Hello Gentle Reader
Tonight Gentle Reader, I took a lovely stroll on the town. It turned out to be rather uneventful. But I had discovered a few things while out and about. First off, when walking, the first thing anyone fails to mention to you when discussing the benefits of walking is: that you have only yourself for company. Presuming you take a leisurely soul searching stroll, by yourself. Tonight while taking such a leisurely stroll, I discovered that my soul was nowhere to be found. Instead I was left with my own thoughts; which shared nothing profound. In fact these thoughts were mundane. There were no bewildering observations to be made. No other lonely stroller to see or spot. All there was was the full moon, which also was a super moon. However it failed to produce any stimulating conversation. My walk took me to a rink, and its hidden parking lot. There I discovered a second understanding. When partying in a parking lot, there are three ingredients that are needed. First off you need trucks. Trucks are loud. They are also obnoxious. They also like to go vroom, vroom with vigorous enjoyment. The second ingredient: alcohol. Alcohol makes everything more fun; more social, and loosens everyone up. The third: People. To share the company of another makes one understand that: though they are a singular individual in the world, the word individual can also pluralized, to include others. As it turned out, one cannot have a party in a parking lot by themselves, with no truck or alcohol, or friend to call on. For the party will not last more than thirty seconds; and will amount to you talking to yourself – and realize you are no better at conversations with yourself out loud than you are in your head. This led me to abandon the parking lot, and its dewy eyed concrete filled with sleep. I turned my sights to the cemetery. My peeps their share, a similar enthusiastic view on life; matched only by my own. In an unfortunate turn of events, they had turned in for the night, and had locked their gate. After a stroll through the neighborhood, and the disappointment at finding only the blue light of televisions reflected in the windows; I turned my sights home. The absence of people became unnervingly alienating. This Robert Walseresque walk, had so far produced nothing of interest. Walking down First Avenue I decided to entertain myself by blowing raspberries. That is until I came across a gazebo. I stopped in and had cigarette. I watched moths flutter about the warmth of the light, at the top of the gazebo. I realized then that even though I had two feet and a heart beat; my feet had become wary; my heart beat, beat as normal and my mind had succumbed to boredom. I called someone for a ride. I came to accept the monotony of my life. Yet smile at my attempt to do something interesting; to defeat the mundane ennui of my existence. I enjoyed my walk to a degree. It passed two hours. It has made me tired. It also had its health benefits. And yet Gentle Reader, tomorrow night, I shall stroll no more.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. I write this as a play on Mu Xin’s story “Tomorrow, I’ll Stroll No More.” The short story collection by Xin, has turned out to be delightful. I write this as a precursor to the review that will appear shortly.
Monday, 11 August 2014
Thursday, 7 August 2014
The Expedition to The Baobab Tree
Hello Gentle Reader
A baobab tree is as quintessential to Africa and its image of its landscape, as that of a poplar tree to Canada, or the maple tree. The baobab tree trunk is bloated, thick and wide – while in some cases the tree itself towers like a green topped skyscraper. The thought of these surreal trees populating the expansive, and blood soaked tortured history of Africa; in their solitary rooted existence, are as much African in the stereotypical sense. Much like rooibos tea; scrub brush from the karoo; and wild animals of the most exotic breed roaming the plains, and hiding in the jungles.
Wilma Stockenström is a poet and a playwright. With her novel “The Expedition to The Baobab Tree,” her talent in language, is clearly showcased. In Afrikaans language, and its subsequent literature; Stockenström is one of its greatest practitioner. She has enriched the language, and its literature, with her satirical and at times obstinate; but always compassionate voice. She has been a radio announcer; as well as an actress. Yet in the end, Stockenström first loves and her first writings; was for the theatre. Her two act plays: “Babblers,” and “Passing Through,” were published in two literary magazines of the time. Two more plays followed. However, despite these dramatic, inclinations; and the four previous published plays: “Babblers,” “Passing Through,” “Dawid the Fat Dumb Cat,” and “Three Penny’s Worth of Batata,” – she was not taken seriously as a dramatic writer until her play: “Last Meal at Midday,” that recognition became more apparent. In regards to Stockenström’s poetry, it came to her as something to do with fun. Yet her poetry soon began to appear in local literary magazines amongst, other great poets. When approached in regards to publishing her poetry, Stockenström only had twelve poems ready for publication; and came up with the idea of publishing the poems on beautiful stationary, and typesetting the font of the poems in large print. Her humour came through when she suggested titling the poetry collection as: “For the Near-sighted Reader.” Her poetic oeuvre, Stockenström had done away with poetic forms of sensibility. No affectionate adornments, nor rhythm or rhyme; and the musicality is left for the previous generations. Her work is sober in its language; and has an ironic sense to it. This alone makes her work appealing.
Personally I was attracted to “The Expedition to The Baobab Tree,” because of the author’s experiments and foray into poetry. As by personal opinion, I’ve always thought that at times poets often make the best prose writers. They have an understanding of language. An understanding that many prose writers, often overlook when writing a novel. Poets have an understanding about what to say; and what to leave out. Their syntax is odd, and yet makes the reader, think and re-read, until comprehension is gained. Their works are compressed, because they understand, that in order to gain the greatest momentum and effect from a reader in regards to literary craft; they need to be quick and offer a small explosion of text and image, in order to make their point. Personally any novelist, who writes a novel of five-hundred to a thousand pages, leaves me to wonder: if anyone needs to write that much in order to say something; it’s not worth saying. With Stockenström language, and the fact that her novel clocked up to one hundred and twenty-nine pages, it certainly appeared to be a book, which would be worth the read.
The intensity of the lyricism of the language of the novel in itself is astounding. The syntax may appear odd or strange, to some, but one must remember, the point of view of this novel; is that it is told from the point of view of an escaped slave woman. That should often be kept in mind while reading this fable. For that is what this book is. Is it is a poetically evocative fable. It’s a tale of, being taken away from one’s own landscape, and thrust into another world. A world of hard manual labour. From working in the spice merchants, backyard, toiling in the heat; under the threat of having ones tongue cut out; and under the watchful eyes of his shrew of a wife. To being bought, simply for human objective purposes – in the sexual sense. Then the other kind of human objective purposes: to benefit from the owner; the kind of man who adorns, and collects, and showcases one off; like they would a rifle, or a piece of jewelry or art work. The entire novel flows back and forth through time. Yet time is not fluid. Time changes its own course, and routine; much like our narrator tries to change and hide behind her green and black beads, to escape times claw; to escape its deteriorating grasp and its corrugating effects.
“A gulp of water, baked bulbs, and I am ready to resume my struggle against time. We fight in an endless round about circle. I do not manage to divide him up and segment him, so as to form a pattern and control him, in spite of my ingenuity with beads. I sometimes get confused and forget when I linked what to what. Green and black mixed up in accordance with my mood. I cannot shake time off me. He squats continually before my tree.”
