitman or any other poet that cares to cross your mind my dear gentle reader. That being said thanks to the surface simplicity of Wisława Szymborska, there is a rekindled joy into the world of poetry. There are a few poets on my book list, and seeing as we have come to the conclusion of the poetry part of this blog, then it is time to include those poets’ names. Some of them Dear Gentle Reader, you may have heard of, while others you may not have heard of:

Adam O’ Riordan
Mathew Hittinger
Wisława Szymborska (Nobel Laureate in Literature of Nineteen-Ninety Six)
Adonis (or Adunis)
Tomas Tranströmer (A favourite for the Nobel Prize for Literature)
Ko Un (A favourite for the Nobel Prize for literature)
Philip Larkin (one of the most famous post war poets in England)
Bella Akhmadulina (recently deceased)
Sylvia Plath
Robert Lowell

Of course there are also some other authors, on my book to read list. The more traditional authors are also included in this list. The authors of short stories, and novels. These are the authors that are more preferred to read and review, which is why the reading list was first composed. With the completion of “The Black Book,” by the Nobel Laureate in Literature, there was and still is a period of a gap in the bookshelf. Right now in the current registry of reading is “The Thief and The Dogs,” by Naguib Mahfouz the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-eighty eight. This is being done reluctantly, for the reason because there was nothing more interesting to read, in the bookshelf. I did not necessarily want to read another Naguib Mahfouz novel for a while yet, because when and if a person reads too much of one author it becomes quite a pain and annoyance to read. The books and the authors loose the lustre. Which can be quite upsetting at times, because the knowledge that the author is a great author, but the contradiction that the words cease to encase and be magical, then it becomes difficult to read. However “The Thief and The Dogs,” is doing alright so far.

The reading list itself includes novelists and short story writers, from all around the world. At least those that have translations and publications in the English language. But there is a series of books called the “Canongate Myth Series,” where authors from all over and all around publish short novels – novellas; where they have re-written ancient myths from myriad cultures. Some of the authors are quite big names authors. Margaret Atwood, wrote the second novella in the series titled “The Penelopiad.” Others writes in the series include the Russian author Victor Pelevin (“The Helmet of Horror,”) the Israeli writer David Grossman (“The Lions Honey,”) the controversial Chinese novelist Su Tong (“Binu and the Great Wall,”) then there is the Croatian born author who has residency in the Netherlands Dubravka Ugrešić (“Baba Yaga Laid an Egg,”) or the controversial novel in the series by the controversial novelist and the pseudo (which by no means is an insult to the author) children’s author Phillip Pullman (“The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ.”) Personally I would love to read most of all the novels in this series. However this does prove to be difficult because some of the author’s works have not be translated into English or are no longer, available. Novels like Su Tong’s novel “Binu and the Great Wall,” or the Japanese crime novelist (a comparison could be made – Agatha Christie or Patricia Highsmith?) Natsuo Kirino’s novel “The Myth of Izanagi and Izanami,” both of these novelists novels are out of print or sold out by the main chain book sellers, or are forthcoming. Other novels though have not been translated Milton Hatoum’s novel “Orphans of Eldorado,” also the Polish novelist Olga Tokarckzuk novel “Anna In w grobowcach świata,” or translated as: “Anna In and the Tombs of the World,” both of these novels have yet to be published in the series. The next up and coming book in the series is by a Booker Prize Winning author and a novelist who is usually betted on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. She first gained public attention or nationwide attention with her win of the Nineteen-Ninety winning of The Booker Prize for her novel “Possession: A Romance.” In two thousand and nine, she was long listed and shortlisted once again for the booker prize for her novel “The Children’s Book.” If your guess my Dear Gentle Reader is A.S. Byatt, then you are correct. She is a prolific writer; and also a postmodernist author also. She has won the booker and is often speculated to be one of top contestants to be a Nobel Laureate in Literature. To add to her repertoire of writings, A.S. Byatt, will soon be publishing a novel in the series of the “Canongate Myth Series.” The novel that will be published in September of two thousand and eleven is titled “The End of the Gods.” Which is said to be about the Norse myth of Ragnarök; which looks to be about the Norse’s take of the end of the world. I think the entire series itself is delightful.

One does certainly need to realize that everything today that is written is most certainly going to be a variation of the myths that have been passed around the world. All the ancient myths of sun gods dying at sunset, or the moon being personified as a gentle and loving tender woman; or the fact that cupid still is running around in a heavily Christianised Western Culture – whose roots come all the way back from Aphrodite (Roman Equivalent Venus) Son Eros. Even the planets and the constellations have stories behind them, or where their names come from. Myths are as much, as part of the culture – be it a new culture mixing in with the older culture’s spiritual beliefs and then called something new (New Age Western idea’s where they think they are original but are just stealing old philosophies and thoughts, and myths and rituals from other cultures such as the East Indians, Native American’s, Buddhism et cetera) the myths of the world, can and still are seen all around us. It would be no surprise if the literature of today is inspired by the myths of the past. Grandiose loves; jealous wives; secret children; devastating wars; and beautiful maidens.

The rest of the reading list consists of these following authors. Some may be duplicated with authors from the “Canongate Myth Series.”

Antonio Tabucchi (A favourite for the Nobel Prize for Literature)
Alberto Moravia
John Le Carre (Finalist for The Man Booker International Prize of 2011)
Andrey Kurkov
Luigi Pirandello (The Nobel Prize for Literature 1933)
James Ellroy (The Demon Dog of American Crime Fiction)
Hans Fallada
David Grossman
Cesare Pavese
Lee Rourke

The days grow shorter by four seconds. Today is four seconds shorter then yesterday. Tomorrow will be four seconds shorter then today. This is the cycle of time itself. It is the cycle of seasons. For now as summer runs its course, the sound of children will no longer be heard playing outside freely. They will be back in school. Autumn will come back. Then so will winter. Just today while I was looking outside, the windshield of the vehicle I was riding in, it certainly felt so odd to see the sun out, the green in the air, the flowers in bloom, the sky blue, the clouds white and puffy but scattered. Winter felt like a long forgotten dream. Snow was all but nothing but melted puddles in my memory. Yet they are still frozen below the surface. Assuring me that even though the time now is great and warm – even brutally hot; winter is approaching, just as fast as it had left. Though still it is hard to imagine this country covered in snow, when there is so much green life all around. The bugs buzzing in the air. The flowers bloomed and opened up wide. It is sometimes amazing to think that, during most of the year, there is a cold chill creeping around the corners. Slowly slithering up the spine. But for now. In these moments, it is nice to enjoy the sunshine.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

The Short Story Review No. III

The Secret Sin of Septimus Brope,” by Saki – From “The Complete Saki,” by Saki – Section: “The Chronicles of Clovis.”

