Hello Gentle Reader
After the previous biannual awards, walkouts, and requests for removal, the Man Booker Prize International Prize Shortlist, is back; as graceful as ever. Previous winners include the Canadian short story write Alice Munro, the Albanian novelist Ismail Kadare; and two-thousand and eleven winner Philip Roth. Shortlisted writers of the past include a recent Nobel speculated author from Italy Dacia Maraini; Nobel Laureate and Modern Egyptian author Naguib Mahfouz; the late Antonio Tabucchi; recent Nobel Laureate Mario Vargas Llosa; Nobel Perennial Milan Kundera among other famous intentionally renowned authors.
The ten nominees this year are:
Peter Stamm from Switzerland; Known for his short stories and novels, translated in English by Michael Hoffman, from the native German. Peter Stamm work is written in cool detached and sparse prose. But this isn’t some Ernest Hemmingway minimalism or Raymond Carver blue-collar minimalist work either. Nor does it cycle, in absurd comedy like Samuel Beckett in its compact spaces. Peter Stamm’s work, do what many authors preach: they show; not tell. A great writer deserving to be placed on the list.
Vladimir Sorokin from Russia: In modern Russia there are two writers, which will most likely be familiar with English speakers (not necessarily the general reading public) those two would be Vladimir Sorokin, and Victor Pelevin. Vladimir Sorokin is known for his darkly comic and absurd novels and stories, which tack on the disguise of being science fiction like or magical realism like. But they deal with issues of Russia’s Soviet past and the recent issues with Russia in its new democratic life. Biting satirical and censored Vladimir is certainly a welcomed contender; in my opinion.
Aharon Appelfeld from Israel: He writes fiction in Hebrew, although he did not learn the language until he was in his teens. Most of his work focuses on Jewish life in Europe before, during and after World War II, but it is not simple autobiography. Silence, muteness and stuttering enforce his work.
Lydia Davis from United States of America: She once said that her style was a reaction to Marcel Proust’s long sentences. A translator of French fiction; one of them being “In Search of lost Time,” by Marcel Proust and Flaubert’s “Madame Bovary,” this author is known for her compact and extremely short stories, which border on philosophical aphorisms or poetry. Even longer pieces of work, are still at only three pages long.
Intizar Husain from Pakistan: Is a modern chronicler of contemporary Pakistan life. From the ten year dictatorship of General Zia-ul-Haq. He discusses issues of modern violence, in his country and the general area.
Yan Lianke from China: is a satirist, and has been banned and censored by the ruling Communist Party; but has also admitted to self-censoring so his work won’t be banned. He has also though, won two of China’s top Literary Awards. Perhaps he is one of those authors that is both praised for his work but also fought against – kind of like China’s own Michel Houellebecq.
Josip Novakovich from Canada: His work deals with the Yugoslav war. Dark cries of shrill laughter echo about the atrocities of the war. Known for his descriptions of violence; this author is a new name for me.
U R Ananthamurthy from India: an author known for his reputation as a great representative of the “New Movement,” in contemporary Indian Letters; his work deal primarily with questioning of cultural norms.
Marie NDiaye from France: Is one of Frances most interesting authors. She is the only second woman to have taken Frances Comédie Française for her play Daddy’s got to Eat. Her first novel was published when she was eighteen years old, by Lindon who was also Samuel Beckett’s publisher.
Marilynne Robinson from United States of America: is this year’s top contender; shortlisted in two-thousand and eleven, but lost to Philip Roth. She has written three novels Housekeeping in nineteen-eighty followed by Gilead in two-thousand and four and Home in two-thousand eight. In between these novels she has written non-fiction work.
There you have them Gentle Reader. The Shortlist for this Year’s biannual Man Booker International Prize. It’ll be interesting to see who wins this award, this year.
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
Thursday, 24 January 2013
Thursday, 17 January 2013
The Piano Teacher
Hello Gentle Reader and a warm welcome to Mike Emeritz
When Elfriede Jelinek won the Nobel Prize in Literature in two-thousand and four, there was a unanimous calling of “Who?”, in much of the world. Though in German speaking countries, the awarding of the prize to Elfriede Jelinek was met with a polarized reaction of congratulations but also of difficult understanding and appreciation of the author. One member of the Swedish Academy Knut Ahnlund, who had previously quarrelled with the Swedish Academy over its lack of involvement in criticizing and condemning the Iranian Fatwa against the British author Salman Rushdie, had further exiled himself from the Academy when he announced his disapproval of Elfriede Jelinek winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. Knut Ahnlund, who died in November of two thousand and twelve, had proclaimed that the two thousand and four Nobel Laureate in Literature’s work was: “pornographic and chaotic.” Further stating that her work is a: “whirlwind of text that appears to have been thrown together without a trace of artistic structure.” The late Knut Ahnlund had described his reading experience with Elfriede Jelinek as torture, and explained why: “[Elfriede Jelinek] treads on the spot in a largely incomprehensible way... Denigration, humiliation, desecration and self-disgust, sadism and masochism are the main themes of Elfriede Jelinek's work. All other aspects of human life are left out. That's why her work is so poor. It's burdened by the fruits of television and the Internet, saturated with a rotten mix of abhorrence and fascination.” Many to this day still feel that Elfriede Jelinek was a controversial and rather light weight Nobel Laureate, someone who allowed her own political convictions to overshadow her literary integrity.
A member of the Austrian Communist party for seventeen years; the author had made several enemies on the political and public stage. These political engagements have all but overshadowed and influenced Jelinek’s work. Much like a corrosive touch, for better or for worst, they have always made sure the author is in a dual light of, applauded writer who tackles social themes; and in a different light as nothing more than a mediocre author and angry woman. Who missed the opportunity to burn the bra, in suffrage movements.
What does make Elfriede Jelinek an interesting writer though is the almost impossible to categorize or define the authors mix brand of prose that without warning can indulge itself in poetry. Metaphors and similes and heavy image writing makes for both a disturbing picture and a undercurrent of social criticism. A parody and satirical viciousness of the ‘good life,’ and modern society. Its superficiality is hung on meat hooks like the carcase of some animal, where its nature is on full display – no pretty skin or identity left to elude ones understanding of it.
“Icy stream of neon light roar through ice cream parlours, through dance-halls. Clusters of humming lights dangle from whip-shaped lampposts over miniature golf courses. A flickering torrent of coldness. People HER age, enjoying the loll peace and quiet of habit, loll around kidney shaped tables. Tall glasses, containing long spoons look like cool blossoms: brown, yellow, pink; chocolate, vanilla, and raspberry. The colouful, steaming scoops are tinted an almost uniform gray by the ceiling lights. Glittering scoopers wait in containers of water with threads of ice cream floating on the surface.”
Bitterness is ever apparent in Elfriede Jelinek’s most recognized and famous autobiographical novel “The Piano Teacher.” This is a brutal novel, where poetic beauty and aesthetics, can quickly become a degrading show of humiliation of pornographic psychosexual studies of the darker secrets and desires of the human mind; especially one as the poor repressed spinster Erika Kohut. Erika was a child prodigy in music. Her parents, who only knew a thing or two about music, encouraged their daughter to be a successful concert pianist. Though encouraged may have been the wrong choice of words. As one sees quickly in the beginning of the book, encouragement is not something that Erika’s mother had done. She dictated and demanded, what was to be expected of her daughter. The relationship between mother and daughter is not equal; as Erika’s mother is domineering and obsessive; always quick to degrade her daughter to the role of a child. However Erika is no victim either. She lashes back at her mother, with physical violence and verbal insults. Only later for the two, to weep as mother and daughter come to forgive each other for the outburst of a moment ago. This duality is played out, throughout the novel. The professional and frigid Erika; a professor at the prestigious Vienna conservatory, is a respectable woman of society. Though underneath that appearance, lies a dark and twisted alter ego of Erika; one that participates in acts of dangerous voyeurism, sado-masochistic rituals and even self-mutilation. She also enjoys commuting on the Vienna trains, and takes sadistic and perverted pleasure in causing others pain, and watching as the victims of her torment are quick to scold and belittle others, who are most likely to have committed the act, like a working class man.
Erika though is mostly bitter, for her lack of success. She finds herself in an alternative and what she sees as a degrading position of her talents. Her life is deprived of pleasures, both physical and emotional. Even when she attempts to have an act of pleasure – for example buying a dress, that will most likely fall out of fashion within a month; it is placed on the stand of a trial where Mother is both inquisitor, prosecutor, judge, jury and executioner; with one fell swoop she bemoans and degrades Erika for not only being late, but for wasting money on a dress! A dress that will go out of fashion and will never be able to be worn again. Though for Erika it is just a physical pleasure to enjoy it – looking at it, and admiring something that will forever be so alien to her. Much like the common man who looks at the stars and the moon, and admires their beauty; they will forever be something unattainable and out of reach.
“Their conversation becomes more vitriolic: Mother and daughter spray acid at students who do better than Erika or threaten to do so. You shouldn’t give them free reign, you don’t need to. You should stop them. But you let them get away with murder! You’re not smart enough Erika. If a teacher puts her mind to it, none of her a student will succeed. No young woman will emerge from her classroom and pursue a career against Erika’s wishes. You didn’t make – why should others reach the top? And from your musical stable too boot?”
Mother and daughter’s relationship is just one instance of the predator and prey relationship that is buzzing within this novel. There is no equal playing field. There is only domination and submission. Compassion is nowhere to be found. In these brutal games of master and slave that is played in this poetic novel, there is no solace or hope of seeing a flicker of compassion. Erika is deprived of such a trivial emotion or human concept. Shaped by her Mothers neurosis, her life has been devitalized of pleasure. A perfect example is when on a childhood vacation, Erika’s cousin plays and revels in the pleasures of life and youth. Whereas Erika shares no such enjoyments. Her mother forces her to practice the piano. Perform, practice, perfect. It is at this time that Erika picks up self-mutilation as an action of punishment of her Mother and herself. All of this might truly sound like Erika is insane. She is quite sane, and pushes herself to the edges of insanity, to that thin threshold of absolute oblivion. Into a whirl wind of uncontrolled and unrestricted impulses. As a reader, one will find themselves, desperately and horrifyingly well acquainted with these impulses in this book. No matter how hard the reader tries to keep a refined and well-adjusted distance from the maelstrom of this book that with poetry lures one in, also quickly snaps shut like a Venus fly trap and suffocates one underneath the weight of the subject matter. Once ensnared there is only two possibilities of this book, running away from it or finishing it.
Now enters Walter Klemmer. Fascinated by Erika’s lack of sexual glamour or perhaps her autocratic air. Regardless the engineering student who has almost prodigious abilities at the piano, and plays Erika’s true love Schubert’s music – the epiphany of romanticism in its purest form; seeks to conquer and catch Erika. Only to be rebuffed; until finally in this dark twisted web of a story of a woman on the road to self-destruction, their love affair is brought to life and in a twisted fashion is parodied. It is not open or true love; but a sick game of power and control, one that can only be described as masochism. In this sense Elfriede Jelinek happily shows that in any relationship there is no equals. As much as Walter Klemmer demands and tries to make the playing field equal; Erika shows him that such a concept is not possible. One must always be emotionally dominant. In the case of doctors and patients; lawyers and clients; teacher and student – one is always under the thumb of the other. That does not mean however that one is stronger than the other.
The book that Elfriede Jelinek has written here is a dark and disturbing book. A expressionistic novel that explores the dark psychosexual realm, and the torments of the human psyche when its deprived of enough love and compassion and given only technical pursuits and encouragement that is a nice dagger wrapped up in a pretty bow. This entire novel is best compared to a present wrapped up in the most lush and beautiful paper possible. Though what lies in wait of this novel is a bear trap. It grabs hold, and drags you deep down into the sick world of the main character Erika; her poor desperate life, of sexual repression and denial of human emotion and any actual positive human contact. It explores the dark sick fantasies of one person, and uses it as an example the dark nature of all human beings. The dark corner of all our souls, where our most basic, primal and hidden desires remain under lock and key. For Erika those dark fantasies do not translate well into reality.
In the award ceremony speech of the Nobel Prize in Literature, read by Horace Engdahl the former Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Elfriede Jelinek’s style of writing is described and discussed. The following description from that speech, is an adequate description of the work of Elfriede Jelinek and what to expect:
“Elfriede Jelinek deliberately opens her work to the clichés that flood the news media, advertising and popular culture — the collective subconscious of our time. She manipulates the codes of pulp literature, comics, soap operas, pornography and folkloristic novels (Heimatsroman), so that the inherent madness in these ostensibly harmless consumer phenomena shines through. She mimics the prejudices we would never admit to, and captures, hidden behind common sense, a poisonous mumble of no origin or address: the voice of the masses. She has said that she taps at language to hear its hidden ideologies, much as a doctor will tap on a patient's chest. Aghast, we discover how class oppression, sexism, chauvinism and the distortion of history echo through everyday conversation.”
Thus is the explanation behind the reason of Elfriede Jelinek’s Nobel accolade when they say:
“For her musical flow of voices and counter-voices in novels and plays that with extraordinary linguistic zeal reveal the absurdity of society's clichés and their subjugating power.”
Subjugating and power, would be the key words. For everything in this novel dealt with domination. From Mother to daughter; from lover to sexual slave; teacher to student, the unequal relationships of the world are presented as such. Idea’s and ideals of human equality amongst all individuals has no place in Elfriede Jelinek’s work. Everyone is at the mercy of another. I have never read a book of this kind of violence, power, identity, degradation and humiliation and aesthetic purity before. It is like nothing I have ever read before. As much as the view is detached as a reader one will find that they are entwined with the happenings of this book. It is not like watching a film with an objective point of view. Elfriede Jelinek makes the motives the thoughts and the emotions of the characters quite clear – their dark thoughts and fantasies, is not melodramatic or of fake pathos. They are true explorations of the human concept of desire, control, and power in relationships. There is no escape. It is relentless; and not for the faint of heart either.