Still the novel is not deprived of its realistic situation either. The unnamed narrator, the escaped slave women, discusses using a ostrich shell as her scoop for water; a clay pot for cooking; the gifts of food, from surrounding natives, who take the fruits of the baobab tree; the leather apron and hide outfit she wears. Nor does the novel move away from the atrocities of the past either. Children taken away from their mothers, once they are weaned. The poor narrator even tries to think, could she recognize her own children now? Will she see herself in their faces, in their hands, limbs? Would she show at all in their lives; and would she ever come across their midns, as they do to her? It must be painful knowledge, knowing that somewhere out there is your child; taken from you, and thrust into the world; without a motherly hand guiding them. Where could they have ended up, is a though that is entertained. Another city? Perhaps another country. In the end their absences are felt more close to the heart, then any crack of the whip, or any threat of losing one’s tongue. The pain of losing what is rightfully one’s own, and being left with nothing from them, is far worst then any physical repercussion, I am sure. The pain throbs close to the heart. It does not bleed, but can continually be felt weeping. It cannot be nursed slowly; and then one can go on back to their life. It is an endless suffering pain, that the said individual will suffer over and over again; until their heart stops beating.
One of my favourite passages from the book is the following:
“Every time I step out from the protecting interior of the tree I am once again a human being and powerful, and I gaze far over the landscape with all its flourishes of vegetal growth and troops of animals and the purple patches of hills that try to hedge it on the horizon. Reborn every time from the belly of the baobab, I stand full of myself. The sun defines my shadow. The wind clothes me. I point to the air and say: air makes me live. And when the scrub warbler calls, the calls in my name. I am all there is, he calls.”
I enjoy the passage of how the narrator, says, that once she has left the baobab tree she is once again a human being. Once again she is free. She is defined as such: a person. She is not a slave; not someone else’s belonging. She is once again a human being.
The novel is an interesting and fascinating fable. I love for its length, and lyricism. I love the book because it was to poetic, and elusive at times in its language, and its metaphors were simply beautifully crafted, as was the language in its use. It’s not a harrowing political or historical account of one slave turn free human being; and the trials and tribulations of their life. Rather it’s a lyrical account and poetically licensed, novel that details the suffering of one, against time, and against the past, with a future left completely uncertain. It’s a great novel. One that can be read, and re-read in how time becomes less linear, and shifts and bends like light. How time casts unfavourable shadows. Yet there is a great deal of dignity in this novel. What it means to be a human being. Yet it is not a sentimental book either.
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 baobab tree is as quintessential to Africa and its image of its landscape, as that of a poplar tree to Canada, or the maple tree. The baobab tree trunk is bloated, thick and wide – while in some cases the tree itself towers like a green topped skyscraper. The thought of these surreal trees populating the expansive, and blood soaked tortured history of Africa; in their solitary rooted existence, are as much African in the stereotypical sense. Much like rooibos tea; scrub brush from the karoo; and wild animals of the most exotic breed roaming the plains, and hiding in the jungles.
Wilma Stockenström is a poet and a playwright. With her novel “The Expedition to The Baobab Tree,” her talent in language, is clearly showcased. In Afrikaans language, and its subsequent literature; Stockenström is one of its greatest practitioner. She has enriched the language, and its literature, with her satirical and at times obstinate; but always compassionate voice. She has been a radio announcer; as well as an actress. Yet in the end, Stockenström first loves and her first writings; was for the theatre. Her two act plays: “Babblers,” and “Passing Through,” were published in two literary magazines of the time. Two more plays followed. However, despite these dramatic, inclinations; and the four previous published plays: “Babblers,” “Passing Through,” “Dawid the Fat Dumb Cat,” and “Three Penny’s Worth of Batata,” – she was not taken seriously as a dramatic writer until her play: “Last Meal at Midday,” that recognition became more apparent. In regards to Stockenström’s poetry, it came to her as something to do with fun. Yet her poetry soon began to appear in local literary magazines amongst, other great poets. When approached in regards to publishing her poetry, Stockenström only had twelve poems ready for publication; and came up with the idea of publishing the poems on beautiful stationary, and typesetting the font of the poems in large print. Her humour came through when she suggested titling the poetry collection as: “For the Near-sighted Reader.” Her poetic oeuvre, Stockenström had done away with poetic forms of sensibility. No affectionate adornments, nor rhythm or rhyme; and the musicality is left for the previous generations. Her work is sober in its language; and has an ironic sense to it. This alone makes her work appealing.
Personally I was attracted to “The Expedition to The Baobab Tree,” because of the author’s experiments and foray into poetry. As by personal opinion, I’ve always thought that at times poets often make the best prose writers. They have an understanding of language. An understanding that many prose writers, often overlook when writing a novel. Poets have an understanding about what to say; and what to leave out. Their syntax is odd, and yet makes the reader, think and re-read, until comprehension is gained. Their works are compressed, because they understand, that in order to gain the greatest momentum and effect from a reader in regards to literary craft; they need to be quick and offer a small explosion of text and image, in order to make their point. Personally any novelist, who writes a novel of five-hundred to a thousand pages, leaves me to wonder: if anyone needs to write that much in order to say something; it’s not worth saying. With Stockenström language, and the fact that her novel clocked up to one hundred and twenty-nine pages, it certainly appeared to be a book, which would be worth the read.
The intensity of the lyricism of the language of the novel in itself is astounding. The syntax may appear odd or strange, to some, but one must remember, the point of view of this novel; is that it is told from the point of view of an escaped slave woman. That should often be kept in mind while reading this fable. For that is what this book is. Is it is a poetically evocative fable. It’s a tale of, being taken away from one’s own landscape, and thrust into another world. A world of hard manual labour. From working in the spice merchants, backyard, toiling in the heat; under the threat of having ones tongue cut out; and under the watchful eyes of his shrew of a wife. To being bought, simply for human objective purposes – in the sexual sense. Then the other kind of human objective purposes: to benefit from the owner; the kind of man who adorns, and collects, and showcases one off; like they would a rifle, or a piece of jewelry or art work. The entire novel flows back and forth through time. Yet time is not fluid. Time changes its own course, and routine; much like our narrator tries to change and hide behind her green and black beads, to escape times claw; to escape its deteriorating grasp and its corrugating effects.
“A gulp of water, baked bulbs, and I am ready to resume my struggle against time. We fight in an endless round about circle. I do not manage to divide him up and segment him, so as to form a pattern and control him, in spite of my ingenuity with beads. I sometimes get confused and forget when I linked what to what. Green and black mixed up in accordance with my mood. I cannot shake time off me. He squats continually before my tree.”
Still the novel is not deprived of its realistic situation either. The unnamed narrator, the escaped slave women, discusses using a ostrich shell as her scoop for water; a clay pot for cooking; the gifts of food, from surrounding natives, who take the fruits of the baobab tree; the leather apron and hide outfit she wears. Nor does the novel move away from the atrocities of the past either. Children taken away from their mothers, once they are weaned. The poor narrator even tries to think, could she recognize her own children now? Will she see herself in their faces, in their hands, limbs? Would she show at all in their lives; and would she ever come across their midns, as they do to her? It must be painful knowledge, knowing that somewhere out there is your child; taken from you, and thrust into the world; without a motherly hand guiding them. Where could they have ended up, is a though that is entertained. Another city? Perhaps another country. In the end their absences are felt more close to the heart, then any crack of the whip, or any threat of losing one’s tongue. The pain of losing what is rightfully one’s own, and being left with nothing from them, is far worst then any physical repercussion, I am sure. The pain throbs close to the heart. It does not bleed, but can continually be felt weeping. It cannot be nursed slowly; and then one can go on back to their life. It is an endless suffering pain, that the said individual will suffer over and over again; until their heart stops beating.