I do think Gentle Reader that I’ll never get sick of Saki my Dear Gentle Reader. There is something in his wit, something in his use of words, something about him, that just makes his stories work. I was watching an interesting interview last night, with a English Modern Renaissance man – and by that I mean he’s quite the Renaissance man indeed and not just because he is European (though I am sure that his nationality being included in the entire continent Europe with its rich history helps with the title) but because he is an actor, a memoirist, novelist, comedian, performer, journalist, film director, radio persona and so on and so forth. Watching the interview I could not help but think of a bit of Saki (H.H. Munro) while watching it. There is something about his outlook on life, and outlook and positive tone that he speaks of even at his darkest moments that just makes him such a humane character. Now of course I am one of those people who is not noted for a supreme sense of humour or not even noted for having a sense of humour. Even when Stephen Fry spoke of his suicide attempt to the interviewer George Stroumboulopoulos (try saying that name at least once without being stumped) he remarked on the pills that he had overdosed on, and how he was saved by his brother who was awaken by his projectile vomiting even though he was unconscious. The way he dealt with these moments of his life, with a sense of dry humour make him an interesting person. This is the kind of way Saki deals with his stories. He deals with these high snobbish people of the Edwardian Era, and how they take themselves far too seriously.

In this story for example, Saki turns his eyes into the hostess world of a woman by the name of Mrs. Riversedge, who makes everyone else’s business her own business. Especially when hosting a party or something of that matter. She in facts states first thing in the story about the subject of this story of Septimus Brope. Saki makes it noted that as an old fashioned hostess should know something about her guests – even if they are to the bare minimal; that what is known of the guests should also be noted for their strengths or more or less interesting aspect of them. Thinking about that, it is a way of thinking that it is the best way to note that the person (host or hostess) knows something about each guest – even if it is incredibly trite and superficial. However this was a very polite day and age and everyone would act impressed by the host or hostess; however Saki looks at this terrible superficiality and champagne martini sipping people with such a macabre satirical outlook that he just sends their manners down the toilet and scoffs at them. Such is the premise for the story of “The Secret Sin of Septimus Brope.”

Mrs. Riversedge makes the life of Septimus Brope her business. On the surface Septimus Brope is the most banal, mundane, dull people, but not quite common place (well my parents should have just called me Septimus). Septimus Brope writes for a magazine or rather is an editor of a magazine titled Cathedral Monthly. This would be a very peculiar magazine. Obviously secular – much like this blog. Septimus Brope makes two hundred dollars yearly but is noted suspiciously for hosting some interesting (that is my favourite word) and elaborate luncheons. He dresses nicely. All of this raises some suspicions of how he is able to do these fashionable aspects of Edwardian life with only two hundred dollars as his yearly income. Suspicious are then once again escalated when the subject of the aunt of Clovis mentions that she could overlook all the dullness, mundane, banal, and boring aspects of Septimus Brope but she cannot overlook the fact that he has an interesting relationship with her maid – who has the most peculiar of names: Florinda. So begins a long discussion and speculation that the dull, archaic, dreary, prosaic, vapid, and unimaginative Septimus Brope and his supposed love affair with the maid who has a peculiar, exotic, eccentric, and not quite plain name who goes by the name of Florinda (every time I do one of those long lists of adjectives describing someone, I feel like a little kid who just discovered the coma, and how to use it properly.) Later on Clovis discovers the real person who goes by the name “Florrie,” is far worse for then Mister Septimus Broph would dare admit – though he does. It turns out that Clovis aunt was wrong in the entire matter of Septimus Broph sleeping with the maid with the peculiar name. In fact it turns out that it is far worse for Septimus Broph. A man whose entire life and literary career, is devoted to cathedrals and Byzantine architecture, and all that stuffy old stuff, that would only interest a very secular and very devoted reader to the architecture of cathedrals. But the scandal of learning that the editor of Cathedral Monthly is doing something far more worst then having a romantic relationship with a maid with the most unconventional name. To really best describe this scandalous activity, would best be described as an author of literary fiction like Orhan Pamuk, Don Delillo, Herta Muller, Yasunari Kawabata, Naguib Mahfouz, Mario Vargas Llosa, Claude Simon, Ko Un, David Mitchell, and so on writing a penny dreadful novel of romance, the kind of mass market paperback bull shit that passes for “entertainment,” – as mindless as it is; which is used by the likes of Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, Nicolas Sparks, Stephanie Meyer, and all those other novelists who could write something of literary merit if they tried. But are paid for their crappy books because the reading public demands more. Putting that in consideration one now can think of what Septimus Brope would do that is so out of character and would be scandalous to his reputation as an editor of a magazine devoted entirely to the architecture and presumably histories of cathedrals.

Here’s a hint from the book:

‘“How you bore, Florrie,
With those eyes of vacant blue,
You’ll be very sorry, Florrie,
If I marry you.
Though I’m easy-goin’, Florrie,
This I swear is true,
I’ll throw you down a quarry, Florrie,
If I marry you.”’

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“Tabi,” by Yasunari Kawabata – From “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories,” by Yasunari Kawabata.

I certainly do not make it unknown that I quite enjoy Yasunari Kawabata (Nobel Laureate in Literature of ninety-sixty eight and the first Japanese author to win the Nobel Prize in Literature). Personally Yasunari Kawabata with his delicate prose, ability to work understatements, minimalist and poetic prose; but one of my favourite parts of Yasunari Kawabata’s prose, is his psychological depth that his characters are given. Something that is done effortlessly in Yasunari Kawabata’s fiction. I have read many of the ninety sixty-eight Nobel Laureate’s “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories,” and his short novel “Snow Country,” and can say that the minimalist prose, but also the in depth psychological probing is one of the most wonderful pieces of work I have read. I never grow tired of how Yasunari Kawabata writes about the society of Japan and its traditions facing modernization and reforms, and cultural identity in a forever changing landscape of the modern world is something that some would feel has been over done for many years in Japanese literature, but in my opinion, I think in the rise of Japanese literature, contemporary authors are turning away from the modernist writes and their melancholy and despair of the Japanese society, opening up to the modification and reforms that the West had pressured on them. These authors: Yasunari Kawabata (Nobel Laureate of Literature in ninety-sixty eight), Jun'ichirō Tanizaki, Yukio Mishima; mourn the loss of Japan as it was. The Japanese literature of today; Haruki Murakami and Banana Yoshimoto deal with Japan after the change and reforms that the modernist Japanese authors watched with such sadness in their eyes. Both of these popular Japanese novelists deal with the career mind driven Japan of today. They deal with the alienation and loneliness that can be felt in the contemporary Japanese person, in today postmodern world. Kenzaburō Ōe the second Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature in ninety-ninety four, is also a contemporary author, but is different from both Haruki Murakami and Banana Yoshimoto, in his dealings are both slightly different from both of the two other novelists. Kenzaburō Ōe maintains a sense of western influence of his work, but at the same time, it truly is a certain sense of Japan and Japanese culture in his work. I have not read any work by Banana Yoshimoto, but I did read “Kafka on the Shore,” by Haruki Murakami and the one thing that differentiates both Ōe and Murakami, is that Haruki Murakami uses popular culture references in his work. For example in “Kafka on the Shore,” Colonel Sanders appears among other surreal events, and the discussion of music is also always discussed in his work. Kenzaburō Ōe though influenced by French literature (Jean-Paul Sartre) and American Literature (Mark Twain) maintains a strict identity in Japan and Japanese culture, much Yasunari Kawabata, Yukio Mishima, and Jun'ichirō Tanizaki.

This review however is not about the ever changing landscape of Japanese Literature from Yasunari Kawabata to Kenzaburō Ōe to now Haruki Murakami, and the other popular culture novels of Japan (cell phone novels). No this review is about the story “Tabi,” by the Nobel Laureate in Literature.