The style is quite interesting, because it is not full of a narrative – at least not in the traditional sense. To some it may be a hodgepodge of words shoveled together, welded and placed like a abstract piece of art work on display. Left open for interpretation and discussion. It is a novel that revels in its world play. In the contemporary and modern worlds, over stimulated use of entertainment. From soap operas, commercials, poetry, popular music, television to even pornography; Elfriede Jelinek takes them all, strips and skins their concepts and with the remains, creates her own brand and concept of what the world is in a schizophrenic age of to many voices each speaking over one another. Delightful wouldn’t be a word used freely to describe this novel. Unique and challenging would; and rewarding . . . in small doses. Nonetheless a true masterpiece, by a controversial author.
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
(a link to the Nobel Award Ceremony Speech)
http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2004/presentation-speech.html
When Elfriede Jelinek won the Nobel Prize in Literature in two-thousand and four, there was a unanimous calling of “Who?”, in much of the world. Though in German speaking countries, the awarding of the prize to Elfriede Jelinek was met with a polarized reaction of congratulations but also of difficult understanding and appreciation of the author. One member of the Swedish Academy Knut Ahnlund, who had previously quarrelled with the Swedish Academy over its lack of involvement in criticizing and condemning the Iranian Fatwa against the British author Salman Rushdie, had further exiled himself from the Academy when he announced his disapproval of Elfriede Jelinek winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. Knut Ahnlund, who died in November of two thousand and twelve, had proclaimed that the two thousand and four Nobel Laureate in Literature’s work was: “pornographic and chaotic.” Further stating that her work is a: “whirlwind of text that appears to have been thrown together without a trace of artistic structure.” The late Knut Ahnlund had described his reading experience with Elfriede Jelinek as torture, and explained why: “[Elfriede Jelinek] treads on the spot in a largely incomprehensible way... Denigration, humiliation, desecration and self-disgust, sadism and masochism are the main themes of Elfriede Jelinek's work. All other aspects of human life are left out. That's why her work is so poor. It's burdened by the fruits of television and the Internet, saturated with a rotten mix of abhorrence and fascination.” Many to this day still feel that Elfriede Jelinek was a controversial and rather light weight Nobel Laureate, someone who allowed her own political convictions to overshadow her literary integrity.
A member of the Austrian Communist party for seventeen years; the author had made several enemies on the political and public stage. These political engagements have all but overshadowed and influenced Jelinek’s work. Much like a corrosive touch, for better or for worst, they have always made sure the author is in a dual light of, applauded writer who tackles social themes; and in a different light as nothing more than a mediocre author and angry woman. Who missed the opportunity to burn the bra, in suffrage movements.
What does make Elfriede Jelinek an interesting writer though is the almost impossible to categorize or define the authors mix brand of prose that without warning can indulge itself in poetry. Metaphors and similes and heavy image writing makes for both a disturbing picture and a undercurrent of social criticism. A parody and satirical viciousness of the ‘good life,’ and modern society. Its superficiality is hung on meat hooks like the carcase of some animal, where its nature is on full display – no pretty skin or identity left to elude ones understanding of it.
“Icy stream of neon light roar through ice cream parlours, through dance-halls. Clusters of humming lights dangle from whip-shaped lampposts over miniature golf courses. A flickering torrent of coldness. People HER age, enjoying the loll peace and quiet of habit, loll around kidney shaped tables. Tall glasses, containing long spoons look like cool blossoms: brown, yellow, pink; chocolate, vanilla, and raspberry. The colouful, steaming scoops are tinted an almost uniform gray by the ceiling lights. Glittering scoopers wait in containers of water with threads of ice cream floating on the surface.”
Bitterness is ever apparent in Elfriede Jelinek’s most recognized and famous autobiographical novel “The Piano Teacher.” This is a brutal novel, where poetic beauty and aesthetics, can quickly become a degrading show of humiliation of pornographic psychosexual studies of the darker secrets and desires of the human mind; especially one as the poor repressed spinster Erika Kohut. Erika was a child prodigy in music. Her parents, who only knew a thing or two about music, encouraged their daughter to be a successful concert pianist. Though encouraged may have been the wrong choice of words. As one sees quickly in the beginning of the book, encouragement is not something that Erika’s mother had done. She dictated and demanded, what was to be expected of her daughter. The relationship between mother and daughter is not equal; as Erika’s mother is domineering and obsessive; always quick to degrade her daughter to the role of a child. However Erika is no victim either. She lashes back at her mother, with physical violence and verbal insults. Only later for the two, to weep as mother and daughter come to forgive each other for the outburst of a moment ago. This duality is played out, throughout the novel. The professional and frigid Erika; a professor at the prestigious Vienna conservatory, is a respectable woman of society. Though underneath that appearance, lies a dark and twisted alter ego of Erika; one that participates in acts of dangerous voyeurism, sado-masochistic rituals and even self-mutilation. She also enjoys commuting on the Vienna trains, and takes sadistic and perverted pleasure in causing others pain, and watching as the victims of her torment are quick to scold and belittle others, who are most likely to have committed the act, like a working class man.
Erika though is mostly bitter, for her lack of success. She finds herself in an alternative and what she sees as a degrading position of her talents. Her life is deprived of pleasures, both physical and emotional. Even when she attempts to have an act of pleasure – for example buying a dress, that will most likely fall out of fashion within a month; it is placed on the stand of a trial where Mother is both inquisitor, prosecutor, judge, jury and executioner; with one fell swoop she bemoans and degrades Erika for not only being late, but for wasting money on a dress! A dress that will go out of fashion and will never be able to be worn again. Though for Erika it is just a physical pleasure to enjoy it – looking at it, and admiring something that will forever be so alien to her. Much like the common man who looks at the stars and the moon, and admires their beauty; they will forever be something unattainable and out of reach.
“Their conversation becomes more vitriolic: Mother and daughter spray acid at students who do better than Erika or threaten to do so. You shouldn’t give them free reign, you don’t need to. You should stop them. But you let them get away with murder! You’re not smart enough Erika. If a teacher puts her mind to it, none of her a student will succeed. No young woman will emerge from her classroom and pursue a career against Erika’s wishes. You didn’t make – why should others reach the top? And from your musical stable too boot?”
Mother and daughter’s relationship is just one instance of the predator and prey relationship that is buzzing within this novel. There is no equal playing field. There is only domination and submission. Compassion is nowhere to be found. In these brutal games of master and slave that is played in this poetic novel, there is no solace or hope of seeing a flicker of compassion. Erika is deprived of such a trivial emotion or human concept. Shaped by her Mothers neurosis, her life has been devitalized of pleasure. A perfect example is when on a childhood vacation, Erika’s cousin plays and revels in the pleasures of life and youth. Whereas Erika shares no such enjoyments. Her mother forces her to practice the piano. Perform, practice, perfect. It is at this time that Erika picks up self-mutilation as an action of punishment of her Mother and herself. All of this might truly sound like Erika is insane. She is quite sane, and pushes herself to the edges of insanity, to that thin threshold of absolute oblivion. Into a whirl wind of uncontrolled and unrestricted impulses. As a reader, one will find themselves, desperately and horrifyingly well acquainted with these impulses in this book. No matter how hard the reader tries to keep a refined and well-adjusted distance from the maelstrom of this book that with poetry lures one in, also quickly snaps shut like a Venus fly trap and suffocates one underneath the weight of the subject matter. Once ensnared there is only two possibilities of this book, running away from it or finishing it.
Now enters Walter Klemmer. Fascinated by Erika’s lack of sexual glamour or perhaps her autocratic air. Regardless the engineering student who has almost prodigious abilities at the piano, and plays Erika’s true love Schubert’s music – the epiphany of romanticism in its purest form; seeks to conquer and catch Erika. Only to be rebuffed; until finally in this dark twisted web of a story of a woman on the road to self-destruction, their love affair is brought to life and in a twisted fashion is parodied. It is not open or true love; but a sick game of power and control, one that can only be described as masochism. In this sense Elfriede Jelinek happily shows that in any relationship there is no equals. As much as Walter Klemmer demands and tries to make the playing field equal; Erika shows him that such a concept is not possible. One must always be emotionally dominant. In the case of doctors and patients; lawyers and clients; teacher and student – one is always under the thumb of the other. That does not mean however that one is stronger than the other.
The book that Elfriede Jelinek has written here is a dark and disturbing book. A expressionistic novel that explores the dark psychosexual realm, and the torments of the human psyche when its deprived of enough love and compassion and given only technical pursuits and encouragement that is a nice dagger wrapped up in a pretty bow. This entire novel is best compared to a present wrapped up in the most lush and beautiful paper possible. Though what lies in wait of this novel is a bear trap. It grabs hold, and drags you deep down into the sick world of the main character Erika; her poor desperate life, of sexual repression and denial of human emotion and any actual positive human contact. It explores the dark sick fantasies of one person, and uses it as an example the dark nature of all human beings. The dark corner of all our souls, where our most basic, primal and hidden desires remain under lock and key. For Erika those dark fantasies do not translate well into reality.
In the award ceremony speech of the Nobel Prize in Literature, read by Horace Engdahl the former Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Elfriede Jelinek’s style of writing is described and discussed. The following description from that speech, is an adequate description of the work of Elfriede Jelinek and what to expect:
“Elfriede Jelinek deliberately opens her work to the clichés that flood the news media, advertising and popular culture — the collective subconscious of our time. She manipulates the codes of pulp literature, comics, soap operas, pornography and folkloristic novels (Heimatsroman), so that the inherent madness in these ostensibly harmless consumer phenomena shines through. She mimics the prejudices we would never admit to, and captures, hidden behind common sense, a poisonous mumble of no origin or address: the voice of the masses. She has said that she taps at language to hear its hidden ideologies, much as a doctor will tap on a patient's chest. Aghast, we discover how class oppression, sexism, chauvinism and the distortion of history echo through everyday conversation.”
Thus is the explanation behind the reason of Elfriede Jelinek’s Nobel accolade when they say:
“For her musical flow of voices and counter-voices in novels and plays that with extraordinary linguistic zeal reveal the absurdity of society's clichés and their subjugating power.”
Subjugating and power, would be the key words. For everything in this novel dealt with domination. From Mother to daughter; from lover to sexual slave; teacher to student, the unequal relationships of the world are presented as such. Idea’s and ideals of human equality amongst all individuals has no place in Elfriede Jelinek’s work. Everyone is at the mercy of another. I have never read a book of this kind of violence, power, identity, degradation and humiliation and aesthetic purity before. It is like nothing I have ever read before. As much as the view is detached as a reader one will find that they are entwined with the happenings of this book. It is not like watching a film with an objective point of view. Elfriede Jelinek makes the motives the thoughts and the emotions of the characters quite clear – their dark thoughts and fantasies, is not melodramatic or of fake pathos. They are true explorations of the human concept of desire, control, and power in relationships. There is no escape. It is relentless; and not for the faint of heart either.
The style is quite interesting, because it is not full of a narrative – at least not in the traditional sense. To some it may be a hodgepodge of words shoveled together, welded and placed like a abstract piece of art work on display. Left open for interpretation and discussion. It is a novel that revels in its world play. In the contemporary and modern worlds, over stimulated use of entertainment. From soap operas, commercials, poetry, popular music, television to even pornography; Elfriede Jelinek takes them all, strips and skins their concepts and with the remains, creates her own brand and concept of what the world is in a schizophrenic age of to many voices each speaking over one another. Delightful wouldn’t be a word used freely to describe this novel. Unique and challenging would; and rewarding . . . in small doses. Nonetheless a true masterpiece, by a controversial author.
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
(a link to the Nobel Award Ceremony Speech)
http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2004/presentation-speech.html
Thursday, 10 January 2013
Across
Hello Gentle Reader
When Elfrede Jelinek won the Nobel Prize for Literature; and becoming the first Austrian to do so, and became the tenth woman to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature (since then two other women have also been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature) she was pleased by the award, but also with modesty and her well known self-irony had made the wondering question, that she was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature simply because she was a woman. She went on to suggest that another living German language writer who deserved the prize more than her was the fellow Austrian writer Peter Handke, who Elfrede Jelinek championed as a “living classic.” This was the first time that Peter Handke (who was under my first assumption, primarily a playwright of avant-garde plays that in the fashion of Samuel Beckett depicted the passion of the nothingness and void of the human condition with the nihilistic gallows humour of George Carlin or Monty Python) however this preconceived notion was incorrect. Peter Handke is a playwright and a novelist. However of late he is known more as a notoriously controversial figure, the kind that Austria appears to produce, along with controversial politicians. Peter Handke’s controversy arises from his views that during the Balkan War (also known as the Yugoslav War), Serbia was a victim.
The Balkan/Yugoslav War, in the early nineties, started after the collapse of the Soviet Union. With the Soviet Union’s collapse, after decades of restrictive fear and survival induced paranoia, and clockwork bleak routines, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the eventual Eastern Bloc’s extinction, prove to be a chaotic mess that induced anarchy in some former states. Even to this day parts of Eastern Europe continue to try finding a meaning and understanding with their new found freedom, years after the yoke of communism had been removed from around their necks.
The complexities and historical fuel for this war though was more than just generations stuck in a rut in mundane routines and daily transactions as well as fear of their neighbours, family members, co-workers – anyone was informing, all were recording, each tattled a tale. All guilty of saving their own hides. This war came down to multiethnic conflicts. The battle for independence or retaining unification. The Serbs and the Montenegrins on one side; while the Croats and Bosniaks as well as Slovenes were on the other. But then the Croats and the Bosniaks fought and to truly split hairs on a complicated war: different factions of the Bosniak factions fought against each other in Bosnia. The war ended in multi stages. With the end outcome being different independent states being formed: Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia (and Herzegovina), Montenegro, Slovenia, and Macedonia – as well as two self-governing provinces in Serbia: Kosovo and Vojvodina.
The Yugoslavia/Balkan War, is a notorious tragedy in Eastern European history. Not since World War II has there been such a deadly war on European soil. War crimes and even mass murder and genocidal actions had happened during this war. Again making history, for being the first time since World War II that the term ‘Genocidal,’ was used in the judgements of the actions that had taken place during this time. That is why key individuals who participated in these actions were tried with charges of war crimes; which lead to the formation of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. According to records one hundred and forty thousand people lost their lives.