One of my favourite passages from the book is the following:
“Every time I step out from the protecting interior of the tree I am once again a human being and powerful, and I gaze far over the landscape with all its flourishes of vegetal growth and troops of animals and the purple patches of hills that try to hedge it on the horizon. Reborn every time from the belly of the baobab, I stand full of myself. The sun defines my shadow. The wind clothes me. I point to the air and say: air makes me live. And when the scrub warbler calls, the calls in my name. I am all there is, he calls.”
I enjoy the passage of how the narrator, says, that once she has left the baobab tree she is once again a human being. Once again she is free. She is defined as such: a person. She is not a slave; not someone else’s belonging. She is once again a human being.
The novel is an interesting and fascinating fable. I love for its length, and lyricism. I love the book because it was to poetic, and elusive at times in its language, and its metaphors were simply beautifully crafted, as was the language in its use. It’s not a harrowing political or historical account of one slave turn free human being; and the trials and tribulations of their life. Rather it’s a lyrical account and poetically licensed, novel that details the suffering of one, against time, and against the past, with a future left completely uncertain. It’s a great novel. One that can be read, and re-read in how time becomes less linear, and shifts and bends like light. How time casts unfavourable shadows. Yet there is a great deal of dignity in this novel. What it means to be a human being. Yet it is not a sentimental book either.
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, 31 July 2014
Mandarins
Hello Gentle Reader
In my day Gentle Reader, mandarins, were known as: Christmas oranges. They were a sign that we had entered into the holly jolly season. They were one of those delights of Christmas. For the rest of the year, the oranges were large, and their peels hard, and cumbersome to get through. Unless otherwise cut up, and served, they were rarely eaten. Yet the Christmas orange, with its soft peel, was a welcomed sight into the household. I can still remember the box sitting on the kitchen table, and the oranges neatly wrapped in green tissue paper. At times the oranges, were not quite ripe, and still held blemishes of green on their peels; and the oranges would be sour. This was the beginning of the Christmas season. Soon the arrival of the advent calendar would take place. Those opened windows becoming the countdown for the eventual day. Snow by this time would have already become a daily occurrence, and snow boots, and winter coats, were dragged out of storage. Still thoughts of Santa clause danced in our hands; and the debate of his existence would once again be resumed. Though each of us – even his most adamant, prosecutors; had wished for his existence to be true. This collection of short stories by the Japanese master of the short story Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, may share the name or title “Mandarin,” but there is nothing about Christmas, in these regards.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa is known more for two short stories: “Rashomon,” and “In a Bamboo Grove.” Both of these stories have been immortalized under the title: “Rashomon,” because of the film under the same name by Kurosawa. This title and the subsequent film have popularized Akutagawa, but only by the one piece of work. When Penguin released a new collection of Akutagawa’s work, it was titled “Rashomon: and 17 Other Stories.” Thankfully Archipelago Books, translation of Akutagawa’s stories, avoid both these two overtly anthologized stories; and the shadow that they cast over the oeuvre of Akutagawa’s – which has yet to be fully made available for English speaking readers. However Gentle Reader, what has interested most in Akutagawa, was his life. To say that Akutagawa was less than a happy person; would be an understatement. Akutagawa, the only son of his parents, was haunted throughout his short life, by the fact that his mother had gone insane, shortly after his birth. This overshadowed the future tormented writer, who eventually committed suicide at the age of thirty five years old. This has type casted, Akutagawa in many ways. In the end, Akutagawa is seen to be just another Japanese writer, who had committed suicide; his death itself overshadows his achievements as a writer; much like Osamu Dazai and Yukio Mishima. However, his death itself was what brought me towards, Akutagawa, not only as a reader, but also as an individual. While reading “Mandarins,” one comes to see Akutagawa eventually, faces life directly. He knows it; observes it and studies it. Then with clinical and analytical thought and precision, Akutagawa comes to the conclusion: that life really is not worth the bother.. In these regards, at the age of thirty-five years old, the young author overdosed on barbiturates – Veronal, to be exact; ending his nervous delirium, and fears of a vague and uncertain future. One can only hope that Akutagawa found peace and salvation in death – in which he was determined to travel towards, at a very young age.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa is widely regarded as: the grandfather of the Japanese short story. His stories do not necessarily have a central plot, or a story to tell. Rather Akutagawa is more focused on how it is told, as well as the psychological probing of the fictional individuals. In this sense Akutagawa, is a lot like many great short story writers. The list would most certainly include Anton Chekhov, Antonio Tabucchi, as well as Yasunari Kawabata and the contemporary master of the short story: Alice Munro. To be completely honest my dear Gentle Reader, I am by all means biased to the short story genre. A great short story writer must do a fine tight rope act, of destroying all aspects of any sense of over indulgence in verbosity; but still being able to tell a proper story. Within a good short story, little may happen; but a subtle realization, suddenly makes the entire story all that much worth it. Akutagawa captures this perfectly in the title story of this collection: “Mandarins.”
“Mandarins,” is a short story, which comes to a total of five pages. “Mandarins,” is a story narrated by an upper class cultured gentleman, who has an air of melancholic despair with the mundane activities of life – amplified by this tedious train ride. This is only made all that much worst, when an uninvited guest, makes herself comfortable in his first class carriage; and our unnamed narrator perturbed by this; chooses to ignore her, this lower class individual and falls into a nap. As our narrator remarks:
“I found her vulgar features quite displeasing and was further repelled by her dirty clothes.”
Our narrator awakens, to find this intrusive pest of a guest, seated next to him, and soon, trying vigorously to open the window, and upon success sticks her head outside, and gazes forward. This eventually leads the young country lady, to toss five to six mandarin oranges to three red-cheeked boys. The oranges are compared in their radiance and colour to that of the warmth of the sun. In this brief instant the narrator, comes to understands “the meaning of it all.” It ends on a rather sentimental; however after a closer look, the story comes to be understood as a rather impressionistic tale. The kind of tale that represents the daily life of Tokyo and the abhorrence and despair that one finds themselves in, once their life takes on that same daily routine, continually. The landscape never changing; the work never ending; the same old tasks day in and day out; and then suddenly with the rather violent interruption of someone, that one would rather not, take a second look at or even give a thought to; comes and disrupts this despair ridden existence in which Akutagawa writes about. This simple activity in Akutagawa’s story – this interruption; becomes elation; where the drudge of daily routine and existence is side stepped, and one comes to a subtle understanding. No longer is our narrator of this story, who is filled with ennui and boredom; and so apathetic with the concept of traveling – his destination or purpose of this journey is never specified; finally escapes his own boredom and is less preoccupied with: “[ . . . ] the myriad commonplace matters of the world.”
One part of Akutagawa’s writing I have noticed throughout this collection, is how varied his stories are; from “Mandarins,” to “Kesa and Morita,” to “The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels.” If one were to look at these stories separately with the exception “The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels,” – they will come to see a new form or different way of telling the story. “Mandarins,” for example, proceeded in traditional Chekhovian sense. Nothing happens in a sense of a ‘story,’ or ‘plot,’ within the work. When we leave the story, we are still uncertain of our narrators destination; his uncontrolled ennui and apathy; but Akutagawa leads the story to the point, where the narrator comes to a understanding, by the intervention of someone unexpected. It is there that the story comes to that epiphany moment. “Kesa and Morito,” is written in a dramatic sense. It is written in two soliloquies, of the two characters Kesa and Morito. It’s a bitter tale, of love, lust and murder. Morito, once loved the lead female character Kesa, but now only uses her and sees her as a mistress; yet still Morito agrees to murder Kesa’s husband. Morito has his redemptive qualities, becoming a very sympathetic character early on. Dreading the thought of what he will do, he laments the task at hand:
“So the moon is out. There was a time when I could not wait for it to appear, but now this very brightness has become a dread omen. I tremble at the thought that this night I shall lose my soul, that tomorrow I shall be a common murderer. How rightly the mind’s eye sees my hands already crimson with blood! How damned I shall soon seem even to myself! It would cause me no such anguish if I were to kill a detested foe. Yet tonight I must take the life of a man I do not hate.”