It is an interesting story on its childlike innocence discussion of death, sickness, and dying. The reason why I enjoy this story though was a certain passage (which will be quote in due time) that compared a sock to a worm, and the socks that are placed in the casket of the narrators sister. It’s an incredibly touching story, in its effect of how it is written. Yasunari Kawabata does not reveal too much in this story. Most to all the stories of “Palm-Of-The-Hand Stories,” are written in the same way. The way that it is written as if someone is looking into a room only partly lit and all the details are hidden in the murky depths of the shadows. All the prose have a certain ambiguity to them, and certainly only a very dim light is placed in the center of the room. The rest of the work is written in the same way with slight variations to every store. As the reader, after reading one of these stories one is left certainly left pondering over the details of the stories. This provided with his understating minimalist prose, allows Yasunari Kawabata to work these very short stories in great fashion, and certainly show he is the master of his form of writing.

“Turning delirious in the evening, my sister arched her body back. Her braced, straining hands trembled violently. Even when that stopped, her head seemed about to drop off the pillow to the left. And then, from her half-opened mouth, a white intestinal roundworm slowly crawled out.

“”Since then, I’ve often recalled vividly the peculiar whiteness of that worm. And, at such times, I make it a point to think of the white socks caked tabi.”

True my dear Gentle Reader, it is a bit grotesque, thinking of a parasitic worm exiting a dead person’s body and then comparing it to a pair of socks is a bit grotesque yes. But the way that Yasunari Kawabata wrote the entire story there was a real sense of innocence of the work. The narrator speaking of how his/her sister gave him/her money to go the theatre at one point in time, and the sister taking the narrators present for his/her teacher, to his funeral and placing the get well present in his casket, for the narrator. All of these aspects of the story create for an interesting story – though slightly grotesque, there is certain a sense of childhood innocence in the way that the subject matter is dealt with.

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“Wenlock Edge,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness,” by Alice Munro

In Alice Munro’s short stories from her collection of “Too Much Happiness,” Alice Munro’s characters at first appearance, live very normal and ordinary lives. There is no real sense of adventure at first glance in their lives. Though in the previous short story “Fiction,” the characters of Joyce and John had a very interesting relationship at first glance. The two of them were drifters for a while. Their parents called them hippies, though they were not, and both of them were probably the farthest people from the definition of hippies. “Dimensions,” also has the first impression of very complacent yet slightly menacing feeling underneath the surface. Especially when the main character is seeing a therapist, and there are deeper and darker subjects are being discussed, and within in time, we learn of the cause of the menacing and out of place feeling of these stories. It’s like a person whose house is all neat and tidy. Everything has their undisputed place; nothing is ever moved out of its place and then left out of place. Everything is cleaned to perfection. Everything is immaculate in appearance. Every detail is measured. This is how everything is on the surface, of one of Alice Munro’s stories from “Too Much Happiness,” works. Everything at first glance is in place. Every piece of china is in their correct order. The china cup handles are all pointing towards the right. Every cat ornament plate sits on their display shelves. Each one of them sitting up straight. Not a chip on them. The counter is as clean and spotless and uncluttered as it always has been. The table also sits the way it always has sat before. The table cloth is unstained, and perfect in its delicate lace, reminiscence of the Victorian Era. But then as if without warning, something unsettling can be seen, in the workings of the kitchen table. The table cloth is of center. Then soon other small details can be seen. One china cup is chipped. The back door is unlocked. The cat is missing. This how Alice Munro’s stories in “Too Much Happiness,” have worked so far. They show the normal surroundings slowly being usurped into something out of the ordinary.

The main character of the story is a simple girl. She comes from a small country background. She moves to London, Ontario to start doing university. She is studying English and Philosophy. Her life is rather simple. Every Sunday night, her mother’s cousin Ernie takes her out for dinner, at a restaurant called the “Old Chelsea.” There her mother’s cousin Ernie indulges himself in roast beef. While the main character, indulges herself into those romantic dreams and ideas of what city people eat. Like vol au vent or duck or whatever else she dreams that city people eat, that is fancy – kind of like a person from North America who dreams of someday eating French fine cuisine, and tries frog legs, snails, lobster and other fine delicacies.

Life changes for the main character however when a new girl by the name of Nina comes into the mix. She may try to pass herself off as a regular college student but she is by far not. She has a camel skinned jacket, a kimono, and other expensive pieces of clothing, that are out of a regular college student. There also comes to learn that there are some other strange occurrences of Nina’s life that come to be noticed in time. There is the black car that parks across the street a few doors down. Pretty soon becomes noted that Nina doesn’t know where Europe is, has no idea who the Romantic poets are, among other common knowledge that a common college student would know to have. Things are not right in Nina’s world. She is followed by the black car who as the reader learns is driven by a woman by the name of Mrs. Winner. She sees a man by the name of Mr. Purvis, and has travelled all over the world – and she’s only twenty two. These are “good,” qualities of Nina’s life. She has a child by the name of Gemma (though it becomes clear that it is uncertain where that child is now that I think of it) from an early incident. She had been married once before, and then left him, and had a rough start to a complicated life, that she could not understand and yet choose. The main character however ends up getting involved in Nina’s life slowly and surely. It is an experience she does not want or even understands after a while. The interesting and odd escapade she has when she has dinner with Mr. Purvis, and then returns home only to find Nina missing once again.

It’s hard to say where I stand on this story. The tightly written prose, are good, the superficiality of the normal day to day life of the Sunday ritual going out with the bachelor cousin of her mother Ernie who takes her to the restaurant called the “Old Chelsea,” and how she decides to live like city people do in eating their kinds of food that she had always dream of eating. But the entire situation, and gaps of the nature of Mr. Purvis and Nina, is not entirely discussed, and these are some certain down falls of this short story. One of the greatest positives of Alice Munro’s style though is, the “texturelessness,” (as one reviewer called it) of her work. Her work does not focus on one particular moment, but the almost undeveloped and casual way of life does its course. Perhaps this is why Alice Munro’s stories feel like little condensed novels, rather than a traditional short story focusing on one subject, or one emotion or one feeling that would common in the short story format.

The one thing about a short story collection though, is that every short story on some level or another is a hit and miss. Some hit home, and others do not. But that is a short story collection for you. It does not matter either way. The one you read failed to tickle the fancy, then maybe the next one will. That is how I look at the short story collections. I look forward to another one that does end up tickling my fancy also. That is also the reason why I love short stories at times also. They pertain to the individuals taste.

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“Pool Night,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section: “Reasons to Live.”

In my edition of “The Collected Stories [of Amy Hempel],” by Amy Hempel, there are a few review quotes by other publications – The New York Review of Books, Baltimore Sun, O, the Oprah magazine, San Francisco Chronicle and other places of journalism and reviews of books and so on. I usually do not read these. In fact it is purely by coincidence or chance that I read some of these evening while looking for a short story to read and then review. One of these review blurbs or praise pieces was by The Atlantic Monthly which praised Amy Hempel’s work with the following quote:

“Few fiction writers are as intensely admired by their peers as is Amy Hempel. . . . Hempel’s is a hard-boiled sensibility, and each of her stories will leave the reader shaken.”