War rape, genocide, mass murder, massacre, detention camps/concentration camps/prison camps – this was a complicated and long war. A war that surpasses simple caveman battle as the defendant in the cave next to the plaintiff caveman took the plaintiff’s caveman’s favourite rock. To which the defendant caveman denies, enraging the plaintiff caveman who then in an act of murderous rage over his missing favourite rock, slaughters the defending caveman – only in a sick twist of irony to learn that he simply misplaced his favourite rock. This particular war came from the whipping whirl winds of change that happened after the Soviet Union dematerialized. The different ethnic people of the former Yugoslavia took up different flags of nationalism. This caused a rift between the different ethnic groups, and therefore the independent nations or rather the future independent nations.
Peter Handke wrote this controversial travelogue (“A Journey to the Rivers: Justice for Serbia,”) during the midst of this war. Published in nineteen-ninety six, this book portrayed Serbia as a victim and criticized western media for its misrepresentation of the cause and consequences of the war. It didn’t help much that that former Yugoslavian president and charged war criminal Slobodan Milošević had asked for Handke to be a witness during his trial. Peter Handke declined; but did go to witness the trial as a spectator and had his observations published in his book of essays “The Tablas of Daimeil.” In two thousand and six further controversy, was struck further when Handke at Milošević funeral had made a speech which was taken in the context that the author was expressing his views on Serbia and Milošević. Translations then ran rampant that in this speech, that was addressed to twenty thousand mourners that Handke felt “happiness at being close to Milošević who defended his people.” However Handke shot back by sending a letter to the French Magazine “Le Nouvel Observateur,” where he offered the translation of his speech as follows:
“The world, the so-called world, knows everything about Yugoslavia, Serbia. The world, the so-called world, knows everything about Slobodan Milošević. The so-called world knows the truth. This is why the so-called world is absent today, and not only today, and not only here. I don't know the truth. But I look. I listen. I feel. I remember. This is why I am here today, close to Yugoslavia, close to Serbia, close to Slobodan Milošević.”
In the same year of two thousand and six Peter Handke declined an award, for political reasons. The Heinrich Heine Prize (of Dusseldorf) is awarded in the spirit of the German Poet Heinrich Heine, supports and pushes for the basic human rights of mankind. The city council of Dusseldorf must agree to the writer that the prize is being awarded too. Controversy erupted when it was announced that the award was going to Handke; and two jury members (Siegrid Löffler and Jean-Pierre Lefèbvre) threatened to abdicate their seats on the jury in protest. Peter Handke then apparently declined the award because of the political scrutiny. Fellow authors who have won this award include the late W.G. Sebald, Nobel Laureate in Literature Elfriede Jelinek, and Israeli author Amos Oz.
“[. . .] Owing to the new, alienating “village literature,” flourishing in Austria with Bernhard, Handke or Innerhofer, Herta Müller explores its dark, sensitive roots in an original manner. When she theorizes about it occasionally falls (like her models) into a stereotyped attitude not without a dash of arrogance.”
So describes both the future Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller and one of her models of writing Peter Handke alongside the forgotten Franz Innerhofer; who in two thousand and two took his own life. After years of alcohol problems, and fell out of literary fashion in the eighties and nineties, being pushed aside for newer stars in literature. Hissing and spitting Franz Innerhofer fought back, but only furthered his alienation and isolation. What connects Handke, Bernhard and Innerhofer besides their national heritage of being Austrian writers, each of them grew up in villages; each of them had the wanion of being like a dandelion – unwanted in the garden. Bernhard was abandoned by his paternal parents. Innerhofer lived a life of drudgery and miserable toil. He worked on his farmers farm as a child, became a blacksmiths apprentice when he was younger and only in the seventies did he start to make a career as a freelance writer. Peter Handke’s early life story is no different. His stepfather was an alcoholic. He grew up in a village in Austria called Griffen. However for the first seven years of his life he lived with his mother in Soviet occupied Pankow district in Berlin. Life in Griffen was culturally stagnant and is theorized that this along with his stepfather’s alcoholism led to his distrust of habit and routine. In nineteen-seventy one Handke’s mother committed suicide which became the memory essay that Handke wrote “A Sorrow Beyond Dreams.”
“Across,” by Peter Handke is my first foray into the authors work. If one could call the work pleasantly surprising, I certainly would. However the world pleasant with this novel is by all means necessary not the choice word. Peter Handke has written a poetically harrowing tale. Where Bernhard wrote interior monologues, that were rabid and full of philosophy disguised as insanity; Handke writes with poetics. Finding meaning in the mundane. Pondering the philosophical and metaphysical attributes that surround us all.
In “Across,” Peter Handke uses a classical languages teacher/professor who finds liberation while contributing in acts of violence. A man who has become distant, from other people including his family, whom he is separated from. His intellectual pursuits have alienated him. His cultural enjoyments have only found reflection and enjoyment with himself. He’s chosen a career that no longer full fills him, and is completely useless outside of the profession that he has chosen to engage in. His only social contact is a game of cards with friends; which leads to the pondering of philosophical nature of thresholds, to which a priest at the card game presents the theological explanation:
“[. . .] According to an almost forgotten proverb: 'The threshold is a fountainhead.' And this teacher says literally: 'It was from thresholds that lovers and friends absorbed strength. But,' he goes on, 'where nowadays are we to find the destroyed thresholds, if not in ourselves? By our own wounds shall we be healed. If snow stops falling from the clouds, let it continue to fall inside me.' Every step, every glance, every gesture, says the teacher, should be aware of itself as a possible threshold and thus recreate what has been lost. This new threshold consciousness might then transfer attention from object to object, and so on until the peace relay appears on earth, at least on that one day--and on the day after and the day after that, rather as in the child's game where stone sharpens scissors, scissors cut paper, and paper wraps stone. Thus, thresholds as seats of power may not have disappeared; they have become conceivable, so to speak, as inner powers. If man were conscious of these thresholds, he would at least let his fellow man die a natural death. Threshold consciousness is nature religion. More cannot be promised.”
This is one of the great examples of how this book behaves. Peter Handke writes about his character Andreas Loser, as a casual philosopher and more as an observer who sees the world around him, and is unable to act or take part in the world. He is just a shadow. A person who can only watch, never act.
“Handke''s novel tells the story of a quiet, organized classics teacher named Andreas Loser. One night, on the way to his regularly scheduled card game, he passes a tree that has been defaced by a swastika. Impulsively yet deliberately, he tracks down the defacer and kills him. With this act, Loser has crossed an invisble threshold, and will be stuck in this secular purgatory until he can confess his crime.”
This how the book is described by the publisher; but it is so much more than just a novel of a murder mystery or philosophical discussion disguised as a murder mystery. It is a novel that has wonderful descriptive passages, and a great deal of philosophical ponderings and wonderings.
Much like a Michael Haneke film (who directed the adaption of fellow Austrian novelist and playwrights Elfriede Jelinek autobiographical novel “The Piano Teacher,”) Peter Handke’s novel asks philosophical inclined ponderings, and questions without answers, or rather that will evermore lead to more questions. Full of imagery with a pessimistic bent; and at times a, swirling ethereal dreamscapes that does not connect or make sense. It’s a surreal ride; and one that will most likely take plenty of re-readings in order to full grasp either the author’s intent or at the very least a superficial grasp of what is happening within this short pessimistic novel, of poetic images that conjure a very sinister place – an Austria that the authors Bernhard, Innerhofer, and Jelinek – themselves present.
Pushing aside Peter Handke’s controversial political views; his literary talents certainly overshadow these blemishes of the author. I certainly look forward to reading many of the authors work to come, into translation or back into print or back into print or back into print.
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
When Elfrede Jelinek won the Nobel Prize for Literature; and becoming the first Austrian to do so, and became the tenth woman to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature (since then two other women have also been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature) she was pleased by the award, but also with modesty and her well known self-irony had made the wondering question, that she was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature simply because she was a woman. She went on to suggest that another living German language writer who deserved the prize more than her was the fellow Austrian writer Peter Handke, who Elfrede Jelinek championed as a “living classic.” This was the first time that Peter Handke (who was under my first assumption, primarily a playwright of avant-garde plays that in the fashion of Samuel Beckett depicted the passion of the nothingness and void of the human condition with the nihilistic gallows humour of George Carlin or Monty Python) however this preconceived notion was incorrect. Peter Handke is a playwright and a novelist. However of late he is known more as a notoriously controversial figure, the kind that Austria appears to produce, along with controversial politicians. Peter Handke’s controversy arises from his views that during the Balkan War (also known as the Yugoslav War), Serbia was a victim.
The Balkan/Yugoslav War, in the early nineties, started after the collapse of the Soviet Union. With the Soviet Union’s collapse, after decades of restrictive fear and survival induced paranoia, and clockwork bleak routines, the fall of the Berlin Wall and the eventual Eastern Bloc’s extinction, prove to be a chaotic mess that induced anarchy in some former states. Even to this day parts of Eastern Europe continue to try finding a meaning and understanding with their new found freedom, years after the yoke of communism had been removed from around their necks.
The complexities and historical fuel for this war though was more than just generations stuck in a rut in mundane routines and daily transactions as well as fear of their neighbours, family members, co-workers – anyone was informing, all were recording, each tattled a tale. All guilty of saving their own hides. This war came down to multiethnic conflicts. The battle for independence or retaining unification. The Serbs and the Montenegrins on one side; while the Croats and Bosniaks as well as Slovenes were on the other. But then the Croats and the Bosniaks fought and to truly split hairs on a complicated war: different factions of the Bosniak factions fought against each other in Bosnia. The war ended in multi stages. With the end outcome being different independent states being formed: Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia (and Herzegovina), Montenegro, Slovenia, and Macedonia – as well as two self-governing provinces in Serbia: Kosovo and Vojvodina.
The Yugoslavia/Balkan War, is a notorious tragedy in Eastern European history. Not since World War II has there been such a deadly war on European soil. War crimes and even mass murder and genocidal actions had happened during this war. Again making history, for being the first time since World War II that the term ‘Genocidal,’ was used in the judgements of the actions that had taken place during this time. That is why key individuals who participated in these actions were tried with charges of war crimes; which lead to the formation of the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. According to records one hundred and forty thousand people lost their lives.
War rape, genocide, mass murder, massacre, detention camps/concentration camps/prison camps – this was a complicated and long war. A war that surpasses simple caveman battle as the defendant in the cave next to the plaintiff caveman took the plaintiff’s caveman’s favourite rock. To which the defendant caveman denies, enraging the plaintiff caveman who then in an act of murderous rage over his missing favourite rock, slaughters the defending caveman – only in a sick twist of irony to learn that he simply misplaced his favourite rock. This particular war came from the whipping whirl winds of change that happened after the Soviet Union dematerialized. The different ethnic people of the former Yugoslavia took up different flags of nationalism. This caused a rift between the different ethnic groups, and therefore the independent nations or rather the future independent nations.
Peter Handke wrote this controversial travelogue (“A Journey to the Rivers: Justice for Serbia,”) during the midst of this war. Published in nineteen-ninety six, this book portrayed Serbia as a victim and criticized western media for its misrepresentation of the cause and consequences of the war. It didn’t help much that that former Yugoslavian president and charged war criminal Slobodan Milošević had asked for Handke to be a witness during his trial. Peter Handke declined; but did go to witness the trial as a spectator and had his observations published in his book of essays “The Tablas of Daimeil.” In two thousand and six further controversy, was struck further when Handke at Milošević funeral had made a speech which was taken in the context that the author was expressing his views on Serbia and Milošević. Translations then ran rampant that in this speech, that was addressed to twenty thousand mourners that Handke felt “happiness at being close to Milošević who defended his people.” However Handke shot back by sending a letter to the French Magazine “Le Nouvel Observateur,” where he offered the translation of his speech as follows:
“The world, the so-called world, knows everything about Yugoslavia, Serbia. The world, the so-called world, knows everything about Slobodan Milošević. The so-called world knows the truth. This is why the so-called world is absent today, and not only today, and not only here. I don't know the truth. But I look. I listen. I feel. I remember. This is why I am here today, close to Yugoslavia, close to Serbia, close to Slobodan Milošević.”
In the same year of two thousand and six Peter Handke declined an award, for political reasons. The Heinrich Heine Prize (of Dusseldorf) is awarded in the spirit of the German Poet Heinrich Heine, supports and pushes for the basic human rights of mankind. The city council of Dusseldorf must agree to the writer that the prize is being awarded too. Controversy erupted when it was announced that the award was going to Handke; and two jury members (Siegrid Löffler and Jean-Pierre Lefèbvre) threatened to abdicate their seats on the jury in protest. Peter Handke then apparently declined the award because of the political scrutiny. Fellow authors who have won this award include the late W.G. Sebald, Nobel Laureate in Literature Elfriede Jelinek, and Israeli author Amos Oz.
“[. . .] Owing to the new, alienating “village literature,” flourishing in Austria with Bernhard, Handke or Innerhofer, Herta Müller explores its dark, sensitive roots in an original manner. When she theorizes about it occasionally falls (like her models) into a stereotyped attitude not without a dash of arrogance.”
So describes both the future Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller and one of her models of writing Peter Handke alongside the forgotten Franz Innerhofer; who in two thousand and two took his own life. After years of alcohol problems, and fell out of literary fashion in the eighties and nineties, being pushed aside for newer stars in literature. Hissing and spitting Franz Innerhofer fought back, but only furthered his alienation and isolation. What connects Handke, Bernhard and Innerhofer besides their national heritage of being Austrian writers, each of them grew up in villages; each of them had the wanion of being like a dandelion – unwanted in the garden. Bernhard was abandoned by his paternal parents. Innerhofer lived a life of drudgery and miserable toil. He worked on his farmers farm as a child, became a blacksmiths apprentice when he was younger and only in the seventies did he start to make a career as a freelance writer. Peter Handke’s early life story is no different. His stepfather was an alcoholic. He grew up in a village in Austria called Griffen. However for the first seven years of his life he lived with his mother in Soviet occupied Pankow district in Berlin. Life in Griffen was culturally stagnant and is theorized that this along with his stepfather’s alcoholism led to his distrust of habit and routine. In nineteen-seventy one Handke’s mother committed suicide which became the memory essay that Handke wrote “A Sorrow Beyond Dreams.”