Kesa on the other hand despises herself. She despises herself, with self-loathing and hatred, for allowing the affair to go on. Yet in this same sense, she is the one that makes the request, that Morito murder her husband. In a sense there is a feeling that Akutagawa has no sympathies for Kesa. She herself is to blame for the situation, that is about to unfold. Her own infidelity that she allowed to continue is to blame, for a innocent man to die. It should be noted, Akutagawa never one wrote a love story. In fact women very rarely appear in his fiction; and those that do, are seen as deceitful, domineering, selfish, and always heading towards to some untimely destruction; often taking their male victims with them. It would be rather presumptuous to state that this stems from Akutagawa’s own mother. A being he loathed; who went insane after his birth, died when he was ten years old, and in an ironic sense of humour left him with the seed of insanity; that had eventually claimed Akutagawa himself. Though this is a large theory, it rings with a steel surgical blade of rational thought and honesty.
“The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels,” are written in a very similar style. They are made up of brief vignettes. “The Life of a Fool,” details Akutagwa’s final stages of his life. His growing distaste for life. This story, is noted at the beginning, as being entrusted with Masao Kume, and the letter, is dated June 20(th) 1927. This date is particular because it’s just over a month before Akutagawa eventual suicide at the age of thirty five. In this sense, this is both a ‘autobiography,’ and a ‘story,’ as well as a final farewell and suicide note, before his eventual self-imposed exile into death. In one such vignette titled “.44 Death,” Akutagawa clinically details a suicidal thought as well as attempt and the trepidation he feels at the thought of committing the act:
[ .44 Death }
“Taking advantage of being alone in his room, he set about to hang himself with a sash tied to the bars of the window. Yet when put his head in the noose, he was suddenly struck by the fear of death, though he was not afraid of the momentary pain that such would entail. He took out of his pocket watch the second time and by way of experiment measured how long it might take for him to be strangled. After a few uncomfortable moments, all became quite muddled. Once beyond that stage, he would surely enter the realm of death. He consulted his watch saw that his distress had lasted one minute and some twenty seconds. Beyond the window all was pitch-black, but in that darkness could be heard the raucous crowing of a rooster.”
Though Akutagawa throughout “The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels,” beats the same drum repeatedly and grimly, its offers the reader, a glimpse into Akutagawa as a writer and as a individual. These stories are made bearable by the fact that, the style that they are written in, is manageable, in their fragmentation; as well as offering variations on a very depressing subject. One that is grossly close to the author, as he exercises his demons.
Akutagawa lived a life, in which he wished to escape his own prescient feeling that he would go mad, and in a sense lost himself to literature: “A single line of Baudelaire is worth more than all of life.” Looking at his work in a historical sense, Akutagawa details, the shift in Japan from its traditional roots, into modernity. Themes that both Yasunari Kawabata and Yukio Mishima had later picked up later. Now these works are lost to other authors. Kenzaburo Oe and Haruki Murakami as well as other Japanese authors, are now more international and have lost that sense of Japan, that once was apparent. In this sense, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa laments this eventual decline and destruction of what was the true ‘core,’ or Japan. This is my first acquaintance with the author, and was not disappointed – disturbed at points; but in the end I applaud the author for what he had achieved in his short life.
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 my day Gentle Reader, mandarins, were known as: Christmas oranges. They were a sign that we had entered into the holly jolly season. They were one of those delights of Christmas. For the rest of the year, the oranges were large, and their peels hard, and cumbersome to get through. Unless otherwise cut up, and served, they were rarely eaten. Yet the Christmas orange, with its soft peel, was a welcomed sight into the household. I can still remember the box sitting on the kitchen table, and the oranges neatly wrapped in green tissue paper. At times the oranges, were not quite ripe, and still held blemishes of green on their peels; and the oranges would be sour. This was the beginning of the Christmas season. Soon the arrival of the advent calendar would take place. Those opened windows becoming the countdown for the eventual day. Snow by this time would have already become a daily occurrence, and snow boots, and winter coats, were dragged out of storage. Still thoughts of Santa clause danced in our hands; and the debate of his existence would once again be resumed. Though each of us – even his most adamant, prosecutors; had wished for his existence to be true. This collection of short stories by the Japanese master of the short story Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, may share the name or title “Mandarin,” but there is nothing about Christmas, in these regards.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa is known more for two short stories: “Rashomon,” and “In a Bamboo Grove.” Both of these stories have been immortalized under the title: “Rashomon,” because of the film under the same name by Kurosawa. This title and the subsequent film have popularized Akutagawa, but only by the one piece of work. When Penguin released a new collection of Akutagawa’s work, it was titled “Rashomon: and 17 Other Stories.” Thankfully Archipelago Books, translation of Akutagawa’s stories, avoid both these two overtly anthologized stories; and the shadow that they cast over the oeuvre of Akutagawa’s – which has yet to be fully made available for English speaking readers. However Gentle Reader, what has interested most in Akutagawa, was his life. To say that Akutagawa was less than a happy person; would be an understatement. Akutagawa, the only son of his parents, was haunted throughout his short life, by the fact that his mother had gone insane, shortly after his birth. This overshadowed the future tormented writer, who eventually committed suicide at the age of thirty five years old. This has type casted, Akutagawa in many ways. In the end, Akutagawa is seen to be just another Japanese writer, who had committed suicide; his death itself overshadows his achievements as a writer; much like Osamu Dazai and Yukio Mishima. However, his death itself was what brought me towards, Akutagawa, not only as a reader, but also as an individual. While reading “Mandarins,” one comes to see Akutagawa eventually, faces life directly. He knows it; observes it and studies it. Then with clinical and analytical thought and precision, Akutagawa comes to the conclusion: that life really is not worth the bother.. In these regards, at the age of thirty-five years old, the young author overdosed on barbiturates – Veronal, to be exact; ending his nervous delirium, and fears of a vague and uncertain future. One can only hope that Akutagawa found peace and salvation in death – in which he was determined to travel towards, at a very young age.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa is widely regarded as: the grandfather of the Japanese short story. His stories do not necessarily have a central plot, or a story to tell. Rather Akutagawa is more focused on how it is told, as well as the psychological probing of the fictional individuals. In this sense Akutagawa, is a lot like many great short story writers. The list would most certainly include Anton Chekhov, Antonio Tabucchi, as well as Yasunari Kawabata and the contemporary master of the short story: Alice Munro. To be completely honest my dear Gentle Reader, I am by all means biased to the short story genre. A great short story writer must do a fine tight rope act, of destroying all aspects of any sense of over indulgence in verbosity; but still being able to tell a proper story. Within a good short story, little may happen; but a subtle realization, suddenly makes the entire story all that much worth it. Akutagawa captures this perfectly in the title story of this collection: “Mandarins.”