This review; this praise – it rings true when I had finished the short story “Pool Night.” One of the greatest pleasures of reading (for me) is coming across a line, or something that strikes a chord somewhere. Some of those lines are famous. From Jean-Paul Sartre’s play “No Exit,”

“Hell is other people.”

Or what about the most common quote people see with an actor holding a skull, from William Shakespeare’s “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark,”:

“To be, or not to be,--that is the question:--whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?”

Or what about the quote from John Milton in his poem “Paradise Lost,”:

“Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heaven.”

These are all famous lines and quotes. But there are less known quotes, which have not been able to take on a status as some attempt at “pop culture,” but can be found in any book that one chooses to read. They have that feel and certain sense of philosophy to them. While others tug at the emotions of the reader. Usually – or so far to be more honest and exact; I have found Amy Hempel’s perfectly penned sentences somewhat cold in their writing. Though perfectly wrote, and grammatically correct, and perfectly done in a somewhat journalistic way of using sentences and words. However when reading the last bit of the entire story, the very last line is just what hit home perfectly.

“I know that homes burn and that you should think what to save before they start to. Not because, in the heat of it, everything looks as valuable as everything else. But because nothing looks worth the bother, not even your life.”

This is what had struck me. The entire story though is not about the fire of the house, or the flood that had happened years earlier. In fact in some way or another it is difficult to say what this story is about at all. Amy Hempel’s stories are written in the same way that Alice Munro has written the stories for “Too Much Happiness.” The difference though between Alice Munro and Amy Hempel, is that Amy Hempel is not writing in the regionalist way that Alice Munro does in her take of her own stories where she usually writes about the farms and semi-rural towns of south western Ontario. Amy Hempel’s stories differentiate in the way that they are written. A place maybe given, though in this particular story there is no place given. What does keep Amy Hempel and Alice Munro together though is that they both write about these “texturelessness,” lives. There is certainly nothing special about Amy Hempel’s characters. They are normal for the most part. Though Grey is somewhat of an extraordinary character when one, reviews his incredible diving talents. But also the fact that Amy Hempel’s main character in the story “Pool Night,” points out he’s quite the incredible person in the lives of others:

“Grey was a junior lifeguard at the pool. He tanned to the colour of the flakes he ate each morning, and i knew girls who saved his chewing gum.”

But this story is not about Grey or his talent in diving, and aqua-acrobatics. It is not even a story of the flood that had devastated a town. It is not a story about the lost photographs that Bunny or Dr. Winton had lost. I think in some way or another it is a story about remembering, and accepting that fact, that you won’t always be around to remember. Maybe this is why through the story one has a bit of sympathy for Dr. Winton as he sits in his house drinking his liquor cabinet until there is nothing left, and is hauled out by the Red Cross.

“The effect was of him saying after the flood: What I lose will always be lost.”

I think personally myself that the entire story is about living life as it is. Just as the main character and unnamed narrator states, that she much prefers the present, because in the future you die, and much prefers the present where you live. It is a short story about the past, the present, and the future in some way or another. I think as people get older they start to remember how things were. How things should still be. Maybe in some way or another Dr. Winton is right about what he stated when he said what he will lose will always be lost. Because once he is lost, everything remains lost, he remains lost, and so it ends. And yet the last few lines of the story continue to pull at the heart, and I still quite enjoy rereading it in my head and listening to it rebound in my ears.

Such stories that are like Amy Hempel’s and Alice Munro’s are a bit difficult to review at times. I could of course be wrong. I choose to sympathize and grow attached to Dr. Winton then I did with the narrator or Grey or anyone else. But that is just me. I am not going to say that I “Comprehended,” the story correctly, but I read it my way, and have reviewed it my way. Which is all done – quite frankly; my way.

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“A Short History of the English Novel,” by Will Self – From “Grey Area,” by Will Self

I certainly must be in a quoting mood of late; because once again a journalistic publication has caught my attention with an accurate description of this particular author. The New York Times Book Review stated the following about Will Self, and actually describes the authors writing style in an absolute flawless way.

“[An] incomparable talent . . . he is a supreme recreator of the particular sensual detail of things, objects and surfaces. In Will Self’s fictional universe, all reality is virtual reality, imagined into existence by individuals seeking a distraction from the meaningless internal roiling of themselves. This may not add up to much in terms of a philosophy—but in terms of a fictional experience, Mr. Self is creating some of the most unusual and challenging landscapes around.”

Accurate would be the word to describe the above passage from The New York Times Book Review, in describing the writing of Will Self. Will Self is one of those writers who knows he is incredibly clever, and has no problem flaunting that fact. Deemed a satirist by critics and journalists, it is hard for me to wonder where I sit on the entire discussion of Will Self. He does not posse the humour of Saki (H.H. Munro) – however does Saki posse the humour he has now because of how old his stories are? In a few years say thirty or forty years, will the stories of Mr. Self have the same charm that Saki’s stories have on me? I certainly shall not rule out that possibility for sure. In fact they very might as well be seen as some of the classical humour of the early twenty first century.

“A Short History of the English Novel,” strikes a chord with me, the character Gerard is quite a philistine character in his take on the contemporary English novel – in fact it could be said he has a very pessimistic, cynical despondent view of literature of the contemporary age period; I make it no secret that I am philistine and barbaric towards the current state of literature and the pulp fiction mass market paperback world that many think is literature (which it is not). I make it no disguise in my loutish insults against the “dumb,” world view of the current age of affairs of what is deemed readable. But I make no apologies for my unrefined remarks of my disgust with it either. Neither does Gerard who views the current state of affairs of the English novel, as nothing more than fragmentary genres. As Gerard explains you have no real English novel anymore (the novels reminiscing of Charles Dickens, Elizabeth Gaskell, the Brontë sisters, George Elliot – towards the modernist novelists: Virginia Woolf, D. H. Lawrence, E.M. Foster) but rather fragmentary specialized fiction for minority groups of readers. As Gerard points out to his friend Geraldine, there are now only novels labelled by their intended audience: woman novels, gay novels, black novels, sensation novels, cell phone novels, young adult novels, man novels – and so on and so forth. As Gerard points out to his friend Geraldine there no longer is a “English Novel,” just simply specialized novels, who have found a nice comfortable niche and work that niche to their advantage. However it soon becomes clear after these two characters do a nice romp around London after their lunch and decided to go for coffee, and then after some interesting episodes a drink, that the reader begins to see that Gerard has a very negative view of any form of contemporary works of creative writing. As he meets waiters and waitresses who are aspiring writers or authors, Gerard begins to show that no matter how good these prospective novels are, they are not good enough for him. He remarks on one novelist who has written an allegory of a novel set in the future (which Geraldine had miscalls in calling a satire which upsets the author), this idealistic kind of author however, is no match to escape the very jaded eyes of Gerard. He simply remarks that her work is too “precious,” and then remarks that it is two words “precious,” and “pretentious.”