“Across,” by Peter Handke is my first foray into the authors work. If one could call the work pleasantly surprising, I certainly would. However the world pleasant with this novel is by all means necessary not the choice word. Peter Handke has written a poetically harrowing tale. Where Bernhard wrote interior monologues, that were rabid and full of philosophy disguised as insanity; Handke writes with poetics. Finding meaning in the mundane. Pondering the philosophical and metaphysical attributes that surround us all.
In “Across,” Peter Handke uses a classical languages teacher/professor who finds liberation while contributing in acts of violence. A man who has become distant, from other people including his family, whom he is separated from. His intellectual pursuits have alienated him. His cultural enjoyments have only found reflection and enjoyment with himself. He’s chosen a career that no longer full fills him, and is completely useless outside of the profession that he has chosen to engage in. His only social contact is a game of cards with friends; which leads to the pondering of philosophical nature of thresholds, to which a priest at the card game presents the theological explanation:
“[. . .] According to an almost forgotten proverb: 'The threshold is a fountainhead.' And this teacher says literally: 'It was from thresholds that lovers and friends absorbed strength. But,' he goes on, 'where nowadays are we to find the destroyed thresholds, if not in ourselves? By our own wounds shall we be healed. If snow stops falling from the clouds, let it continue to fall inside me.' Every step, every glance, every gesture, says the teacher, should be aware of itself as a possible threshold and thus recreate what has been lost. This new threshold consciousness might then transfer attention from object to object, and so on until the peace relay appears on earth, at least on that one day--and on the day after and the day after that, rather as in the child's game where stone sharpens scissors, scissors cut paper, and paper wraps stone. Thus, thresholds as seats of power may not have disappeared; they have become conceivable, so to speak, as inner powers. If man were conscious of these thresholds, he would at least let his fellow man die a natural death. Threshold consciousness is nature religion. More cannot be promised.”
This is one of the great examples of how this book behaves. Peter Handke writes about his character Andreas Loser, as a casual philosopher and more as an observer who sees the world around him, and is unable to act or take part in the world. He is just a shadow. A person who can only watch, never act.
“Handke''s novel tells the story of a quiet, organized classics teacher named Andreas Loser. One night, on the way to his regularly scheduled card game, he passes a tree that has been defaced by a swastika. Impulsively yet deliberately, he tracks down the defacer and kills him. With this act, Loser has crossed an invisble threshold, and will be stuck in this secular purgatory until he can confess his crime.”
This how the book is described by the publisher; but it is so much more than just a novel of a murder mystery or philosophical discussion disguised as a murder mystery. It is a novel that has wonderful descriptive passages, and a great deal of philosophical ponderings and wonderings.
Much like a Michael Haneke film (who directed the adaption of fellow Austrian novelist and playwrights Elfriede Jelinek autobiographical novel “The Piano Teacher,”) Peter Handke’s novel asks philosophical inclined ponderings, and questions without answers, or rather that will evermore lead to more questions. Full of imagery with a pessimistic bent; and at times a, swirling ethereal dreamscapes that does not connect or make sense. It’s a surreal ride; and one that will most likely take plenty of re-readings in order to full grasp either the author’s intent or at the very least a superficial grasp of what is happening within this short pessimistic novel, of poetic images that conjure a very sinister place – an Austria that the authors Bernhard, Innerhofer, and Jelinek – themselves present.
Pushing aside Peter Handke’s controversial political views; his literary talents certainly overshadow these blemishes of the author. I certainly look forward to reading many of the authors work to come, into translation or back into print or back into print or back into print.
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
Thursday, 3 January 2013
Starting off in the New Year
Hello Gentle Reader
In the coming spring of the New Year, there are some long awaited novels. The double Booker Prize winner and Nobel Prize for Literature Laureate, JM Coetzee’s long awaited novel, “The Childhood of Jesus,” is one of the first titles and names to pop up. About a man and child, who have crossed oceans to come to their new home. There they are given the names Simon and David; and their new life begins.
A former Orange Prize winner will be releasing her new book, “Americanah,” which follows teenage lovers from the authors (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie) homeland of Nigeria. Their attempts at making a new life, are dashed by Homeland Security. Personally speaking there is a feeling of political intrigue with this novel.
A surprising author who made it onto the Booker Prizes shortlist for two-thousand and twelve, with her novel “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry,” is coming around again in twenty-thirteen with her new novel “Perfect.” In this novel Rachel Joyce meditates on fate, and with her lyrical precision, depicts the lives of two young boys marked by the same catastrophe; yet take different paths in life.
Patrick McGrath the author of “Spider – which was turned into a lovely film by David Cronenberg, staring Ralph Fiennes as the titular character ‘Spider,’; is coming out with a new psychological novel of extremes, with a thriller twist. Titled “Constance,” it is a novel about a marriage unfolded and falling because of the past.
There are many more novels yet to be mentioned to come two the lime of light of twenty-thirteen. There will be authors who have slipped under the radar, and others literary prizes will notice and surprise; hopefully with delight.
Speaking of the Nobel Prize for Literature, a controversy has been dug up from the past. John Steinback the Nobel Laureate for Literature in nineteen-sixty two, is now displayed alongside his competitors. On January second The Swedish Academy opened its records up to the world of nineteen-sixty two. In its nominations of that year, authors such as Robert Graves, Lawrence Durrell, Jean Anouilh and Karen Blixen among other authors – it depicts John Steinback now a American classic author, as nothing more than mediocre author, and whose win was just the best of a batch of bad eggs.
Robert Graves did not win the Prize because he was seen as more of a poet then he was a prose writer. The Swedish Academy member Henry Olsson; who served the Swedish academy from nineteen-fifty two till nineteen-eighty five, had made it apparent that there was reluctance to award the Prize to a poet of Anglo-Saxon origin or language while Ezra Pound was alive. Ezra Pound did not receive the award because of his obvious controversial political stance. Karen Blixen had died that September. Henry Olsson was then left to be moan and elegize the lack of noteworthy contenders that year. Durrell was passed over, for lack of sufficient body; and a aftertaste, caused by his preoccupations with complicated affairs of an erotic nature. Jean Anouilh was ruled out because of poor timing at best – or so is theorized. The French diplomat and Poet Saint-John Perse was awarded the Nobel in nineteen-sixty and Jean Paul Sartre, who would win the prize in nineteen-sixty four, was already been seriously considered at the time. Which left Steinback, who many felt had lost his former glory, and whose prime had since past. Though the Swedish Academy’s then Permeate Secretary at the time Anders Österling, had thought differently with the publication of the nineteen-sixty one novel “The Winter of Our Discontent,” in which Steinback picked up the reigns of his previous works, and became a social critic by his fictions exposing the realities of the social world of the time; which Anders Österling, compared to the writings of Sinclair Lewis and Ernest Hemmingway.
The decision however was highly critical. Even Steinback was in arrogance with the critics, feeling that his awarding of the prize was not on par with previous Nobel Laureates in Literature. Perhaps it would have been a better choice to have given it to Graves; regardless of his lack of profile, age or lack of popular recognition.
In the end however, the past cannot be undone. No matter of apologies, well-wishes, wishful thinking, or regretful and at times tearful look in the rear-view mirror of a fading past. The smoldering or ashen ruins of the past can never be reconciled. The decisions; the actions; the words; all of it is set in stone. Steinback’s win was at best; from the point of view of many – both past and present (including the author) may have been a blunder; and as the award just begin to mature into its current understanding of how to award, it shows an example of mistakes that people make; and will continue to make. Though in some eyes Steinback’s award is not a blunder or a mistake. He’s not Tolstoy or Joyce or Woolf; but he’s a special brand and breed of American author in the early twentieth century; before the Pychon, Updikes, Roth’s, Auster’s, of the future. He presents a different kind form of America; before its pop culture fluff began to invade and smoother out any shred of raw literary talent (or any talent for that matter). Perhaps perception and historical context and contemporary context are key, when evaluating the worth of Steinback and his Nobel.
Two-thousand and thirteen is here. It’ll be a new and exciting year. One can’t wait to see some of the great new books to published and the new translated and published works.
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
In the coming spring of the New Year, there are some long awaited novels. The double Booker Prize winner and Nobel Prize for Literature Laureate, JM Coetzee’s long awaited novel, “The Childhood of Jesus,” is one of the first titles and names to pop up. About a man and child, who have crossed oceans to come to their new home. There they are given the names Simon and David; and their new life begins.
A former Orange Prize winner will be releasing her new book, “Americanah,” which follows teenage lovers from the authors (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie) homeland of Nigeria. Their attempts at making a new life, are dashed by Homeland Security. Personally speaking there is a feeling of political intrigue with this novel.
A surprising author who made it onto the Booker Prizes shortlist for two-thousand and twelve, with her novel “The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry,” is coming around again in twenty-thirteen with her new novel “Perfect.” In this novel Rachel Joyce meditates on fate, and with her lyrical precision, depicts the lives of two young boys marked by the same catastrophe; yet take different paths in life.
Patrick McGrath the author of “Spider – which was turned into a lovely film by David Cronenberg, staring Ralph Fiennes as the titular character ‘Spider,’; is coming out with a new psychological novel of extremes, with a thriller twist. Titled “Constance,” it is a novel about a marriage unfolded and falling because of the past.
There are many more novels yet to be mentioned to come two the lime of light of twenty-thirteen. There will be authors who have slipped under the radar, and others literary prizes will notice and surprise; hopefully with delight.
Speaking of the Nobel Prize for Literature, a controversy has been dug up from the past. John Steinback the Nobel Laureate for Literature in nineteen-sixty two, is now displayed alongside his competitors. On January second The Swedish Academy opened its records up to the world of nineteen-sixty two. In its nominations of that year, authors such as Robert Graves, Lawrence Durrell, Jean Anouilh and Karen Blixen among other authors – it depicts John Steinback now a American classic author, as nothing more than mediocre author, and whose win was just the best of a batch of bad eggs.
Robert Graves did not win the Prize because he was seen as more of a poet then he was a prose writer. The Swedish Academy member Henry Olsson; who served the Swedish academy from nineteen-fifty two till nineteen-eighty five, had made it apparent that there was reluctance to award the Prize to a poet of Anglo-Saxon origin or language while Ezra Pound was alive. Ezra Pound did not receive the award because of his obvious controversial political stance. Karen Blixen had died that September. Henry Olsson was then left to be moan and elegize the lack of noteworthy contenders that year. Durrell was passed over, for lack of sufficient body; and a aftertaste, caused by his preoccupations with complicated affairs of an erotic nature. Jean Anouilh was ruled out because of poor timing at best – or so is theorized. The French diplomat and Poet Saint-John Perse was awarded the Nobel in nineteen-sixty and Jean Paul Sartre, who would win the prize in nineteen-sixty four, was already been seriously considered at the time. Which left Steinback, who many felt had lost his former glory, and whose prime had since past. Though the Swedish Academy’s then Permeate Secretary at the time Anders Österling, had thought differently with the publication of the nineteen-sixty one novel “The Winter of Our Discontent,” in which Steinback picked up the reigns of his previous works, and became a social critic by his fictions exposing the realities of the social world of the time; which Anders Österling, compared to the writings of Sinclair Lewis and Ernest Hemmingway.
The decision however was highly critical. Even Steinback was in arrogance with the critics, feeling that his awarding of the prize was not on par with previous Nobel Laureates in Literature. Perhaps it would have been a better choice to have given it to Graves; regardless of his lack of profile, age or lack of popular recognition.
In the end however, the past cannot be undone. No matter of apologies, well-wishes, wishful thinking, or regretful and at times tearful look in the rear-view mirror of a fading past. The smoldering or ashen ruins of the past can never be reconciled. The decisions; the actions; the words; all of it is set in stone. Steinback’s win was at best; from the point of view of many – both past and present (including the author) may have been a blunder; and as the award just begin to mature into its current understanding of how to award, it shows an example of mistakes that people make; and will continue to make. Though in some eyes Steinback’s award is not a blunder or a mistake. He’s not Tolstoy or Joyce or Woolf; but he’s a special brand and breed of American author in the early twentieth century; before the Pychon, Updikes, Roth’s, Auster’s, of the future. He presents a different kind form of America; before its pop culture fluff began to invade and smoother out any shred of raw literary talent (or any talent for that matter). Perhaps perception and historical context and contemporary context are key, when evaluating the worth of Steinback and his Nobel.
Two-thousand and thirteen is here. It’ll be a new and exciting year. One can’t wait to see some of the great new books to published and the new translated and published works.