“Mandarins,” is a short story, which comes to a total of five pages. “Mandarins,” is a story narrated by an upper class cultured gentleman, who has an air of melancholic despair with the mundane activities of life – amplified by this tedious train ride. This is only made all that much worst, when an uninvited guest, makes herself comfortable in his first class carriage; and our unnamed narrator perturbed by this; chooses to ignore her, this lower class individual and falls into a nap. As our narrator remarks:
“I found her vulgar features quite displeasing and was further repelled by her dirty clothes.”
Our narrator awakens, to find this intrusive pest of a guest, seated next to him, and soon, trying vigorously to open the window, and upon success sticks her head outside, and gazes forward. This eventually leads the young country lady, to toss five to six mandarin oranges to three red-cheeked boys. The oranges are compared in their radiance and colour to that of the warmth of the sun. In this brief instant the narrator, comes to understands “the meaning of it all.” It ends on a rather sentimental; however after a closer look, the story comes to be understood as a rather impressionistic tale. The kind of tale that represents the daily life of Tokyo and the abhorrence and despair that one finds themselves in, once their life takes on that same daily routine, continually. The landscape never changing; the work never ending; the same old tasks day in and day out; and then suddenly with the rather violent interruption of someone, that one would rather not, take a second look at or even give a thought to; comes and disrupts this despair ridden existence in which Akutagawa writes about. This simple activity in Akutagawa’s story – this interruption; becomes elation; where the drudge of daily routine and existence is side stepped, and one comes to a subtle understanding. No longer is our narrator of this story, who is filled with ennui and boredom; and so apathetic with the concept of traveling – his destination or purpose of this journey is never specified; finally escapes his own boredom and is less preoccupied with: “[ . . . ] the myriad commonplace matters of the world.”
One part of Akutagawa’s writing I have noticed throughout this collection, is how varied his stories are; from “Mandarins,” to “Kesa and Morita,” to “The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels.” If one were to look at these stories separately with the exception “The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels,” – they will come to see a new form or different way of telling the story. “Mandarins,” for example, proceeded in traditional Chekhovian sense. Nothing happens in a sense of a ‘story,’ or ‘plot,’ within the work. When we leave the story, we are still uncertain of our narrators destination; his uncontrolled ennui and apathy; but Akutagawa leads the story to the point, where the narrator comes to a understanding, by the intervention of someone unexpected. It is there that the story comes to that epiphany moment. “Kesa and Morito,” is written in a dramatic sense. It is written in two soliloquies, of the two characters Kesa and Morito. It’s a bitter tale, of love, lust and murder. Morito, once loved the lead female character Kesa, but now only uses her and sees her as a mistress; yet still Morito agrees to murder Kesa’s husband. Morito has his redemptive qualities, becoming a very sympathetic character early on. Dreading the thought of what he will do, he laments the task at hand:
“So the moon is out. There was a time when I could not wait for it to appear, but now this very brightness has become a dread omen. I tremble at the thought that this night I shall lose my soul, that tomorrow I shall be a common murderer. How rightly the mind’s eye sees my hands already crimson with blood! How damned I shall soon seem even to myself! It would cause me no such anguish if I were to kill a detested foe. Yet tonight I must take the life of a man I do not hate.”
Kesa on the other hand despises herself. She despises herself, with self-loathing and hatred, for allowing the affair to go on. Yet in this same sense, she is the one that makes the request, that Morito murder her husband. In a sense there is a feeling that Akutagawa has no sympathies for Kesa. She herself is to blame for the situation, that is about to unfold. Her own infidelity that she allowed to continue is to blame, for a innocent man to die. It should be noted, Akutagawa never one wrote a love story. In fact women very rarely appear in his fiction; and those that do, are seen as deceitful, domineering, selfish, and always heading towards to some untimely destruction; often taking their male victims with them. It would be rather presumptuous to state that this stems from Akutagawa’s own mother. A being he loathed; who went insane after his birth, died when he was ten years old, and in an ironic sense of humour left him with the seed of insanity; that had eventually claimed Akutagawa himself. Though this is a large theory, it rings with a steel surgical blade of rational thought and honesty.
“The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels,” are written in a very similar style. They are made up of brief vignettes. “The Life of a Fool,” details Akutagwa’s final stages of his life. His growing distaste for life. This story, is noted at the beginning, as being entrusted with Masao Kume, and the letter, is dated June 20(th) 1927. This date is particular because it’s just over a month before Akutagawa eventual suicide at the age of thirty five. In this sense, this is both a ‘autobiography,’ and a ‘story,’ as well as a final farewell and suicide note, before his eventual self-imposed exile into death. In one such vignette titled “.44 Death,” Akutagawa clinically details a suicidal thought as well as attempt and the trepidation he feels at the thought of committing the act:
[ .44 Death }
“Taking advantage of being alone in his room, he set about to hang himself with a sash tied to the bars of the window. Yet when put his head in the noose, he was suddenly struck by the fear of death, though he was not afraid of the momentary pain that such would entail. He took out of his pocket watch the second time and by way of experiment measured how long it might take for him to be strangled. After a few uncomfortable moments, all became quite muddled. Once beyond that stage, he would surely enter the realm of death. He consulted his watch saw that his distress had lasted one minute and some twenty seconds. Beyond the window all was pitch-black, but in that darkness could be heard the raucous crowing of a rooster.”
Though Akutagawa throughout “The Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels,” beats the same drum repeatedly and grimly, its offers the reader, a glimpse into Akutagawa as a writer and as a individual. These stories are made bearable by the fact that, the style that they are written in, is manageable, in their fragmentation; as well as offering variations on a very depressing subject. One that is grossly close to the author, as he exercises his demons.
Akutagawa lived a life, in which he wished to escape his own prescient feeling that he would go mad, and in a sense lost himself to literature: “A single line of Baudelaire is worth more than all of life.” Looking at his work in a historical sense, Akutagawa details, the shift in Japan from its traditional roots, into modernity. Themes that both Yasunari Kawabata and Yukio Mishima had later picked up later. Now these works are lost to other authors. Kenzaburo Oe and Haruki Murakami as well as other Japanese authors, are now more international and have lost that sense of Japan, that once was apparent. In this sense, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa laments this eventual decline and destruction of what was the true ‘core,’ or Japan. This is my first acquaintance with the author, and was not disappointed – disturbed at points; but in the end I applaud the author for what he had achieved in his short life.
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 July 2014
You’re Always Reminded of Great Books Somehow
Hello Gentle Reader
Great literature stays in one’s mind far after the last page has been read; and the book has been closed and shelved. A wonderful book is the kind of book that you think of you while you lay in bed at night. It’s mentioned in passing to yourself while you are walking. And in the odd case; you think of a scene from a book; and try to remember where you had done that; only to realize it was from a book you read. The sign of a good book is you enjoyed it while you read it. The realization that something is a great book is that you continually think about it; and have a desire to read it again. The book that haunts despite the books that have been read after it is a book worth keeping.
Today while skipping through the internet – in particular facebook; I noticed on my newsfeed, that there was an interesting article by “The Paris Review,”. This article stated with a picture: “The cult of the bearded female saint, Wilgefortis.” My brow furrowed, and without hesitation I clicked the link that was offered to read the entire article. It is a short article and does not make any mention of what initially drew me to this particular piece; but I knew from what I was reading that it was discussing the same Saint that Olga Tokarczuk had written about in “House of Day, House of Night.”