Seeing and reading such things about Gerard and pinpointing and relating back to one’s self is a bit of a frightening experience. I wonder now (and I admit I can be a bit like Gerard but have come out of my very narrow view of literature) that critics feel that only good literature is the literature of the deceased or of times gone by. I as a reader used to think that. I loved to read Charles Dickens, I remember reading “Jane Eyre,” by Charlotte Brontë, and “Crime and Punishment,” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and I felt smart. I felt the only good literature was the literature of the past. The literature that had meaning. Besides as far as I was concerned, every contemporary novel was trying to mimic and imitate the Victorian Era novel. Which is true, a lot of the books today is written in the purple prose of the romantic language and very tasteless tacky picturesque prose that is try to reminisce of the novels of the nineteenth century (you know the kind of novels that Saul Bellow Nobel Prize Laureate of Literature in ninety-seventy six, was criticized as writing.) However there are a lot of books today written by great novelist also. The kind of novelists you have to go searching for. Research for; and hopefully you find. I no longer have the stuck up view (well not entirely about ninety-five percent of my view on books is still quite stuck up) that Gerard has, but at the same time, Gerard and I differentiate on certain aspects of the discussion of literature. Though we both would agree on the Oscar Wilde quote:

“In old days books were written by men of letters and read by the public. Nowadays books are written by the public and read by nobody.”

That much I am sure the two of us will agree on.

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“A Curious Suicide,” by Patricia Highsmith – From “The Selected Stories: of Patricia Highsmith,” by Patricia Highsmith – Section “Slowly, Slowly in the Wind.”

The last story I read by Patricia Highsmith “Broken Glass,” was an amazing story. At least I thought it was an amazing story. Some will of course disagree. There is just something about that story that just worked. Patricia Highsmith during her life time was seen as a Dime novel Dostoevsky; nothing more and nothing less. In today’s world, Patricia Highsmith is seen as one of the United States of America’s greatest hidden and unappreciated treasures. Seen by many as the grand dame of the psychological thriller, while others have said she was a psychological novelist, who explored the much more disturbing and darker nature of the human mind and soul. Others have called her one of the greatest modernist writers. Graham Greene called Patricia Highsmith “the poet of apprehension.” But what Patricia Highsmith is and forever will be a novelist or a writer, of crime fiction. A practitioner of the noir crime fiction.

“A Curious Suicide,” is a story that is much like the rest of Patricia Highsmith’s stories, and novels. Murder is the game. But the murder of Patricia Highsmith’s stories and novels, are not the kind of stuff that is written in the most sensational manner. The language is plain. The prose is anything but overly descriptive. In the world of Patricia Highsmith, cops are incompetent. Women are dangerous creatures, who exploit, and are conniving. Friends are just hidden double edged creatures, that you pretend to like, and they pretend to like you just as much back. This is the world of Patricia Highsmith. A world that is strikingly similar to the world, which anyone could inhabit.
In “A Curious Suicide,” the reader is introduced to Doctor Stephen McCollough – that is one of the many aspects that I love, about Patricia Highsmith is that all the names are quite predominantly Anglo-Saxon, making them easy to pronounce; Doctor McCollough loved at one point in time a woman by the name of Margaret. But Margaret ended up marrying another man, by the name of Roger Fane. A man that Doctor McCollough despises. Roger Fane is a worm of a man. He cheated on Margaret when they were married. Even after her death he doesn’t think much of the fact that she died. All of this infuriates Doctor McCollough who is married to the cruel, nasty and mean woman by the name of Lillian. He loved Margaret, and his hatred for Roger Fane and infatuation with Margaret, are enough to drive, Doctor McCollough to have thoughts of murder. Thoughts at first that he doesn’t take to seriously. But as the story goes on, there certainly is something terribly wrong with Doctor McCollough. The incredible fraudulent dance the two tango two as they talk and pretend to enjoy each other’s company is disgusting to watch. Then suddenly without warning, and on impulse, Doctor McCollough commits the deed that is all too common in Patricia Highsmith’s work. What follows is just the aftermath of his deed. The inadequacy of police force. The death – or a curious suicide if you will; of an innocent though violently disturbed man; and the machinations and black mail of Lillian. This is the kind of classic Patricia Highsmith.

Confessing, confiding, conceding, declaring, admitting – and so on; I didn’t like this story by Patricia Highsmith as much as I did “Broken Glass.” This entire story felt forced. It felt too simple. It didn’t have that kind of common place, barbaric behaviour that “Broken Glass,” did. It just felt like a simple plot, through together. Every moment was a bead, and a piece of string just connected them all together. I suppose all the stories read this week were hits and misses. I didn’t quite enjoy Alice Munro’s story or Will Self’s or Patricia Highsmith’s stories either. But I was able to enjoy the stories that Yasunari Kawabata Nobel Laureate of Literature in nineteen-sixty eight, Saki, and Amy Hempel provided. It was a fifty /fifty week for stories, but each one had something to share. Hopefully next week it will be a better time for the short stories, that will be chosen to read.

The Black Book

Hello Gentle Reader

What an odd and interesting week it has been. Well an odd day it has been. When I had awoken up this morning at roughly Nine ‘O’ Clock, at which point I had gone and sat down at the computer, brought up the book “The Black Book,” by Orhan Pamuk who is The Nobel Laureate of Literature of two thousand and six (2006) and sat down at the computer, placed my fingertips at the keyboard, and was ready to begin writing. Then as if still dreaming or not entirely awaked, I was unable to write. From Nine ‘O’ Clock this morning until One ‘O’ Clock, this afternoon I had sat the computer mindlessly thinking about the first sentence that I would write on this particular blog or review for the novel that I had just finished last night.

Then comes the second paragraph. The introduction is done, but the second paragraph continues on. Maybe now is the time to tell a quick sketch or story about a personal event, an epiphany a thought anything to keep the process going. Give the reader a red herring, some useless detailed information. Just write something, but make sure it is entertaining, talks about something, and that the reader would enjoy it. – These are the thoughts that are running through my head today, as I sit here writing this blog. I’ve never had a problem before writing a review, of a book, and certainly “The Black Book,” by Orhan Pamuk should not be causing me these problems. For in my head the sentence or saying or repeated words keep playing: “For Christ’s sake it’s a book, you’ve reviewed books before. Some worst then others. Get to it!” – Yet there is just something today, something out of place.

Dear Gentle Reader, who reads because they are so kind, I admit I woke up this morning with the worst feeling in my stomach. There is that feeling of being watched. That feeling, which makes the hair on the back of your next stand up; your eyes quickly move from left to right. That futile attempt to see what is behind you, but the human anatomy does not allow such feats of human abnormal bodily movements. So you roll over on your shoulder, and look behind you. Total disappointment follows as you know you felt absolutely certain that there was something behind you. Those grainy images of those old tasteless horror films flash across your eyes. You think of those old and creepy porcelain dolls, with the cracks. The dark little hollow shell of their “insides,” (?) or strange rabid mutts sitting in the streets. Those starved eyes watching you as, you see their lungs push up against their almost translucent skin. There are so many images of odd and eccentric people on buses that flood back, the weird man in the food court who sat there making faces and talking to himself, and so on and so forth. Even though when you turn over on to your shoulder and you find nothing there looking back at you, and there is a sense of relief to find nothing there, even though logically you knew nothing would be there. This is one of those repetitive images in Orhan Pamuk’s novel “The Black Book.”

According to the back of the book (or at least a small portion of it):

“With its cascade of beguiling stories about Istanbul, The Black Book is a brilliantly unconventional mystery and a provocative meditation on identity.”