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
Monday, 31 December 2012
A New Year in an Old Year Out
Hello Gentle Reader
My mother used to say to me when I was younger: in with the new and out with the old. That reminds me of my old clothes – and the ‘handme,’ downs that followed, but also the new clothes as well. There also came new other items of the house: new dishes; new glasses; dog and the addition of cats – all continuously new. Now days most people remind me of the paramount reality: the only aspect of life you can count on is change. For someone like myself who has the delightful trait of being a ‘fixed,’ personality – someone stabilized within the confines of the reality that has been shaped now. No immediate changes or unnecessary adjustments; which is of course why routine in my life is paramount, next to shadow of the realization that change is inevitable; and why in my own personal space/living space, or quarters of my own, do not move or touch my stuff. Everything has its order, its organization and its place. When something is missing because it was moved, nothing becomes more infuriating and frustrating – the invasion and then the blasphemy itself of feeling entitlement to actual move something without, my own consideration, is even more exasperating. Foreign finger prints on a books dust, often is a sin for my books. Tenderly loved, like an old woman who fusses with plants and talks to them; I take great care to make sure that my books are kept in the upmost condition. That being said, when a book has lost its lustre or proves to be a dead weight; if at all possible it is returned to the establishment in which it was purchased from. If the return policy refuses me my refund and no leniency is granted, then an alternative is usually made. A gift for someone who loves books. Though philanthropy is not a cheap hobby or one that one gets any gain from, other than that tingle in their chest; so it is usually more profitable to try and get some money back. Books that have been reviewed here have been given away. Natsuo Kirino’s “Real World,” was given away after the first reading. It came at a discounted price that one could not refuse, and therefore there was no real loss. Other books like Will Self’s short story collection “Grey Area,” and “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel however did bring in some losses. As did the selected stories of Patricia Highsmith. Quick decisions without enough research and though put in them, leads to some poor financial management. – As with the books, so does this blog at times find it has rather unmentionable posts lying about; in need of getting rid of. Some still need to go; and many more books need to be re-read and re-reviewed and updated. The only problem with that is that, right now that is not in proper time management. To be honest and frank Gentle Reader, there would be great pleasure in reading so many works; like “The Black Book,” by Orhan Pamuk and “The Passport,” by Herta Müller; or “Ragnarok: the end of the Gods,” by A.S. Byatt, or “The Strangers Child,” (well in a few more years) by Alan Hollinghurst, even “Palace Walk,” by Naguib Mahfouz, and “The Sound of the Mountain,” by Yasunari Kawabata. Yet there is still excitement over other books that have yet to be read “Ninth,” by the Hungarian author Fernac Bernas, “Aminidab,” by French writer and Philosopher Maurice Blanchot, among so many other writers and books, that are on the “to read pile,” but also incorporating a list of authors and books that are looked into for reading. That is why though Gentle Reader previous posts have been deleted. Posts that have been seen as ‘prototypes,’ at best, but for the most part they were deemed a waste of space on the blog.
A New Year and a clean slate. A chance to continual improve and refine. To a New Year, that is just around the corner.
Some good books are coming out in two-thousand thirteen. The release of Will Self’s first booker nominated novel “Umbrella,” – which I am sure will be full polysyllabic words and may be a sumptuous read, though one does need to make sure that it is not bought on spontaneous impetuous grounds. Careful considerations and reservations in regards to it are to be held. It is written in a High Modernist style reminiscent of James Joyce’s almost unreadable and intimidating novel “Finnegan’s Wake.” One of the pre-eminent French writers Pierre Michon’s novel is set out to in February, by Archipelago Books titled “Elven.” The second book in Karl Ove Knausgaard in his monumental Proustian like memoir “My Struggle,” is also due out by Archipelago Books. These volumes of a family memoir and narrative have made Mr. Knausgaard, beloved and bereaved at home in Norway, and a literary enfant terrible. New Directions Publishing all brings forth one of the greatest modern Arabic works of fiction “That Smell and Notes from Prison,” by Sonallah Ibrahim. One can only wait and see what else is going to come from two-thousand and thirteen.
A wish for all to be safe, in their evening and night of celebration and spirits, as they ring in the New Year; and look forward to seeing you Gentle Readers, in the New Year, for another year of writing and discovery.
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
My mother used to say to me when I was younger: in with the new and out with the old. That reminds me of my old clothes – and the ‘handme,’ downs that followed, but also the new clothes as well. There also came new other items of the house: new dishes; new glasses; dog and the addition of cats – all continuously new. Now days most people remind me of the paramount reality: the only aspect of life you can count on is change. For someone like myself who has the delightful trait of being a ‘fixed,’ personality – someone stabilized within the confines of the reality that has been shaped now. No immediate changes or unnecessary adjustments; which is of course why routine in my life is paramount, next to shadow of the realization that change is inevitable; and why in my own personal space/living space, or quarters of my own, do not move or touch my stuff. Everything has its order, its organization and its place. When something is missing because it was moved, nothing becomes more infuriating and frustrating – the invasion and then the blasphemy itself of feeling entitlement to actual move something without, my own consideration, is even more exasperating. Foreign finger prints on a books dust, often is a sin for my books. Tenderly loved, like an old woman who fusses with plants and talks to them; I take great care to make sure that my books are kept in the upmost condition. That being said, when a book has lost its lustre or proves to be a dead weight; if at all possible it is returned to the establishment in which it was purchased from. If the return policy refuses me my refund and no leniency is granted, then an alternative is usually made. A gift for someone who loves books. Though philanthropy is not a cheap hobby or one that one gets any gain from, other than that tingle in their chest; so it is usually more profitable to try and get some money back. Books that have been reviewed here have been given away. Natsuo Kirino’s “Real World,” was given away after the first reading. It came at a discounted price that one could not refuse, and therefore there was no real loss. Other books like Will Self’s short story collection “Grey Area,” and “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel however did bring in some losses. As did the selected stories of Patricia Highsmith. Quick decisions without enough research and though put in them, leads to some poor financial management. – As with the books, so does this blog at times find it has rather unmentionable posts lying about; in need of getting rid of. Some still need to go; and many more books need to be re-read and re-reviewed and updated. The only problem with that is that, right now that is not in proper time management. To be honest and frank Gentle Reader, there would be great pleasure in reading so many works; like “The Black Book,” by Orhan Pamuk and “The Passport,” by Herta Müller; or “Ragnarok: the end of the Gods,” by A.S. Byatt, or “The Strangers Child,” (well in a few more years) by Alan Hollinghurst, even “Palace Walk,” by Naguib Mahfouz, and “The Sound of the Mountain,” by Yasunari Kawabata. Yet there is still excitement over other books that have yet to be read “Ninth,” by the Hungarian author Fernac Bernas, “Aminidab,” by French writer and Philosopher Maurice Blanchot, among so many other writers and books, that are on the “to read pile,” but also incorporating a list of authors and books that are looked into for reading. That is why though Gentle Reader previous posts have been deleted. Posts that have been seen as ‘prototypes,’ at best, but for the most part they were deemed a waste of space on the blog.
A New Year and a clean slate. A chance to continual improve and refine. To a New Year, that is just around the corner.
Some good books are coming out in two-thousand thirteen. The release of Will Self’s first booker nominated novel “Umbrella,” – which I am sure will be full polysyllabic words and may be a sumptuous read, though one does need to make sure that it is not bought on spontaneous impetuous grounds. Careful considerations and reservations in regards to it are to be held. It is written in a High Modernist style reminiscent of James Joyce’s almost unreadable and intimidating novel “Finnegan’s Wake.” One of the pre-eminent French writers Pierre Michon’s novel is set out to in February, by Archipelago Books titled “Elven.” The second book in Karl Ove Knausgaard in his monumental Proustian like memoir “My Struggle,” is also due out by Archipelago Books. These volumes of a family memoir and narrative have made Mr. Knausgaard, beloved and bereaved at home in Norway, and a literary enfant terrible. New Directions Publishing all brings forth one of the greatest modern Arabic works of fiction “That Smell and Notes from Prison,” by Sonallah Ibrahim. One can only wait and see what else is going to come from two-thousand and thirteen.
A wish for all to be safe, in their evening and night of celebration and spirits, as they ring in the New Year; and look forward to seeing you Gentle Readers, in the New Year, for another year of writing and discovery.
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
Thursday, 27 December 2012
A Year of Reading in Review
Hello Gentle Reader
This time of year, there comes a moment when everyone thinks about the previous year in review. The good, the bad, the tragic – everything from the personal to the monumental is placed under the scrutiny of all individuals. From the disappointing and anti-climactic end of the world, that was supposed to happen – I know many people must be truly disappointed, that the mountain that refused to bloom or open up like some flower or the cavernous maw of a whale, to release a spirit into the world. Disappointing indeed. Though many marked the beginning of the twenty first of December, with celebration; but truly if the Mayans could project or had any foresight into the future they would have foresaw their own demise. Though the snack of the impending nuclear holocaust, did end. The twinkie did see its final end in two-thousand and twelve.
However the year did have its tragedies. National, internationally, and literary. The Colorado theatre shooting – the Aurora Shooting; to the recent Newtown Massacre; and the death of the poor nurse, after her prank by two Australian radio hosts, had turned deadly, as she committed suicide. Literary tragedies include the trio of deaths of Nobel Laureate in Literature Wisława Szymborska often dubbed the Mozart of Poetry; the perennial Nobel favourite Antonio Tabucchi who became Pessoa’s apprentice and from there shaped his own identity; and one of the three great giants of the Latin American boom who did not receive Nobel Recognition Carlos Fuentes. Other authors who had passed were Gore Vidal, Soviet/Russian poet and dramatist Vasily Belov, Maeve Blinchy and so many who had slipped under the radar. Other tragedies include Philip Roth's retirement, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's career ended by Dementia.
The year in the Review had some great moments of discovering some interesting books. From “in Red,” by Magdalena Tulli, to “Mister Blue,” by Jacques Poulin – both from the wonderful Archipelago Books. I had my first encounter just recently with Nobel Laureate Elfriede Jelinek and fellow Austrian writer Peter Handke – amazing yet slightly disturbed authors. Nobel Laureate Herta Müller’s novel “The Hunger Angel,” was finally released in English, much to my anticipation and excitement. Fellow Laureate in Literature Orhan Pamuk’s youthful gothic novel “Silent House,” was also released for the first time in English as well. It was the first time I read the olderst Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing’s monumental novel “The Golden Notebook.” It both baffled and shocked me in its open discussion of menstruation, sex, being a woman, and mental break down. Incredibly uneven, and incredibly long this novel is something that would most likely become a classic and yet rarely read by the average reader, instead being read by sociological courses or history classes.
Awards wise it was a year that could have done better. The Booker followed its routine path of awarding for the third time, a previous winner again. This time the first woman and English writer Hilary Mantel for her next novel in her Tudor trilogy “Bring up the Bodies.” Unable to read the first book “Wolf Hall,” as its verbosity was a bit to talkative to the point that reminded me of a sparrow’s machine gun chatter. A statement could have been made awarding the award to other less known writers – though making it on the shortlist always works too. Alison Moore is going to be a rising star in English letters. The Nobel could have gone to more deserving writers like Ko Un of South Korea or Adunis of Syria.
In the coming year look for some Hungarian books in Review. Also Cesar Aira makes an appearance – one of many I presume; look for the Austrians Peter Handke and Elfriede Jelinek and the overdue conclusion to the Short Story Review; among many other books.
Twenty Thirteen is coming soon; and here is hoping for a great New Year.
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
This time of year, there comes a moment when everyone thinks about the previous year in review. The good, the bad, the tragic – everything from the personal to the monumental is placed under the scrutiny of all individuals. From the disappointing and anti-climactic end of the world, that was supposed to happen – I know many people must be truly disappointed, that the mountain that refused to bloom or open up like some flower or the cavernous maw of a whale, to release a spirit into the world. Disappointing indeed. Though many marked the beginning of the twenty first of December, with celebration; but truly if the Mayans could project or had any foresight into the future they would have foresaw their own demise. Though the snack of the impending nuclear holocaust, did end. The twinkie did see its final end in two-thousand and twelve.
However the year did have its tragedies. National, internationally, and literary. The Colorado theatre shooting – the Aurora Shooting; to the recent Newtown Massacre; and the death of the poor nurse, after her prank by two Australian radio hosts, had turned deadly, as she committed suicide. Literary tragedies include the trio of deaths of Nobel Laureate in Literature Wisława Szymborska often dubbed the Mozart of Poetry; the perennial Nobel favourite Antonio Tabucchi who became Pessoa’s apprentice and from there shaped his own identity; and one of the three great giants of the Latin American boom who did not receive Nobel Recognition Carlos Fuentes. Other authors who had passed were Gore Vidal, Soviet/Russian poet and dramatist Vasily Belov, Maeve Blinchy and so many who had slipped under the radar. Other tragedies include Philip Roth's retirement, and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's career ended by Dementia.
The year in the Review had some great moments of discovering some interesting books. From “in Red,” by Magdalena Tulli, to “Mister Blue,” by Jacques Poulin – both from the wonderful Archipelago Books. I had my first encounter just recently with Nobel Laureate Elfriede Jelinek and fellow Austrian writer Peter Handke – amazing yet slightly disturbed authors. Nobel Laureate Herta Müller’s novel “The Hunger Angel,” was finally released in English, much to my anticipation and excitement. Fellow Laureate in Literature Orhan Pamuk’s youthful gothic novel “Silent House,” was also released for the first time in English as well. It was the first time I read the olderst Nobel Laureate Doris Lessing’s monumental novel “The Golden Notebook.” It both baffled and shocked me in its open discussion of menstruation, sex, being a woman, and mental break down. Incredibly uneven, and incredibly long this novel is something that would most likely become a classic and yet rarely read by the average reader, instead being read by sociological courses or history classes.
Awards wise it was a year that could have done better. The Booker followed its routine path of awarding for the third time, a previous winner again. This time the first woman and English writer Hilary Mantel for her next novel in her Tudor trilogy “Bring up the Bodies.” Unable to read the first book “Wolf Hall,” as its verbosity was a bit to talkative to the point that reminded me of a sparrow’s machine gun chatter. A statement could have been made awarding the award to other less known writers – though making it on the shortlist always works too. Alison Moore is going to be a rising star in English letters. The Nobel could have gone to more deserving writers like Ko Un of South Korea or Adunis of Syria.
In the coming year look for some Hungarian books in Review. Also Cesar Aira makes an appearance – one of many I presume; look for the Austrians Peter Handke and Elfriede Jelinek and the overdue conclusion to the Short Story Review; among many other books.
Twenty Thirteen is coming soon; and here is hoping for a great New Year.
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
Tuesday, 25 December 2012
Merry Christmas!
Hello Gentle Reader
and a Merry Christmas! May this Christmas Season, come to a gripping and family oriented conclusion!
All the Best and Well Wishes
M. Mary
and a Merry Christmas! May this Christmas Season, come to a gripping and family oriented conclusion!