Admittedly I did think “Primeval and Other Times,” was more ambitious then “House of Day, House of Night,” and was successful in its execution, and more streamlined then “House of Day, House of Night.” That being said “House of Day, House of Night,” had its own merits, and moments where it had accomplished what it was written to do. It is by far, a more personal book for Tokarczuk, as it is written about the area in which the author lives in – a place that is on the Polish and Czech border. There were numerous interesting parts of this book. It is a novel that celebrates the smallness of the world; but is a grand novel all the same. The book is filled with dangerous mushroom recipes; and the tales that circulate the town. One of the more interesting ones is the story of Saint Kummernis.
My knowledge of the theological and religious is best described as vitriolic and acerbic. To me it is something that I do not have time to waste with; nor do I have the patience or syllables to spend arguing or debating about it. Theology, religion, personal beliefs; it is all something that one should keep to themselves, and believe on a personal level. However, there are moments, where the religious can find itself into someone’s life, on an unbiased term or matter, and an interesting story can be told. Much like that of Wilgefortis (or Saint Kummernis). When I read the quick vignettes of Saint Kummernis in “House of Day, House of Night,” I had thought the saint might be something of a invention of the author; and I thought nothing more of it, but some literary invention, being treated with tenderness and love. To my surprise Saint Kummernis does actually exist, and has been revered and celebrated for many centuries; and continuous to be celebrated. Though Wilgefortis had her commemoration removed in nineteen-sixty nine, her feast day July 20th is still, commemorated by those who know of her and seek her patronage. She is the patron of saint of tribulations – especially women who wish to leave their abusive spouses. As Wilgefortis (as the legend goes) was defaced with a beard in order to escape marrying a pagan. Her father enraged by this had his daughter crucified (again as the story goes).
Still it was an interesting article. Lately as Summer has reached its most mature points, and the evenings are, a blaze of colour before their eventual twilight and dusk; I’ve been thinking of Tokarczuk lately and her novel “Primeval and Other Times,” with its bright and baroque summer beginning. To stumble across the tale of Saint Kummernis or Wilgefortis once again – after first being introduced by Tokarczuk it left me with renewed appreciation for “House of Day, House of Night,” and to realize that Saint Kummernis or Wilgefortis, is not a literary invention but an obscure ex- commemorated saint; showcases the many layers of Tokarczuk’s literary output and knowledge of the arcane and obscure histories.
If you have the chance read one of Tokarczuk’s novels translated into English: “House of Day, House of Night,” or “Primeval and Other Times” They are unique novels, that are engaging and not forbiddingly inaccessible; but welcoming like a kitchen with the scent of melted butter and frying mushrooms.
To Read the article follow the link:
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/07/21/beards/
[ On a Side Note: ]
“The Paris Review,” also did justice to the obscure, but talented and entertaining writer, poet, playwright, actor and performer Edgar Oliver with their article written by Edgar, discussing Edgar Oliver’s mother Louise Oliver, and showcasing her drawings.
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/07/22/the-greatest-artist-in-the-whole-wide-world/
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
Great literature stays in one’s mind far after the last page has been read; and the book has been closed and shelved. A wonderful book is the kind of book that you think of you while you lay in bed at night. It’s mentioned in passing to yourself while you are walking. And in the odd case; you think of a scene from a book; and try to remember where you had done that; only to realize it was from a book you read. The sign of a good book is you enjoyed it while you read it. The realization that something is a great book is that you continually think about it; and have a desire to read it again. The book that haunts despite the books that have been read after it is a book worth keeping.
Today while skipping through the internet – in particular facebook; I noticed on my newsfeed, that there was an interesting article by “The Paris Review,”. This article stated with a picture: “The cult of the bearded female saint, Wilgefortis.” My brow furrowed, and without hesitation I clicked the link that was offered to read the entire article. It is a short article and does not make any mention of what initially drew me to this particular piece; but I knew from what I was reading that it was discussing the same Saint that Olga Tokarczuk had written about in “House of Day, House of Night.”
Admittedly I did think “Primeval and Other Times,” was more ambitious then “House of Day, House of Night,” and was successful in its execution, and more streamlined then “House of Day, House of Night.” That being said “House of Day, House of Night,” had its own merits, and moments where it had accomplished what it was written to do. It is by far, a more personal book for Tokarczuk, as it is written about the area in which the author lives in – a place that is on the Polish and Czech border. There were numerous interesting parts of this book. It is a novel that celebrates the smallness of the world; but is a grand novel all the same. The book is filled with dangerous mushroom recipes; and the tales that circulate the town. One of the more interesting ones is the story of Saint Kummernis.
My knowledge of the theological and religious is best described as vitriolic and acerbic. To me it is something that I do not have time to waste with; nor do I have the patience or syllables to spend arguing or debating about it. Theology, religion, personal beliefs; it is all something that one should keep to themselves, and believe on a personal level. However, there are moments, where the religious can find itself into someone’s life, on an unbiased term or matter, and an interesting story can be told. Much like that of Wilgefortis (or Saint Kummernis). When I read the quick vignettes of Saint Kummernis in “House of Day, House of Night,” I had thought the saint might be something of a invention of the author; and I thought nothing more of it, but some literary invention, being treated with tenderness and love. To my surprise Saint Kummernis does actually exist, and has been revered and celebrated for many centuries; and continuous to be celebrated. Though Wilgefortis had her commemoration removed in nineteen-sixty nine, her feast day July 20th is still, commemorated by those who know of her and seek her patronage. She is the patron of saint of tribulations – especially women who wish to leave their abusive spouses. As Wilgefortis (as the legend goes) was defaced with a beard in order to escape marrying a pagan. Her father enraged by this had his daughter crucified (again as the story goes).
Still it was an interesting article. Lately as Summer has reached its most mature points, and the evenings are, a blaze of colour before their eventual twilight and dusk; I’ve been thinking of Tokarczuk lately and her novel “Primeval and Other Times,” with its bright and baroque summer beginning. To stumble across the tale of Saint Kummernis or Wilgefortis once again – after first being introduced by Tokarczuk it left me with renewed appreciation for “House of Day, House of Night,” and to realize that Saint Kummernis or Wilgefortis, is not a literary invention but an obscure ex- commemorated saint; showcases the many layers of Tokarczuk’s literary output and knowledge of the arcane and obscure histories.
If you have the chance read one of Tokarczuk’s novels translated into English: “House of Day, House of Night,” or “Primeval and Other Times” They are unique novels, that are engaging and not forbiddingly inaccessible; but welcoming like a kitchen with the scent of melted butter and frying mushrooms.
To Read the article follow the link:
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/07/21/beards/
[ On a Side Note: ]
“The Paris Review,” also did justice to the obscure, but talented and entertaining writer, poet, playwright, actor and performer Edgar Oliver with their article written by Edgar, discussing Edgar Oliver’s mother Louise Oliver, and showcasing her drawings.
http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/07/22/the-greatest-artist-in-the-whole-wide-world/
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
Wednesday, 23 July 2014
The Booker Prize Longlist 2014
Hello Gentle Reader
This is an interesting year for the Booker Prize. The award itself has opened itself up to American authors. Before The Booker, was a award that was received only by commonwealth writers, who had written in the English language. Many (including myself) spelt doom for The Booker Prize, being taken over by American authors; and of course I had pitied the poor judges that had to deal with the amount of books that surely had doubled (if not more) for them to create a longlist; which would be all that more difficult as they would surely be forced, to handle the books with a sense of fairness and equality to both the new arrival and those that have been traditionally awarded the prize. In other words the list could not be overtly American nor could it be un-American; or pushing away, the new contenders. It’ll be a tightrope act, and it’s the pilot project to see if it will work.