This is the perfect summarization of the novel. On the surface it is a mystery – but do not be fooled. This is not the common place mystery novel. This certainly is not Agatha Christie novel, or Sherlock Holmes story. This is a novel with the guise or on the surface a simple mystery novel, but Orhan Pamuk rips apart the entire concept of the mystery novel with his cult novel that is said to have found his voice.

The premise of this novel is about Galip a Turkish lawyer living in Istanbul. With the brief summary of the financial ruin of his family. The strange relationship between his grandparents, and their constant nagging of each other for smoking. To his uncle Melih who had disgraced himself and his family and has a very troubled relationship with his son Celâl, who is a famous columnist for the Turkish newspaper Milliyet. There is Vasıf the deaf cousin (I think) of Galip who is entertained by his Japanese fighting fish, and also enjoys the company of Galip and Galip’s (missing) wife Rüya, and review the news paper clippings he keeps in his box. In these opening chapter(s) and passages, Orhan Pamuk is writing about the wealthy and declining family that is reminiscence of his own family.

This novel however is not concerned with the outlook of the family or their history or how they ended up in their current situation. But it does serve as some background as to why Celâl is estranged from his own family, and no longer remains in contact with them. It also is a great way to show the distortion of time in the novel – that is for me it felt like time distortion. I am still not entirely sure how old Galip is or how old Celâl is. Though he is loved and hated by his family. The main characters in this novel are Galip, Rüya, Celâl though only one of them really makes much of a statement in this entire novel. However the columns that Celâl writes do make their statements, and in fact slowly and surely the entire philosophical conversation and concept of identity that appears to strike both Galip and Celâl, begins to fade the lines between who is who. Is Galip still Galip even if he pretends and mimic’s Celâl – or has he himself slowly begun to become Celâl losing his entire identity in the process. One would say it certainly is fair to say that in some way or another Galip wanted to be Celâl all along. Could Galip have been sick and tired of his own life, and longed and dreamed of the life of Celâl. His wife Rüya loves Celâl, just as much as she loves her cheap and dreadful detective novels. Celâl is famous and beloved by many. People eagerly await for the Milliyet everyday and flip to the second page to read the column. Celâl writes about the history of the city. He writes of his own personal history also.

One of the greatest parts of the histories of Istanbul presented in “The Black Book,” by Orhan Pamuk is the entire history of the mannequins, of Istanbul. How the public despised these mannequins because they resembled the Turkish people. The general public of Turkey did not want mannequins that resembled the Turkish people. They wanted mannequins that resembled the exotic and delightful beauties of Europe. They did not want to see peasants, peddlers, vendors, navy officers, and historical figures of Turkey; they wanted to see the exotic beauties of Europe. They want the elegance of the French woman holding the cigarette. They want to know the way to stand like an English person. That self-proclaimed dignified stance that they hold themselves. They want that perfect German look of engineering. The blonde hair and the blue eyes. They do not want to see themselves or the strangers on the streets, which they see every day.

Orhan Pamuk is also writes about the interesting characters and their stories of Istanbul. But also be warned my Dear Gentle Reader, Orhan Pamuk presents an interesting view of Istanbul. You do not hear of the Istanbul Sapphire (probably because it wasn’t built on the novels publication) this is a novel about Turkey’s backstreets. The crumbling decaying buildings, where the present, stands on top of the dust of the past.

“As for Tarik, who spent his days producing rat position in his stepfather’s libratory and his nights writing poems about the alchemy of death [. . .]”

Orhan Pamuk’s style also is interesting in his use brief mentions of past works. In chapter twenty-six Orhan Pamuk mentions his English debut novel “The White Castle,” which also deals with identity, in this following passage:

“The Ottoman defeat at Doppio or White Castle, as it was also known as.” – Now of Course I could be reading too far into this, but it certainly was neat to see that, not to mention that in an earlier chapter a man by the name of Cevdet Bey a tycoon of sorts is also mentioned. “Cevdet Bey and His Sons,” was written in ninety eighty two (1982) and is Orhan Pamuk’s first novel and so far has not been translated into English.

Another interesting work of Orhan Pamuk’s always shifting style is, that every chapter opens with a quote. These quotes can be from the twelfth century poet, Lewis Caroll’s “Alice’s Adventure in Wonderland.” On one such occasion while reading “The Black Book,” I came across two acquaintances of this book, who earlier on had given us two quotes. Adli and Bahti at first introduction are nothing more than two people/characters, offering their views and quotes. But in Chapter eight along with Cemali a third character introduced alongside the first two acquaintances of characters. After the introductions of these three musketeers the readers learns of their contradictory advice about how to write a column. One could suppose these three men A, B, C all helped or advised Celâl in his own formation of writing his own column.

This book by the Nobel Laureate of Literature of two thousand and six (2006) is no beach read that you’d sit and read. It is not a light read. It is a complicated novel, about identity, about Istanbul – the limbo that Istanbul is faced in being situated between Europe and the Middle East; it is about the present and the past. It is about the people. It is a complicated novel, on the surface a detective novel, but deep beneath the surface of this novel it is a meditation about identity, and about the nature of being oneself, and who is oneself. It is a complicated novel, which frustrates, but also rewards. Many people think that in two thousand and six that Orhan Pamuk was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature on political grounds – this was the man that was arrested and going to be charged for making “un-Turkish,” remarks – where he recognized openly the genocide and slaughter of the Armenians and Kurds. The charges were dropped but the ultra-nationalist lawyer Kemal Kerinçsiz had appealed to the Supreme Court who found Orhan Pamuk guiltily in March of this year (2011) and ordered him to pay a total of six thousand liras. But Orhan Pamuk is a talented writer and though he is a political writer also, “The Black Book,” is one of the most rewarding, challenging books I have had the pleasure of reading.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

I want Translations!

Hello Gentle Reader

Well after my rude remark about the feminist judge, and her resignation over Philip Roth winning the Man Booker International Prize of 2011, and the fact that I feel somewhat poor about the way that I had talked about it, and the insults that I had thrown at the entire idealism of feminism in general, I suppose its most appropriate to tune down the opinions or rather speak them in a much more different way. If an opinion – no matter how great or wise; is spoken in such crude and crass way, then it loses any value in intellectual or human pursuits. It just comes off as an ass doing what they do best: making an ass of themselves. Of course this not an apology at all. Never apologize for ones opinions. If you believe in them whole heartedly you are doomed both to have your world view viciously changed or you will find that you get better at defending your opinion. It’s one of the two. A black and white way to look at it, yes, but sometimes all the world is, is black and white.

Well anyhow, being born in an English speaking country – with other regions that speak other languages; Québec speaks French, and I think it was in either New Brunswick or was it Nova Scotia, knowing my luck its Newfoundland! – a region actually speaks Gaelic or something like that! I know it’s like an old English form of language from way back when. Anyhow there are places here that I am sure that speak the old Aboriginal/native American languages also – even after the residential schools tried to beat that out of them. Now that’s a sore part of Canada’s history.