All the Best and Well Wishes
M. Mary
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Antipodes
Hello Gentle Reader
“The Short Story Review,” a review of six stories from six different collections, from six different authors from all over the world, at first started off shaky, then it had matured, and now it is declining. There is a phrase that people will always say when they discuss their failed dreams, or their failure in life, or their failure to obtain a goal – “life happens.” Such is the case with “The Short Story Review.” My work schedule has increased, and allowed a little less time for reading, of both novels and short stories, at the same rate. However the stories being read currently will continue to be being read, though after the collection is done, it will not be replaced. Short story collections will be reviewed on the blog as a whole, but one story from one collection of six different authors from different walks of life, and being individually reviewed amongst another’s work will not be reviewed. The collections will be read and reviewed as a unified whole. As we approach the last stories of “Little Misunderstanding of No Importance,” and “Waves,” they will not be replaced. They will fall out of circulation. The other works from that point on will also either follow in that suit or it will be reviewed as a unified whole. Short stories are a great art form. They are small and brief. They allow for fleeting moments of feeling. Some of the greatest writers of all time have made their reputation on short stories. One of the greatest classic Russian writers alongside Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy is Anton Chekhov, who excelled and specialized in short stories. Another great contemporary author who was even on “The Short Story Review,” with her collection “Too Much Happiness,” and is coming out with another collection in the Autumn titled “Dear Life,” and is the only author to have had the exception made to have had her collection “The Beggar Maid,” allowed on the Booker Prize Shortlist; and just happens to be her only nomination for the prize. However she did win the Man Booker International Prize, in two thousand and nine. It is the one and only author Alice Munro. Cynthia Ozick had loving called her “our Chekhov.” Other great writers throughout history have excelled in the short story form. Yasunari Kawabata one of my favourite authors had shown how the shortest form of a story can have the same amount of emotional impact of a novel on the reader. His novel’s also take the appearance as his career matured and continued to develop further into ‘palm-of-the hand stories,’ only connected to each like a string of pearls. With his stories Yasunari Kawabata was able to pin point the emotion; the scene; the character; the image; the theme and then together paint a minimalist painting of startling realization. At times the distinction between prose and poetry with Kawabata’s work would cloud and swirl together like ink in water. Some of the greatest works of fiction are the short story. Their ability to be read quickly and digested easily makes them perfect, for short periods of reading. Like waiting for the bus on a crisp autumn morning. Or a winter evening warm and cozy waiting for the company to come and join you for the festivities. Perhaps a spring afternoon when the ground is soft to walk upon, the grasp a little crunchy and the tree’s beginning to bud, the smell of fresh dirt, and fresh air while walking to work. Maybe just one of those lazy summer days, when one just want to read something and mull it over. Short stories are not the novels poor cousin. Short stories have and maintain their own merit on their own. When Naguib Mahfouz was attacked and damaged, he did not give up writing. He continued to write, though the damage to the nerves in his right hand had been permanent and he could only write for short periods of time. However in those short periods of time he crafted his work on the most essential level. In the end he created some amazing compressed poetic vignettes. With it Naguib Mahfouz wrote about his dreams. With it he wrote about the ethereal pieces of life, like looking at ones reflection on the glittering Nile River. The people who had come and gone in his life. People who brought joy and others who brought ennui with them like a pestilent disease. Even Charles Baudelaire, a poet primarily; wrote some poetic prose titled “Paris Spleen,” where discussed the philosophical workings of his life, and what he saw of life around him. In it he chose the poetic mechanics with the longer bits of prose, creating hybrid prose poems. In the nineteen eighties, Raymond Carver, Amy Temple, Anne Beatie had continued the tradition of the stories in what was called an American renaissance. They wrote about the poor and the working class. Something Charles Buckowski the Dirty Old Man of American letters had started years earlier with his own work and his attempts at poetry and finished with his novels and short stories, and newspaper columns. The short story is by far, a long ways away from the novels poor relative. Maybe not as popular but it can stand on its own two feet, and it can stand on its own merit as well.
Ignacio Padilla is one of Mexico famous contemporary authors. Though not as famous as his contemporary Roberto Bolano who in the beginning of the twenty first century started a stir of a literary must have, with students and anyone who read literature that was worthwhile; much like Stieg Larsson had done as well, with his ‘Millennium Trilogy.’ After a failure at being a poet and picking up being a prose writer when he started to have a family realising early on that one could not support his family on his attempts at poetry nor could he raise children in some bohemian life. However Roberto Bolano never truly did distance himself from poetry with his work. “The Savage Detectives,” a book that I could not get into after two attempts at reading, is about a group of poets. These poets call themselves the ‘visceral realists.’
Much like the ‘visceral realists,’ of Roberto Bolano’s “The Savage Detectives,” Ignacio Padilla belonged to the Crack Movement of Mexico. Much like the Latin American Boom that had happened earlier with authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez of Columbia (Nobel Laureate in Literature) Mario Vargas Llosa of Peru (Nobel Laureate) and Carlos Fuentes of Mexico, where these authors wrote in a style called Magical Realism, and placed all of South America (including the Caribbean and Latin America/Central America) on the Literary Map. Now their predecessors look back at the grand masters and see them as what they are: out dated, in a new world, where the political map and the world has increasingly changed. A new movement was formed called McOndo, which celebrated the high and the low of the culture. It wrote about the urbanite, of these countries. It wrote about the drugs, violence, the very existence of day to day life of the country. It did not celebrate or glorify the rural Macondo as the other authors of previous generations had done. Instead it had celebrated the day to life, as a place of uncertainties, and of unique individuals. Of high technology and an invasion of their life and culture. Where taco bell, and McDonalds were common place on the streets, as well as corrupt police officers, drug peddlers, and a corpse possibly lying around the corner in the dumpster.
However the Crack Generation is still slightly different, in its own right. They applaud the masters of the Latin American Boom, but rather than write about the countries they live in now, they wish to escape them. They want to run. It is like growing up in a small town, and thinking of the bright lights of the city. The different coloured tubes of the fluorescent bulbs of the clubs. The drinks, the night life, the day life – the very world stops and every day is as exciting as the next, not necessarily falling into the same routine and morally back water and common place small town where nothing happens – as is supposed. It is in these respects that the authors of this new generation of writers wish to run away from their countries. They recognize and respect and are grateful for what the authors before them have; but they want to carve out their own identity. They say thank-you for putting us on the map. Now let us make new roads in that map, and prove to the world we are not just some, one trick pony. However the old masters do not look down on this. Carlos Fuentes has even praised the Crack Generation and McOndo, as the ‘junior boom.’ While others criticize the movement as not being true to their roots or to their countries and states. It is in this case that the authors of these new movements are fighting against the imitations of Magical Realism that their successors have written about. They are fighting against authors like Isabel Allende who have turned Magical Realism and Literature into simply a formula. With the perversion of the Latin American boom these authors are taking Literature into a new direction.
The stories of Ignacio Padilla are complex and elegantly written. They are short as a story should be, but allow for enough depth into the work itself to be appreciated. I would not say these stories are gold though. They have a lot of glitter to them, and a lot of weight and they are great introductions to the author but they at times felt like I was reading a postmodern version of Robertson Crusoe. The one that should be noted here is that these stories don’t really have characters. Yes there are people, that populate these stories, but they are shadows of the characters. Reduced to out focused shapes, who have long since forgotten and then found all of a sudden. Kind of like reading about a historical figure in a book. One truly does not grasp the weight of Franz Ferdinand’s character from a history text book. One could compare Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophies of Absurdism and Existentialism, but they have no real grasp of the two men themselves. They have only grasped the thoughts of the men, and their ideas. This is the main problem of “Antipodes,” by Ignacio Padilla; the human story is placed aside. Yes they sound intriguing: a Scottish engineer imagines rebuilding the city of Edinburgh in the middle of the Gobi Desert, a medical scientist finds a plague journal in the Amazon jungle (with deadly results), a cross-dresser dying of tuberculosis tries to scale Mount Everest or a British colonel in charge of the railway in Rhodesia is determined to get the trains running on schedule. If he fails, he'll shoot himself in the smoking room of the Hotel Prince Albert. But the human story is sat in the backseat for a philosophical debate and thoughts on the human races very small part in the world and the universe. How nature’s great power can destroy everyone. How the local natives can tear an individual limb by limb. No one’s immunity to disease. Not one person immortal to the fact of death. It is this that hinders Ignacio Padilla considerably but also it is his greatest strength. Insightful and philosophical at times, as well as increasingly tedious led to it becoming quite a fault at times. In the end they were more glitter then gold, because they missed the human aspect. However they were also interesting pieces of fiction as well. Well-crafted and well written. A worthy introduction. It was also a nice change of scenery from Latin America.
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,” a review of six stories from six different collections, from six different authors from all over the world, at first started off shaky, then it had matured, and now it is declining. There is a phrase that people will always say when they discuss their failed dreams, or their failure in life, or their failure to obtain a goal – “life happens.” Such is the case with “The Short Story Review.” My work schedule has increased, and allowed a little less time for reading, of both novels and short stories, at the same rate. However the stories being read currently will continue to be being read, though after the collection is done, it will not be replaced. Short story collections will be reviewed on the blog as a whole, but one story from one collection of six different authors from different walks of life, and being individually reviewed amongst another’s work will not be reviewed. The collections will be read and reviewed as a unified whole. As we approach the last stories of “Little Misunderstanding of No Importance,” and “Waves,” they will not be replaced. They will fall out of circulation. The other works from that point on will also either follow in that suit or it will be reviewed as a unified whole. Short stories are a great art form. They are small and brief. They allow for fleeting moments of feeling. Some of the greatest writers of all time have made their reputation on short stories. One of the greatest classic Russian writers alongside Fyodor Dostoevsky and Leo Tolstoy is Anton Chekhov, who excelled and specialized in short stories. Another great contemporary author who was even on “The Short Story Review,” with her collection “Too Much Happiness,” and is coming out with another collection in the Autumn titled “Dear Life,” and is the only author to have had the exception made to have had her collection “The Beggar Maid,” allowed on the Booker Prize Shortlist; and just happens to be her only nomination for the prize. However she did win the Man Booker International Prize, in two thousand and nine. It is the one and only author Alice Munro. Cynthia Ozick had loving called her “our Chekhov.” Other great writers throughout history have excelled in the short story form. Yasunari Kawabata one of my favourite authors had shown how the shortest form of a story can have the same amount of emotional impact of a novel on the reader. His novel’s also take the appearance as his career matured and continued to develop further into ‘palm-of-the hand stories,’ only connected to each like a string of pearls. With his stories Yasunari Kawabata was able to pin point the emotion; the scene; the character; the image; the theme and then together paint a minimalist painting of startling realization. At times the distinction between prose and poetry with Kawabata’s work would cloud and swirl together like ink in water. Some of the greatest works of fiction are the short story. Their ability to be read quickly and digested easily makes them perfect, for short periods of reading. Like waiting for the bus on a crisp autumn morning. Or a winter evening warm and cozy waiting for the company to come and join you for the festivities. Perhaps a spring afternoon when the ground is soft to walk upon, the grasp a little crunchy and the tree’s beginning to bud, the smell of fresh dirt, and fresh air while walking to work. Maybe just one of those lazy summer days, when one just want to read something and mull it over. Short stories are not the novels poor cousin. Short stories have and maintain their own merit on their own. When Naguib Mahfouz was attacked and damaged, he did not give up writing. He continued to write, though the damage to the nerves in his right hand had been permanent and he could only write for short periods of time. However in those short periods of time he crafted his work on the most essential level. In the end he created some amazing compressed poetic vignettes. With it Naguib Mahfouz wrote about his dreams. With it he wrote about the ethereal pieces of life, like looking at ones reflection on the glittering Nile River. The people who had come and gone in his life. People who brought joy and others who brought ennui with them like a pestilent disease. Even Charles Baudelaire, a poet primarily; wrote some poetic prose titled “Paris Spleen,” where discussed the philosophical workings of his life, and what he saw of life around him. In it he chose the poetic mechanics with the longer bits of prose, creating hybrid prose poems. In the nineteen eighties, Raymond Carver, Amy Temple, Anne Beatie had continued the tradition of the stories in what was called an American renaissance. They wrote about the poor and the working class. Something Charles Buckowski the Dirty Old Man of American letters had started years earlier with his own work and his attempts at poetry and finished with his novels and short stories, and newspaper columns. The short story is by far, a long ways away from the novels poor relative. Maybe not as popular but it can stand on its own two feet, and it can stand on its own merit as well.
Ignacio Padilla is one of Mexico famous contemporary authors. Though not as famous as his contemporary Roberto Bolano who in the beginning of the twenty first century started a stir of a literary must have, with students and anyone who read literature that was worthwhile; much like Stieg Larsson had done as well, with his ‘Millennium Trilogy.’ After a failure at being a poet and picking up being a prose writer when he started to have a family realising early on that one could not support his family on his attempts at poetry nor could he raise children in some bohemian life. However Roberto Bolano never truly did distance himself from poetry with his work. “The Savage Detectives,” a book that I could not get into after two attempts at reading, is about a group of poets. These poets call themselves the ‘visceral realists.’
Much like the ‘visceral realists,’ of Roberto Bolano’s “The Savage Detectives,” Ignacio Padilla belonged to the Crack Movement of Mexico. Much like the Latin American Boom that had happened earlier with authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez of Columbia (Nobel Laureate in Literature) Mario Vargas Llosa of Peru (Nobel Laureate) and Carlos Fuentes of Mexico, where these authors wrote in a style called Magical Realism, and placed all of South America (including the Caribbean and Latin America/Central America) on the Literary Map. Now their predecessors look back at the grand masters and see them as what they are: out dated, in a new world, where the political map and the world has increasingly changed. A new movement was formed called McOndo, which celebrated the high and the low of the culture. It wrote about the urbanite, of these countries. It wrote about the drugs, violence, the very existence of day to day life of the country. It did not celebrate or glorify the rural Macondo as the other authors of previous generations had done. Instead it had celebrated the day to life, as a place of uncertainties, and of unique individuals. Of high technology and an invasion of their life and culture. Where taco bell, and McDonalds were common place on the streets, as well as corrupt police officers, drug peddlers, and a corpse possibly lying around the corner in the dumpster.