Here are the nominated books:
Joshua Ferris (U.S.) – “To Rise Again at a Decent Hour,”
David Mitchell (UK) – “The Bone Clocks,”
Richard Flanagan (Australia) – “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,”
Karen Joy Fowler (U.S) – “We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves,”
Howard Jacobson (UK) – “J,”
Siri Hustvedt (US) – “The Blazing World,”
Neel Mukherjee (India) – “The Lives of Others,”
Paul Kingsnorth (UK) – “Wake,”
David Nicholls (UK) – “Us,”
Joseph O’Neil (Ireland) – “The Dog,”
Richard Powers (US) – “Orfeo,”
Niall Williams (Ireland) – “History of the Rain,”
Ali Smith (UK – Scotland) – “How to Be Both,”
There you have it Gentle Reader, The Booker Prize Shortlist.
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 is an interesting year for the Booker Prize. The award itself has opened itself up to American authors. Before The Booker, was a award that was received only by commonwealth writers, who had written in the English language. Many (including myself) spelt doom for The Booker Prize, being taken over by American authors; and of course I had pitied the poor judges that had to deal with the amount of books that surely had doubled (if not more) for them to create a longlist; which would be all that more difficult as they would surely be forced, to handle the books with a sense of fairness and equality to both the new arrival and those that have been traditionally awarded the prize. In other words the list could not be overtly American nor could it be un-American; or pushing away, the new contenders. It’ll be a tightrope act, and it’s the pilot project to see if it will work.
Here are the nominated books:
Joshua Ferris (U.S.) – “To Rise Again at a Decent Hour,”
David Mitchell (UK) – “The Bone Clocks,”
Richard Flanagan (Australia) – “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,”
Karen Joy Fowler (U.S) – “We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves,”
Howard Jacobson (UK) – “J,”
Siri Hustvedt (US) – “The Blazing World,”
Neel Mukherjee (India) – “The Lives of Others,”
Paul Kingsnorth (UK) – “Wake,”
David Nicholls (UK) – “Us,”
Joseph O’Neil (Ireland) – “The Dog,”
Richard Powers (US) – “Orfeo,”
Niall Williams (Ireland) – “History of the Rain,”
Ali Smith (UK – Scotland) – “How to Be Both,”
There you have it Gentle Reader, The Booker Prize Shortlist.
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, 14 July 2014
Nadine Gordimer Passes Away at the age of Ninety
Hello Gentle Reader
Nadine Gordimer, was the first South African writer to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Almost twenty three years ago, this coming October, Nadine Gordimer, received a phone call from Sweden, and the Swedish Academy’s then Permanent Secretary Sture Allén, who had informed her of her Nobel Accolade; Gordimer then sixty-nine years old, traveled to Sweden to accept the prize and give a lecture, titled: “Writing and Being.” Gordimer is one of those authors, who took a stance in their writing in regards to their own held views of the society around them. In Gordimer’s case, she took an adamant stance against the South African imposed policy and legislation called Apartheid. Apartheid, instituted by the National Party and Dutch settlers called Boers, segregated the black of South Africa; and the white from each other. This racial discrimination physically disgusted Gordimer, and soon her work began to reflect the contentious relationship of the inhabitants of the country, based around such blatant inhumane treatment. But to state that Gordimer’s work was solely, inclined to South Africa and Apartheid, is not a correct overview of her work. Gordimer was repelled and disturbed all injustices, both in her country and internationally. Still in the end Gordimer was after all, a writer. She was an activist; but her loyalties always stayed true to her passion with writing; which came from a fondness of reading and writing, from childhood. When she was eleven, she had developed a heart murmur, and her mother pulled her from school, and administered bed rest. From there on Gordimer developed a fondness for reading and writing.
Gordimer believed strongly in the power of words, and their power which could devastate, and nourish. As she wrote to Salmin Rushdie as he hide from Islamistis, terrorist, and jihadists, calling for his head, after the call for a fatwa; and the fears of assignation attempts that followed, as she wrote to Rusdhie she stated:
“Written words still have the amazing power to bring out the best and the worst of human nature,”
[ and continued with . . . ]
“We ought to treat words the way we treat nuclear energy or genetic engineering-with courage, caution, vision and precision.”
If mankind as accomplished anything, worthy of achievement it is language. It is spoken word, and written word. Words have proven to start wars, and end wars. Words that make you laugh, and words that make you cry. Words and langue have proven to be the greatest form invention that mankind will ever achieve. To that I agree with Nadine Gordimer. We also agree on her disproval of all forms of censorship. She had lived a varied and strong life. A life of witnessing, and action. As she once stated she may have failed at a lot, but was never afraid.
Rest in Peace Nadine Gordimer
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
Nadine Gordimer, was the first South African writer to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Almost twenty three years ago, this coming October, Nadine Gordimer, received a phone call from Sweden, and the Swedish Academy’s then Permanent Secretary Sture Allén, who had informed her of her Nobel Accolade; Gordimer then sixty-nine years old, traveled to Sweden to accept the prize and give a lecture, titled: “Writing and Being.” Gordimer is one of those authors, who took a stance in their writing in regards to their own held views of the society around them. In Gordimer’s case, she took an adamant stance against the South African imposed policy and legislation called Apartheid. Apartheid, instituted by the National Party and Dutch settlers called Boers, segregated the black of South Africa; and the white from each other. This racial discrimination physically disgusted Gordimer, and soon her work began to reflect the contentious relationship of the inhabitants of the country, based around such blatant inhumane treatment. But to state that Gordimer’s work was solely, inclined to South Africa and Apartheid, is not a correct overview of her work. Gordimer was repelled and disturbed all injustices, both in her country and internationally. Still in the end Gordimer was after all, a writer. She was an activist; but her loyalties always stayed true to her passion with writing; which came from a fondness of reading and writing, from childhood. When she was eleven, she had developed a heart murmur, and her mother pulled her from school, and administered bed rest. From there on Gordimer developed a fondness for reading and writing.
Gordimer believed strongly in the power of words, and their power which could devastate, and nourish. As she wrote to Salmin Rushdie as he hide from Islamistis, terrorist, and jihadists, calling for his head, after the call for a fatwa; and the fears of assignation attempts that followed, as she wrote to Rusdhie she stated:
“Written words still have the amazing power to bring out the best and the worst of human nature,”
[ and continued with . . . ]
“We ought to treat words the way we treat nuclear energy or genetic engineering-with courage, caution, vision and precision.”
If mankind as accomplished anything, worthy of achievement it is language. It is spoken word, and written word. Words have proven to start wars, and end wars. Words that make you laugh, and words that make you cry. Words and langue have proven to be the greatest form invention that mankind will ever achieve. To that I agree with Nadine Gordimer. We also agree on her disproval of all forms of censorship. She had lived a varied and strong life. A life of witnessing, and action. As she once stated she may have failed at a lot, but was never afraid.