Anyhow what is trying to be said here, is that being born into a primary speaking English country, one will find that in order to read books of considerable literary merit, they have to truly sift through the horrible penny dreadful’s, dime novels, pulp fiction children – in other words sift through that Nora Roberts, Daniele Steel, Nicolas Sparks, James Patterson, Dan Brown. John Grisham, Janet Evanovich, Dean Koontz – and just because I think these authors overrated: Thomas Pynchon, Don DeLillo, Michael Crichton, Anne Rice. Once you get through all that you begin to find authors of more interesting value. However the bookshelves are more or less, clouded with these authors. But over the past while, I have slowly and surely become more and more interested in world literature. I mean I discover authors on my own. With the internet such a good resource, I have been able to discover authors from all over the world.

Without the internet I would have been able to discover Victor Pelevin, for instance. Also without the internet I would not have been able to discover who wins the Nobel Prize for Literature because, quite frankly, it appears that such a prize here is seen as uninteresting. I don’t know why, I guess Canada has no real appreciation for its authors or authors of the world now, as I am slowly starting to figure that out. Without the internet I would not have discovered Michel Houellebecq and the list of course goes on.

Yet with the internet has also become a problem. I end up discovering authors that I really would think of enjoy reading. Authors like the recently departed, Bella Akhmadulina. Or what about my recent discovery of the German author Ulrich Holbein who appears to be a good one for the modern or contemporary author of avant grade, novelist – and a real one at that, none of this lazy shit of not even bothering to do something innovative but just call their lazy or poor use of punctuation as experimental. What about Doron Rabinovici and his novel “Andernorts,” roughly translated as “Elsewhere.” What about Judith Zander’s German Book Prize short listed novel “Dinge die Wir Heute Sagten,” which is once again roughly translated into English as “Things We Said Today.” Not to mention the winner of the German Book Prize of 2010 Melinda Nadj Abonji and her prize winning novel “Tauben fliegen auf,” or “Falcons without Falconers.”

Then of course there is the works of the 2009 German Book Prize that I am interested in reading. One of those is Rainer Merkel’s novel “Lichtjahre Entfernt,” also known as “Light Years Away.” What about Herta Muller 2009 Nobel Prize for Literature winner “Atemschaukel,” which is translated into “Everything I Own I Carry With Me.” Then there is the novel by the young Austrian writer Clemens J. Setz and his novel “Die Frequenzen,” or “The Frequencies.” Then there is the winner Katrin Schmidt and her novel “Du Stirbst Nicht,” which can be translated into English as “You're Not Going to Die.” And then there are the other authors like Norbert Scheuer and Stephan Thome and their novels (“Überm Rauschen,” – or “The Rushing of the Weir,” by Norbert Scheuer. And “Grenzgang,” – or “Border Walk,” by Stephan Thome.)

Then there is the work of the Romanian author Dan Sociu and his supposed “Miserablism,” writing as it has been dubbed by critics. Then there is Dora Pavel another Romanian author whose work appears so interesting to me. Then there is Mircea Nedelciu yet another Romanian author who passed away back in the late 90’s – 1999 to be honest. How can I not mention the Austrian writer, that Elfide Jelinek said deserved the Nobel Prize for Literature more than her. Peter Handke, and how all the books that I wish to read, are all but unavailable or “sold out.”

What about the most famous works of Claude Simon the Nobel Laureate of Literature of 1985, who though he was critically acclaimed was not commercially successful, and could perhaps be seen as slowly going out of print. Then there is the Booker Prize Shortlisted author of the 2010 Booker Prize for his novel “C,” and though the critic’s favourites he lost to the “The Finkler Question,” by Howard Jacobson – whose works from the looks of it to me, are going back into print because of the Booker Prize. Tom McCarthy could have become one of those authors that writes and writes and writes only to see such small success here and there – or is given enough change to live off of, until his death. But now his work has gathered much more interesting appeal to many – which is good for a person like me because that’s what I want! I want to have his books all to myself, but I can’t have them if they are all gone or publishers don’t publish them. Then of course there was a while back now back in 2010 that I went to order “Trio,” by Robert Pingett and it was out of stock – which is funny because the website told me that it was in stock that morning! Now I have just learned that “Mahu Or The Material,” a book that had been reviewed on my blog early I believe in 2011 or was it late 2010? Early 2011 I believe; is now also out of stock. So there do comes moments of getting things just at the nick of time. Though still it certainly is frustrating to some who wish to have some books. I mean personally I would love to read “The Hive,” by Nobel Laureate of Literature of 1989 Camilo José Cela but that also prove to be out of stock. Then I find a poet that looks interesting these independent blogs and newspapers and websites ranting and raving about his hybrid style of writing poetry by the name of Mathew Hittinger. Needless to say his books of poetry are also out of stock. And do not get me started on how hard it is to find Thomas Ligotti books. If you are lucky and you see him, don’t waste time, grab the damn book!

This is all of course frustrating to me as an author. I want to read these authors. I won’t settle for anything else either! I know that publishers say that: “Translated works just don’t sell.” Which may be true I do not know, because I do not work in the publishing industry. However as a reader who loves books of international quality and books from all over the world, I am not going to settle with some crap ass book. I would personally love to see more translations into English. I’d love to see literature be more open and accepted in the English world. Or maybe its just an English language world thing that thinks everyone should conform to the English language and write and speak in it – not a bad idea personally that way I could read all the books! But still I’d love to see more translations. Personally at the moment I’d love to see some translations by Ulrich Holbein for sure! I’d also would not mind seeing Bruno Schulz’s books go back into print for a bit and just in case any publishers are wondering I also wouldn’t mind seeing Luigi Pirandello’s “Novelle per un anno,” or “Novels for a year,” translated, among other works by authors from all over the world.

The fact is, the west or countries in the west or North America and Western Europe (maybe not all of Western Europe) do not do enough translations and then when people like Horace Engdahl make comments like: “[The United States] too insular and ignorant to challenge Europe as the center of the literary world.” The west (or in this case the United States) gets upset. But maybe its true that we do not participate in the world class literature field. Certainly there are many productions of large quantities of books by Nora Roberts and Nicolas Sparks all over the world but is there any quality to them? Maybe we should stop taking offense to such comments, and start seeing that maybe they are right. Either way I say do more translations! ‘Cause I want them!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

P.S. If you are interested in the German Book Prize please follow, the following links.

(a) A video depicting The Finalist of The German Book Prize of 2009

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tAS-0Cdnubo

(b) A video about Katrin Schmidt a winner of the Germ Book Prize of 2009

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bT9WGJaoEZU

(c) A video about The Finalists of 2010 German Book Prize

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJH7upACeVU

(d) A video about the 2010 German Book Prize winner Melinda Nadj Abonji

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8M4ZeLJYZZA

(e) Other sites that may be of interest

http://www.signandsight.com/service/1922.html

http://lovegermanbooks.blogspot.com/2009/08/german-book-prize-longlist.html

http://www.signandsight.com/service/2071.html

http://publishingperspectives.com/2010/08/the-20-title-longlist-for-the-2010-german-book-award-longlist/

Spring Snow

Hello Gentle Reader

It certainly does feel like summer is finally among me. Maybe not for you all, but it certainly is among me. It is both hot, and the bugs are out. Their beating vibrating wings fill the air with their humming sounds of life. Thanks to the all the rain last week, the ditches are flooded with rain. The frogs are enjoying that though. I can hear them every evening and night – usually around dusk the most; croaking. It is as if they are saying goodbye to one more day. The ducks also appear to be enjoying the excess of water all around. Though he is an ironic part of this “watered down world,” – there is actually a fire ban in place. It is ironic I know. But it looks like it is a necessary, with quite a few fires had already been started. That is not good indeed. Hopefully they will be extinguished so people, who enjoy camping can go out and enjoy the weather, and enjoy getting “in tune,” with nature. Personally camping is not my personal aspect of a holiday. I don’t recall liking it as a kid, and in all honest I do not recall liking it now either.