However the Crack Generation is still slightly different, in its own right. They applaud the masters of the Latin American Boom, but rather than write about the countries they live in now, they wish to escape them. They want to run. It is like growing up in a small town, and thinking of the bright lights of the city. The different coloured tubes of the fluorescent bulbs of the clubs. The drinks, the night life, the day life – the very world stops and every day is as exciting as the next, not necessarily falling into the same routine and morally back water and common place small town where nothing happens – as is supposed. It is in these respects that the authors of this new generation of writers wish to run away from their countries. They recognize and respect and are grateful for what the authors before them have; but they want to carve out their own identity. They say thank-you for putting us on the map. Now let us make new roads in that map, and prove to the world we are not just some, one trick pony. However the old masters do not look down on this. Carlos Fuentes has even praised the Crack Generation and McOndo, as the ‘junior boom.’ While others criticize the movement as not being true to their roots or to their countries and states. It is in this case that the authors of these new movements are fighting against the imitations of Magical Realism that their successors have written about. They are fighting against authors like Isabel Allende who have turned Magical Realism and Literature into simply a formula. With the perversion of the Latin American boom these authors are taking Literature into a new direction.
The stories of Ignacio Padilla are complex and elegantly written. They are short as a story should be, but allow for enough depth into the work itself to be appreciated. I would not say these stories are gold though. They have a lot of glitter to them, and a lot of weight and they are great introductions to the author but they at times felt like I was reading a postmodern version of Robertson Crusoe. The one that should be noted here is that these stories don’t really have characters. Yes there are people, that populate these stories, but they are shadows of the characters. Reduced to out focused shapes, who have long since forgotten and then found all of a sudden. Kind of like reading about a historical figure in a book. One truly does not grasp the weight of Franz Ferdinand’s character from a history text book. One could compare Albert Camus and Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophies of Absurdism and Existentialism, but they have no real grasp of the two men themselves. They have only grasped the thoughts of the men, and their ideas. This is the main problem of “Antipodes,” by Ignacio Padilla; the human story is placed aside. Yes they sound intriguing: a Scottish engineer imagines rebuilding the city of Edinburgh in the middle of the Gobi Desert, a medical scientist finds a plague journal in the Amazon jungle (with deadly results), a cross-dresser dying of tuberculosis tries to scale Mount Everest or a British colonel in charge of the railway in Rhodesia is determined to get the trains running on schedule. If he fails, he'll shoot himself in the smoking room of the Hotel Prince Albert. But the human story is sat in the backseat for a philosophical debate and thoughts on the human races very small part in the world and the universe. How nature’s great power can destroy everyone. How the local natives can tear an individual limb by limb. No one’s immunity to disease. Not one person immortal to the fact of death. It is this that hinders Ignacio Padilla considerably but also it is his greatest strength. Insightful and philosophical at times, as well as increasingly tedious led to it becoming quite a fault at times. In the end they were more glitter then gold, because they missed the human aspect. However they were also interesting pieces of fiction as well. Well-crafted and well written. A worthy introduction. It was also a nice change of scenery from Latin America.
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
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Mo Yan: The Road to Stockholm
Hello Gentle Reader
It is official; the Chinese author Mo Yan, has given his Nobel Lecture and has received the prize and the diploma (with medal) from the Swedish King. However up to this point the political feeling of the prize, and the feeling that China, has stopped its low grumbling and whining and poor me attitude in regards to again not having a Chinese award been given to a ‘true,’ – or better yet; Politically Tolerable, Laureate. After Liu Xiaobo’s imprisonment and receiving in two-thousand and ten the Nobel Peace Prize, it was clear that China did not sit well with the decision. Leading up to the award in two thousand and ten was quite tense, as many felt China’s cold attitude towards the inevitable as just as appetizers for what they would certainly announce officially.
The road to Stockholm for Mo Yan has been less than kind in its criticism of the author; who many feel is a light way of agricultural pop literature, at best.
As Doctor Wolfgang Kubin, professor of Sinology points out in an interview:
“He writes sensational works. His style dates back to the late 18th century. As a member of the Chinese Communist Party he only criticizes aspects of the system but not the system itself.”
-- Doctor Wolfgang Kubin further points out that, Mo Yan lacks a modern style of writing (as my authors do these days) because there is no readership for it.
“People want sensational works, "sagas" that tell stories that cover 30 to 40 years, about a grandfather, a father, the grandchildren.”
That is just criticism of his literary work. Politically Mo Yan has been under fire the most. In October, when news came of his achievement at winning the award, many applauded it, and asked about the jailed Laureate Liu Xiaobo, and Mo Yan had made it clear that he had wished for the fellow author’s release. In Stockholm during an interview, with the Press, Mo Yan refused to answer the question and further extrapolate on his earlier comments in October when he had made it clear that he would like to see Liu Xiaobo’s release; stating that he had made the comment already, and would sooner drop it. Don’t speak, apparently is more than just a pen name.
The final blow though came in the same interview when Mo Yan had stated that censorship is necessary. Surely Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and nine, must surely be feeling like saying: I told you so; in regards to the criticism and comment she made when she stated that Mo Yan: “Celebrates censorship.”
Mo Yan compared the act of censorship (he quickly pointed censorship of rumours and unprovoked attacks), to the necessity of security checks at an airport. In his lecture Mo Yan addressed the criticism head on stating that it was what others thought of him, not what he truly is: a Chinese Government Pawn – or as some other people have put it in less milder terms a Political Prostitute, unable to recognize their own affiliations in the mirror.
The balancing act Mo Yan has, been forced to dance, along his way to getting the award, has polarized and divided many people, from critics to human rights activists, to the general reading public. Though throughout it all, there has been a feeling of the Chinese government been Mo Yan’s shadow – from escorting the author to Stockholm Sweden, to the unprecedented feeling that any mention of Liu Xiaobo or other politically inappropriate comments, were prepared for in advance and Mo Yan was told what to say if they were to appear.
What came to be a final blow in the nail in Mo Yan's coffin, and in the respect that many had or would have had for the author, was his political stance, in regards to a position, that Mo Yan refused to sigh in regards to the immediate release of Liu Xiaobo from prison. Such a backwards Public Relations move, that most certainly is political motived, Mo Yan loses his credibility and further alienates himself as a Patsy of the Chinese Government.
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
Links to all References:
http://www.latimes.com/features/books/jacketcopy/la-et-jc-bummer-nobel-prizewinner-mo-yan-defends-censorship-20121206,0,3452308.story
http://www.demdigest.net/blog/2012/11/does-mo-yan-really-deserve-the-nobel-prize/
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/06/mo-yan-nobel-literature-p_n_2250956.html?utm_hp_ref=book
http://www.voanews.com/content/chinese-nobel-writer-mo-yan-takes-on-critics/1561057.html
http://sg.news.yahoo.com/nobel-laureate-mo-yan-takes-swipe-critics-lecture-194313495.html
http://www.dw.de/interview-mo-yan-bores-me-to-death/a-16301782
It is official; the Chinese author Mo Yan, has given his Nobel Lecture and has received the prize and the diploma (with medal) from the Swedish King. However up to this point the political feeling of the prize, and the feeling that China, has stopped its low grumbling and whining and poor me attitude in regards to again not having a Chinese award been given to a ‘true,’ – or better yet; Politically Tolerable, Laureate. After Liu Xiaobo’s imprisonment and receiving in two-thousand and ten the Nobel Peace Prize, it was clear that China did not sit well with the decision. Leading up to the award in two thousand and ten was quite tense, as many felt China’s cold attitude towards the inevitable as just as appetizers for what they would certainly announce officially.
The road to Stockholm for Mo Yan has been less than kind in its criticism of the author; who many feel is a light way of agricultural pop literature, at best.
As Doctor Wolfgang Kubin, professor of Sinology points out in an interview:
“He writes sensational works. His style dates back to the late 18th century. As a member of the Chinese Communist Party he only criticizes aspects of the system but not the system itself.”
-- Doctor Wolfgang Kubin further points out that, Mo Yan lacks a modern style of writing (as my authors do these days) because there is no readership for it.
“People want sensational works, "sagas" that tell stories that cover 30 to 40 years, about a grandfather, a father, the grandchildren.”
That is just criticism of his literary work. Politically Mo Yan has been under fire the most. In October, when news came of his achievement at winning the award, many applauded it, and asked about the jailed Laureate Liu Xiaobo, and Mo Yan had made it clear that he had wished for the fellow author’s release. In Stockholm during an interview, with the Press, Mo Yan refused to answer the question and further extrapolate on his earlier comments in October when he had made it clear that he would like to see Liu Xiaobo’s release; stating that he had made the comment already, and would sooner drop it. Don’t speak, apparently is more than just a pen name.
The final blow though came in the same interview when Mo Yan had stated that censorship is necessary. Surely Nobel Laureate in Literature of two-thousand and nine, must surely be feeling like saying: I told you so; in regards to the criticism and comment she made when she stated that Mo Yan: “Celebrates censorship.”
Mo Yan compared the act of censorship (he quickly pointed censorship of rumours and unprovoked attacks), to the necessity of security checks at an airport. In his lecture Mo Yan addressed the criticism head on stating that it was what others thought of him, not what he truly is: a Chinese Government Pawn – or as some other people have put it in less milder terms a Political Prostitute, unable to recognize their own affiliations in the mirror.
The balancing act Mo Yan has, been forced to dance, along his way to getting the award, has polarized and divided many people, from critics to human rights activists, to the general reading public. Though throughout it all, there has been a feeling of the Chinese government been Mo Yan’s shadow – from escorting the author to Stockholm Sweden, to the unprecedented feeling that any mention of Liu Xiaobo or other politically inappropriate comments, were prepared for in advance and Mo Yan was told what to say if they were to appear.
What came to be a final blow in the nail in Mo Yan's coffin, and in the respect that many had or would have had for the author, was his political stance, in regards to a position, that Mo Yan refused to sigh in regards to the immediate release of Liu Xiaobo from prison. Such a backwards Public Relations move, that most certainly is political motived, Mo Yan loses his credibility and further alienates himself as a Patsy of the Chinese Government.
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
Links to all References:
http://www.latimes.com/features/books/jacketcopy/la-et-jc-bummer-nobel-prizewinner-mo-yan-defends-censorship-20121206,0,3452308.story
http://www.demdigest.net/blog/2012/11/does-mo-yan-really-deserve-the-nobel-prize/
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/12/06/mo-yan-nobel-literature-p_n_2250956.html?utm_hp_ref=book
http://www.voanews.com/content/chinese-nobel-writer-mo-yan-takes-on-critics/1561057.html
http://sg.news.yahoo.com/nobel-laureate-mo-yan-takes-swipe-critics-lecture-194313495.html
http://www.dw.de/interview-mo-yan-bores-me-to-death/a-16301782
Thursday, 6 December 2012
In Red
Hello Gentle Reader
There are fictional towns and worlds in literature that one cannot help but feel that they are real towns, countries, or worlds and that they are real places fictionalized and immortalized in their new literary adaptions. One such place – and possibly the most famous example; is that of Macondo. The Nobel Laureate in Literature Gabriel Garcia Marquez, made this fictional town famous in his famous novel “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” which is a landmark in Latin and South American as well as Caribbean literature, for its depiction of the southern hemisphere of the America’s as a place of absurd logic and realities that were painted in magical symbols and metaphors that manifest themselves into the everyday. Macondo begins its germination as a small settlement, completely abandoned and cut off from the outside world. Eventually however as revealed in Marquez’s novella “Leaf Storm,” it thrives with the creation of a Banana plantation. However when one reaches their highest point the only way to head is down. Eventually the now thriving world of Macondo would fall. The Banana plantation which ceases operation and a gigantic windstorm that erases it from the map.
Macondo is interesting in its cultural context, and also with its ability to resonate with the identity of all Latin and South American people. The illogical and painfully human(ly) absurd situations that befall the southern hemispheres America’s, are often summed up by many Latin American citizens, by calling their hometowns and countries Macondo; for the situations that their countries go through, the bizarrely barbaric or the disturbingly unreal, can only be summarized by such a word when one comes to understand that magical realism was born out of some of the most primordial concepts of mankind and the societal and social themes of the individual versus the collective whole. Ghosts who haunt the hallways in constant search of pleasing their now past ending to their task; a rainfall that never stops for years on end; a ghost ship that makes sail at the stroke of midnight; a beautiful woman who is taken to heaven because of her serene beauty – these are the horrifying and beautiful symbols that come to posse the realities of an exotic world.
Yet there are some writers who do not hide the hometown by covering it up in a fictional name. Instead they are real places, and there exotic landscape, flora and fauna is brought to life, by the inhabitants of the streets. Every nook, every chick, dark alleyway – they are all brought into the light by the author’s devotion to the city; their love for the quirks and the bizarre. The love of the sounds of the streets: the clicking heels of woman’s high shoes; the chatter of conversations in the café, the starting of an engine, the quick pacing walk of the people, the sound of the wheels of strollers, running over the cobblestone streets. Authors like Orhan Pamuk, are able to bring the life of the unique city – in this case Istanbul; to the forefront of a literary place, where mannequins of the everyday Turkish person are hidden in basements; or to a pharmacists son who plays with chemicals in the day and writes poetry of death in the evening; it is a place where the stories of the inhabitants take front stage.
“Whoever has been everywhere and seen everything, last of should play a visit to Stitchings. Simply take a seat in a sleigh and before, being overcome by sleep, speed across a plan that’s as empty as a blank sheet of paper, boundless as life. Sooner or later this someone – perhaps it is a traveling salesman with a valise full of samples – will see great mounds of snow stretching along streets to the far corners of the earth, toward empty, icy expanses. He’ll see a pillar made of icicles, their snowy caps lost in the dark of a empty sky. He’ll draw into his lungs air as sharp as a razor that it casts cuts feeling away from breath. He’ll come to appreciate the benefits of a climate forever unencumbered by restless springtime breezes, by the intolerance of summer swelter, or the misty sorrows of autumn. He’ll take a liking to frost, which conserves feelings and capital, protecting both from the corruption of decay.”
While heading to work this morning, in the hours when the sun in these wintery hours, is still fresh and new. In the west, it the sky was blue, but only for so far. Perhaps just before the horizon there, there were clouds that required a second glance, because the first glance led one to believe there were mountains. In the east the clouds were still darker, but the new day sun was just behind them, and the light edged its way around the dark clouds. Allowing for a contrast of the blue-grey dark clouds against the abstract haloing yellow light of the new day sun. It was on this particular morning that one can see the contrast of winter. Its brutal nature is in starch contrast to the beauty it also possesses. The farmers’ fields though blanketed in snow, obstinately poked up from the white blankets. The way the frost sits on the branches of the trees; like frozen caterpillars, squared and rhombus shaped. Then when the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, they quickly vanish and melt – as if they were fairies caught by the human eye. Quickly they deplete away, only to resurface in the night and to be seen in the morning. When the surface of the world is covered in the white, opaque crystals of the snow it becomes a landscape deserted and deprived of life. The cow stand out in the snow, their hooves raking at the ground, trying to uncover the grass hidden underneath. They take this simple existence as all they know. The farmer feeds them. The winter will end eventually. Caving season is just around the corner. There is a clearness of winter that cannot be seen in spring with its moist and wet perspective; summer is to intolerable with its scorching heat, blurring and waving clear perception; autumn is clouded by the falling leaves, the moisture in the air, that freezes in the night at times, causes the quickness of the rotting smell of the sweet sorrow of autumnal decay to become more a lament for the summer. Winter is the only season that allows for the crystal clear perception, to see the world naked and bare.
Archipelago Books and Magdalena Tulli are fortunate to have each other. Archipelago Books have translated and published all of Magdalena’s novels. Which is a rare case for most translated author’s, who would usually go through numerous translators, which would vary the quality of their work. Second a translated author’s complete oeuvre would usually not be seen in translation; just look at such authors like Nobel Laureate in Literature Kenzaburo Oe’s work which is not translated into English without a long lapse from its original Japanese published date. Orhan Pamuk, another Nobel Laureate in Literature does not have his debut and most traditional novel translated into English – as it would tarnish his postmodern sensibilities and images. Herta Müller has only six books of a varied career that expands from novels to poems to essays; has been published into English. In this case that all of Magdalena Tulli’s novels are translated and published in English, and all by the same translator; allows for a complete assessment of the authors work.
That being said I haven’t read “Dreams and Stones,” or “Moving Parts,” or “Flaw.” That being said I have read “In Red,” which gives a great introduction to the author. Right away one can see the poetic style like the following line:
“Felek Chura’s sailing ships did what they were supposed to: they settled on the ocean beds. Their decks became overgrown with sea anemones and urchins. The bulging eyes of an octopus peered from the portholes of the bridge, seaweed sprouted in the hole.”
In this Magdalena Tulli is able to present her prose in the obscurity of poetic lyricism, that relies heavily on images and langue, but also moves the narrative forward, in a prose like style, allowing for some hybrid fiction between poetry and prose. For some a unholy literary matrimony – in my opinion Magdanela accomplishes what Shakespeare attempted in his plays and takes his theories and places them into the novel format, and excels at telling a beautiful if at times obscure story.
From my understanding “In Red,” Magdalena’s second novel is perhaps best described as her most conventional novel – if it has at least it has individual characters, and act on their free will, and a setting that stays put. However that does not change the fact that Magdalena uses language and detail so precisely to convey the world or to be more precisely the town of Stitching’s. From characters – like the poor broken hearted woman who does not die, but her heart stops beating, and is forced to live out the rest of her days locked away in a room, reading French romance novels. This is where one truly learns that salt is the essence of tears. To the industrial war and rebuilding of the town after the first World War in a unprecedented spring – to the return of a brutally naked and frigid winter as the Second World War enters in full swing.
Repetition is however one of Magdalena Tulli’s greatest uses in talent, alongside her seamless and flawless poetic movements. She knows how to change certain aspects to allow for a new use of prose, with nostalgic and ghostly remnants of something already said. Allowing for a circular feeling of always cycling round and round – just like water on the edges of a drain.
“Anyone who makes it to Stitching’s appreciates its promising misty greyness and the moist warm breeze it in which desires flourish handsomely. A wide of furnished rooms with all modern conveniences, and homemade meals available just around the corner, cheap and filling. Daybreaks and sunsets at fixed times. A moderate climate, flowers throughout the year. Its well worth making the long steam boat journey, putting up with sea sickness, till the port of stitching comes into view with crowded flying various flags. Or for the4 same number of days tattling along in a train, dozing from tedium, rocking to the rhythmic flatter of wheels. The visitor – for instance a traveling salesman with a valise bursting at the seams, as if instead of a few samples he had stuffed it with all of his possessions – can choose to come by land or by sea, restricted only by the properties as of the place from which he sets out. But his choice of route determines the fate that awaits him upon his arrival.”
Cryptic, poetic, symbolic – just a few words that could describe Magdalena Tulli’s prose. Something which is self-reflective on itself; and continually recycling and changing. Much like a crystal; always presenting a different perspective to a already discussed subject. Yet like the essence of tears, the essence of the work itself is storytelling itself. Something in a moment of pure metafictional moment, that borderlines essay conclusion Magdalena Tulli breaks out of the novel format to reveal her authorial voice, in more than just a third person omnipresent narrator.
“Stories are not subject to anyone’s will, for they have their own; it’s unbreakable, like a steel spring conceal in the depths of a mechanical instrument, which sooner or later will unwind fully, and the cylinder will play in melody to the end.”
A thoroughly enjoyable piece of work, and I look forward to reading more of the authors books.
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
There are fictional towns and worlds in literature that one cannot help but feel that they are real towns, countries, or worlds and that they are real places fictionalized and immortalized in their new literary adaptions. One such place – and possibly the most famous example; is that of Macondo. The Nobel Laureate in Literature Gabriel Garcia Marquez, made this fictional town famous in his famous novel “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” which is a landmark in Latin and South American as well as Caribbean literature, for its depiction of the southern hemisphere of the America’s as a place of absurd logic and realities that were painted in magical symbols and metaphors that manifest themselves into the everyday. Macondo begins its germination as a small settlement, completely abandoned and cut off from the outside world. Eventually however as revealed in Marquez’s novella “Leaf Storm,” it thrives with the creation of a Banana plantation. However when one reaches their highest point the only way to head is down. Eventually the now thriving world of Macondo would fall. The Banana plantation which ceases operation and a gigantic windstorm that erases it from the map.
Macondo is interesting in its cultural context, and also with its ability to resonate with the identity of all Latin and South American people. The illogical and painfully human(ly) absurd situations that befall the southern hemispheres America’s, are often summed up by many Latin American citizens, by calling their hometowns and countries Macondo; for the situations that their countries go through, the bizarrely barbaric or the disturbingly unreal, can only be summarized by such a word when one comes to understand that magical realism was born out of some of the most primordial concepts of mankind and the societal and social themes of the individual versus the collective whole. Ghosts who haunt the hallways in constant search of pleasing their now past ending to their task; a rainfall that never stops for years on end; a ghost ship that makes sail at the stroke of midnight; a beautiful woman who is taken to heaven because of her serene beauty – these are the horrifying and beautiful symbols that come to posse the realities of an exotic world.
Yet there are some writers who do not hide the hometown by covering it up in a fictional name. Instead they are real places, and there exotic landscape, flora and fauna is brought to life, by the inhabitants of the streets. Every nook, every chick, dark alleyway – they are all brought into the light by the author’s devotion to the city; their love for the quirks and the bizarre. The love of the sounds of the streets: the clicking heels of woman’s high shoes; the chatter of conversations in the café, the starting of an engine, the quick pacing walk of the people, the sound of the wheels of strollers, running over the cobblestone streets. Authors like Orhan Pamuk, are able to bring the life of the unique city – in this case Istanbul; to the forefront of a literary place, where mannequins of the everyday Turkish person are hidden in basements; or to a pharmacists son who plays with chemicals in the day and writes poetry of death in the evening; it is a place where the stories of the inhabitants take front stage.
“Whoever has been everywhere and seen everything, last of should play a visit to Stitchings. Simply take a seat in a sleigh and before, being overcome by sleep, speed across a plan that’s as empty as a blank sheet of paper, boundless as life. Sooner or later this someone – perhaps it is a traveling salesman with a valise full of samples – will see great mounds of snow stretching along streets to the far corners of the earth, toward empty, icy expanses. He’ll see a pillar made of icicles, their snowy caps lost in the dark of a empty sky. He’ll draw into his lungs air as sharp as a razor that it casts cuts feeling away from breath. He’ll come to appreciate the benefits of a climate forever unencumbered by restless springtime breezes, by the intolerance of summer swelter, or the misty sorrows of autumn. He’ll take a liking to frost, which conserves feelings and capital, protecting both from the corruption of decay.”
While heading to work this morning, in the hours when the sun in these wintery hours, is still fresh and new. In the west, it the sky was blue, but only for so far. Perhaps just before the horizon there, there were clouds that required a second glance, because the first glance led one to believe there were mountains. In the east the clouds were still darker, but the new day sun was just behind them, and the light edged its way around the dark clouds. Allowing for a contrast of the blue-grey dark clouds against the abstract haloing yellow light of the new day sun. It was on this particular morning that one can see the contrast of winter. Its brutal nature is in starch contrast to the beauty it also possesses. The farmers’ fields though blanketed in snow, obstinately poked up from the white blankets. The way the frost sits on the branches of the trees; like frozen caterpillars, squared and rhombus shaped. Then when the sun peaks out from behind the clouds, they quickly vanish and melt – as if they were fairies caught by the human eye. Quickly they deplete away, only to resurface in the night and to be seen in the morning. When the surface of the world is covered in the white, opaque crystals of the snow it becomes a landscape deserted and deprived of life. The cow stand out in the snow, their hooves raking at the ground, trying to uncover the grass hidden underneath. They take this simple existence as all they know. The farmer feeds them. The winter will end eventually. Caving season is just around the corner. There is a clearness of winter that cannot be seen in spring with its moist and wet perspective; summer is to intolerable with its scorching heat, blurring and waving clear perception; autumn is clouded by the falling leaves, the moisture in the air, that freezes in the night at times, causes the quickness of the rotting smell of the sweet sorrow of autumnal decay to become more a lament for the summer. Winter is the only season that allows for the crystal clear perception, to see the world naked and bare.
Archipelago Books and Magdalena Tulli are fortunate to have each other. Archipelago Books have translated and published all of Magdalena’s novels. Which is a rare case for most translated author’s, who would usually go through numerous translators, which would vary the quality of their work. Second a translated author’s complete oeuvre would usually not be seen in translation; just look at such authors like Nobel Laureate in Literature Kenzaburo Oe’s work which is not translated into English without a long lapse from its original Japanese published date. Orhan Pamuk, another Nobel Laureate in Literature does not have his debut and most traditional novel translated into English – as it would tarnish his postmodern sensibilities and images. Herta Müller has only six books of a varied career that expands from novels to poems to essays; has been published into English. In this case that all of Magdalena Tulli’s novels are translated and published in English, and all by the same translator; allows for a complete assessment of the authors work.
That being said I haven’t read “Dreams and Stones,” or “Moving Parts,” or “Flaw.” That being said I have read “In Red,” which gives a great introduction to the author. Right away one can see the poetic style like the following line:
“Felek Chura’s sailing ships did what they were supposed to: they settled on the ocean beds. Their decks became overgrown with sea anemones and urchins. The bulging eyes of an octopus peered from the portholes of the bridge, seaweed sprouted in the hole.”
In this Magdalena Tulli is able to present her prose in the obscurity of poetic lyricism, that relies heavily on images and langue, but also moves the narrative forward, in a prose like style, allowing for some hybrid fiction between poetry and prose. For some a unholy literary matrimony – in my opinion Magdanela accomplishes what Shakespeare attempted in his plays and takes his theories and places them into the novel format, and excels at telling a beautiful if at times obscure story.
From my understanding “In Red,” Magdalena’s second novel is perhaps best described as her most conventional novel – if it has at least it has individual characters, and act on their free will, and a setting that stays put. However that does not change the fact that Magdalena uses language and detail so precisely to convey the world or to be more precisely the town of Stitching’s. From characters – like the poor broken hearted woman who does not die, but her heart stops beating, and is forced to live out the rest of her days locked away in a room, reading French romance novels. This is where one truly learns that salt is the essence of tears. To the industrial war and rebuilding of the town after the first World War in a unprecedented spring – to the return of a brutally naked and frigid winter as the Second World War enters in full swing.
Repetition is however one of Magdalena Tulli’s greatest uses in talent, alongside her seamless and flawless poetic movements. She knows how to change certain aspects to allow for a new use of prose, with nostalgic and ghostly remnants of something already said. Allowing for a circular feeling of always cycling round and round – just like water on the edges of a drain.
“Anyone who makes it to Stitching’s appreciates its promising misty greyness and the moist warm breeze it in which desires flourish handsomely. A wide of furnished rooms with all modern conveniences, and homemade meals available just around the corner, cheap and filling. Daybreaks and sunsets at fixed times. A moderate climate, flowers throughout the year. Its well worth making the long steam boat journey, putting up with sea sickness, till the port of stitching comes into view with crowded flying various flags. Or for the4 same number of days tattling along in a train, dozing from tedium, rocking to the rhythmic flatter of wheels. The visitor – for instance a traveling salesman with a valise bursting at the seams, as if instead of a few samples he had stuffed it with all of his possessions – can choose to come by land or by sea, restricted only by the properties as of the place from which he sets out. But his choice of route determines the fate that awaits him upon his arrival.”
Cryptic, poetic, symbolic – just a few words that could describe Magdalena Tulli’s prose. Something which is self-reflective on itself; and continually recycling and changing. Much like a crystal; always presenting a different perspective to a already discussed subject. Yet like the essence of tears, the essence of the work itself is storytelling itself. Something in a moment of pure metafictional moment, that borderlines essay conclusion Magdalena Tulli breaks out of the novel format to reveal her authorial voice, in more than just a third person omnipresent narrator.
“Stories are not subject to anyone’s will, for they have their own; it’s unbreakable, like a steel spring conceal in the depths of a mechanical instrument, which sooner or later will unwind fully, and the cylinder will play in melody to the end.”
A thoroughly enjoyable piece of work, and I look forward to reading more of the authors books.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)