Anyone who knows a bit about Japanese Literature knows who Yukio Mishima is. The Japanese Post-War writer, whose nihilistic works, and experimental blending of style of traditional Japanese writing and western influence, made him herald in his day as one of the greatest Japanese writers. However his success has also overshadowed some other great Japanese writers. I would say that the success of Yukio Mishima and his novels overshadowed other authors like Junichiro Tanizaki. Yukio Mishima also had a mentor early in his career – and it could be stated that this author probably even jump started the career of Yukio Mishima. This author was none other than Yasunari Kawabata, the Nobel Laureate in Literature of 1968 and the first Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Yukio Mishima had such appreciation for the great Japanese author, that he had published a series of essays on Yasunari Kawabata. However I don’t think personally that Yukio Mishima will ever surpass the greatness of Yasunari Kawabata. In fact in this case the master will certainly be greater than the student. Another case of debatable origin would be James Joyce and Samuel Beckett. Personally I have only read Samuel Beckett, because for some reason or another James Joyce’s large book and most likely magnum opus “Ulysses,” is just a bit of a large and overwhelmingly large book.

For those who have read the previous review of another one of Yukio Mishima’s novels “The Sound of the Waves,” on March the eleventh of two-thousand and eleven (2011) you’ll remember the brief discussion of Yukio Mishima’s very public attempt at over throwing the government and attempt at re-instating the law of the emperor and his divine rule. This attempt at a coup did fail, and Yukio Mishima then committed ritual suicide.

All of this happened after his publication of his final and probably greatest work of four novels all connected, in a tetralogy titled “The Sea of Fertility.” Which the first novel in this tetralogy is “Spring Snow.”

I can’t say personally that “Spring Snow,” on the superficial levels, not entirely different than other Yukio Mishima’s novels. The character Kiyoaki for one is much like the unnamed narrator of Yukio Mishima’s breakthrough novel “Confessions of a Mask.” Kiyoaki is both a pessimistic pain, and very introverted character. His eyes are turned inward not outward. Personally I found Kiyoaki to be an insufferable character. That being said, I do not mind an introverted and very introspective character, but Yukio Mishima appeared to have taken this to an extreme with his character of Kiyoaki.

However Yukio Mishima has made some great contrast with the character Honda. A young, smart man roughly the same age as Kiyoaki. The friendship between Kiyoaki, a member of an old aristocrat family, while Honda (I think – I could be wrong) is a member of a wealthy family but not of aristocrat origin. There is great contrast between these two characters. Honda is a man, who is/or is stated of, going to study law, while as he points out in a conversation about fate and human destiny and history that Kiyoaki would never leave a mark on history, much like others. This is when the two are talking about the different periods. As the novel of “Spring Snow,” is set during the final years of the Meji period and the early years of the Taishō period.

To describe the friendship – as odd as it is; between Honda and Kiyoaki the following quote would be of great satisfactory description:

[Honda] “Treat him [Kiyoaki] as warily as one would a freshly painted wall, on which the slightest careless touch would leave an indelible fingerprint.”

Yes the entire novel is as melodramatic as that description makes it sound. But the extremes of the emotions that the characters display and act in are also quite typical of youth and such young people – though it appears to be quite more extreme, with young people who have a sense of entitlement.

But the real heart of this story is the love affair – or rather the doomed love affair of Kiyoaki and Ayakura Satoko. I do confess personally, that reading this novel, it was hard for me to tell if Kiyoaki loved Satoko, or just loved hating her. Though eventually it does become clear that Kiyoaki loves Satoko. But the love is doomed. Satoko becomes engaged to a royal prince. I suppose that royal prince did feel a sense of entitlement, and certainly felt entitled to have Satoko. Though by the time that Kiyoaki figures out his emotions, he decides to make a move and express his deep emotions towards Satoko. But by this point she is already engaged to the royal prince. However a certain incident occurs. Satoko is pregnant. With (I think) Kiyoaki’s child.

The events unfold in a strange obscure way after this. The affair is soon found out. The pregnancy is discovered, and the love and very raw hateful relationship that both Kiyoaki and Satoko share, is brought to its final endings.

Here is an important detail that one should remember, from earlier on in the novel, that Satoko has a great aunt, who is an Abbess. Satoko has her abortion, and her mother and her on their way back to Tokyo, decided to stop at the Gesshu Temple where Satoko’s great aunt is the abbess. It is here that Satoko hides from her mother, and her mother learns that her daughter has decided to become a nun. The mother of Satoko a very weak willed woman, and retreats to Tokyo but neither Kiyoaki’s father or Satoko’s father can do anything to release her from the grasps of the convent. Satoko at long last, meets her tragic end. She goes insane.

Kiyoaki goes then to the convent, which had become a prison of Satoko and now her mental asylum. Kiyoaki wishes to see Satoko, but every attempt to see her at the convent is refused. He is refused every time. In a wallowing despair, Kiyoaki begins his trudge of a walk from the in towards convent. A somewhat symbolic, gesture of repentance.

Honda eventually travels to the area of the convent where Kiyoaki and Satoko are worlds apart. He is shocked to find his friend in such ill shape. Seeing that Kiyoaki is in desperate need to see Satoko, Honda meets with the abbess. Who openly and abruptly refuses such a request. That same night Honda takes Kiyoaki back to Tokyo, seeing that seeing Satoko is nothing but a futile game, and his friends help needs medical attention, and perhaps he hopes to make sure his family can see their son once more. The novel then ends with Kiyoaki proclaiming his dream that he’ll see Honda once again, and leaving his mother a note requesting that she give Honda his dream diary.

Dreams, symbolism, omens – all of these things, foreshadow, and play an important part into the novel. But with anything all these things can be left open to the reader’s interpretation, which can often at times lead to confusion, of what each symbolism means. Such as the time when Honda and Kiyoaki walking home and a dead mole, is in front of their walking path. Which is obviously a bad omen. Then there was the dream of Kiyoaki having the crown, which had the emerald that was encrusted on the ring of one of the Thai princes. Which may foreshadow or elude to the ring later going missing, when the Prince is at a boarding school.

In all “Spring Snow,” is an alright novel. A bit heavy with Kiyoaki’s constant introspective personality and always looking into himself. Not to mention that Yukio Mishima writes sometimes with a very heavy hand, that sometimes clouds the atmosphere of the novel, and can cloud the novel, and make it a bit of a drudgery task to get through at times. The melodrama though does work well for this kind of novel, of such young people, who have no concept of love. It is a great work of a novel, by Yukio Mishima because he does tackle the themes of the old Japan (the Aristocracy) with the new Japan (Westernization and Modernization). Even the title of the novel could be seen as a hint of the theme. “Spring,” as in the new era, a new Japan; and then the old being “Snow,” as the old aristocracy the old Japan. Together the novel is the swirl of the two of the parts of Japan circling each other in a dance.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*