Rest in Peace Nadine Gordimer
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, 10 July 2014
Beautiful Shadow: A Life of Patricia Highsmith
Hello Gentle Reader
There is a resurgence of interest, in the work of Patricia Highsmith; the grandmother and dame of the psychological thriller. There is also a renewed interest into the authors, life as well. In a sense it started back in nineteen-ninety nine, with the release of “The Talented Mister Ripley,” staring Matt Damon and Jude Law. However the film failed to stir interest in the author, to any intensity. Yet Highsmith had come back to haunt the literary world once again in two-thousand and three; with Andrew Wilson’s biography of Patricia Highsmith: “Beautiful Shadow: a Life of Patricia Highsmith.” Six years later, Joan Schenkar published her enormously detailed biography of Highsmith titled: “The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith.” Now adaptations of Highsmith’s works are back in circulation. In May of two-thousand and fourteen, “The Two Faces of January,” an adaption of Highsmith’s nineteen-sixty four novel, with the same name, will be released. “Carol,” an adaption of Highsmith’s complicated, lesbian romance novel, is also in production. “Carol,” which was originally published as: “The Price of Salt,” under the pseudonym Claire Morgan, is famous for being the first work of fiction, that deals with homosexual love, and ends on a happy note. Virago has also just recently released Highsmith’s novels in ebook format; and three of Highsmith’s novels: “The Glass Cell,” “A Suspension of Mercy,” and “Those Who Walk Away,” will be released with new introductions by her most recent biographer Joan Schenkar. There is also a play staring the author as a character, that will be performed at the Geffen Playhouse, written by the Australian playwright Joanna Murray-Smith; and titled “Switzerland,” will be a part of the twenty-fourteen and twenty-fifteen season.
Patricia Highsmith is not well known. She is not held to the same popular acclaim like that of other crime writers: Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, or Arthur Conan Doyle. My experience in asking if someone has heard of Patricia Highsmith is that they will generally answer: ‘no.’ if you care to infer the question further, by adding: ‘she’s the author of: “The Talented Mister Ripley,”’ then people will say they have heard of the novel. The work of Highsmith – especially the character of Thomas ‘Tom,’ Ripley; have gone on to overshadow the woman that had written them. Highsmith is often lumped in with crime fiction – which the author had an ambivalent relationship with. Her style may have been blunt, flat, and incredibly straightforward; yet there was no denying her literary influences: Kafka, Dostoevsky, Camus and Henry James. Though her brilliance as a writer, in tackling subjects, such as: guilt, identity, displacement, sexuality – all in her signature cold, clammy, claustrophobic world of, apprehension and uncertainty; populated by amoral characters; had garnered her respect. Most of that respect though, came from Europe. A place that Highsmith had made her adopted home, for the last thirty-two years of her life. As for her status in America; Highsmith held cult status.
One publisher had gone on to tell Patricia Highsmith the news that, she was not all that popular in America because none of her characters were likeable. In cantankerous fashion Highsmith fired back: “Maybe it’s because I don’t like people.” Truth be told, Patricia Highsmith’s world was a world filled with irrationality and existential crises. Her most famous creation is an amoral conman. In the eyes of Patricia Highsmith, murder was just as much a mundane act, as ironing ones clothes. Which is why, an ironing press in a hotel room, could easily be imagined, as a torture device in her mind.
When describing to a friend, who Patricia Highsmith was, they were delighted in her eccentricities. The fact that she brought a handbag of snails to a dinner party, so she had someone to talk to; and according to an article/story; when the conversation died down to a pause, she would plop snails on to the table from her purse, and allow them to crawl around. This dear friend of mine, even went on to declare that if Patricia Highsmith were around today, and lived closer by, that she would be someone worth associating with. However, as Highsmith new best, it’s not all fun and games in life. She was no different. She had a fierce dependency to alcohol. To call her an uncomfortable lesbian, who did not particularly like women, would be considered an understatement. To call her a misogynist – would not be entirely true either. She had a severe stance in regards to the Jewish population and to Israel. To call her anti-Semitic; would be a rather honest statement. She was liberal; but also racist. Highsmith would rather chain smoke then eat. To be alone and lonely, was a much better option than being surrounded by people, and suffering through the verbal spitfire of: chit chat. She thought of her own gender as dirty. The thought of women in libraries, disgusted her; as they could be reading and menstruating at the same time. Despite her eccentricities; and her less then appealing traits; she had her redeemable qualities. She had a sense of humour; though it was black. In fact her short story collection: “Little Tales of Misogyny,” was more satirical then it was misogynistic. She was an avid gardener. Though some say it was rather disorganized. She loved animals. Patricia enjoyed the company of animals over people. She even had a language that she spoke to her cats in; a peculiar trait, which many were not quite sure how to take; much like her sense of humour; or her abrupt honesty. Still this did not deter my friend from Highsmith; and at the moment is enjoying my copy of her other biography: “The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith.”
When I had first read Patricia Highsmith’s biography – the two-thousand and nine edition; by Joan Schenkar; admittedly I was frightened by what I read. Highsmith at the time appeared: cruel, misanthropic, guarded, jaded, and incredibly lonely. Patricia Highsmith was lonely, and unhappy. However Highsmith did experience, moments of intense joy. Yet over time that joy just petered out; or was ended on rather harsh terms. After these moments of joy and love; Highsmith would then experience depressions. Later in life, Highsmith’s only joy was her work. Without her writing, Highsmith’s life would have been unmanageable. What she would have done; from murder to suicide; is not clear. Though it is thankful she had her writing to turn to. Something that kept her occupied; and offered her a purpose; to an otherwise troubled life.
Her former American publisher Otto Penzler has been outright and forthcoming in his opinion of Patricia Highsmith:
“She was a mean, cruel, hard, unlovable, unloving human being. I could never penetrate how any human being could be that relentlessly ugly”
That being said:
“[ . . . ] But her books? Brilliant.”
Now on my second attempt at getting re-acquainted with Highsmith, there was less trepidation; and certainly there was no naïve anticipation. Opening the book I decided to keep an objective air; and hope to rekindle, something that was lost, in the first time that I had read a Highsmith biography. I was well aware the first time, around that Highsmith was relentless in her opinions; especially those in regards to her views on Jews and Israel. I was also well aware, that she was a chain smoking anorexic, misanthrope alcoholic. There could be no punches pulled this time. Yet hopefully the second time around, I hoped that I would not see so much in common with Highsmith. Though upon discussing some of Highsmith’s traits with my friend; it was clear, we held some interesting similarities. A displeasure in regards to overcrowded and large parties; a somewhat (though Highsmith’s was far more acerbic then mine) barbed tongue; a sense of humour – though Highsmith’s was far more macabre. Thankfully I can count that our differences between us is far greater than our similarities. That being said when invited to dinner parties, I have been advised to bring snails, as company.
What might surprise a lot of people of this biography – which is written in a more traditional manner in regards to a biography; is how hot blooded Highsmith was. In her later years, she was a cold fish. Many people choose to remember, the persona that they had seen. The irritable, crotchety, old miser of a woman. Yet in her younger years, Highsmith was an anxious self-conscious child. She looked always uncertain, when facing a camera. Still as she got older, she was still shy, but was always on prowl for love. Though the often ended in disaster as they had started in intense passion. One of her former lovers; committed suicide by drinking nitric acid. Highsmith in the beginning blamed herself, for the death. Though she often placed the portrait, that her lover (an artist) had done for her, in prominent place in her home.
Tragedy however bestowed a total stranger, who Highsmith was infatuated with. Kathleen Senn, came into Bloomingdale’s toy department, to buy a trinket for her children, one Christmas season. The young Patricia Highsmith, served Mrs. Senn, and became interested in the woman, after their brief transaction. Highsmith stocked this woman, feeling a joyful guilt in it. However Patricia Highsmith never learned the fate that awaited her inspiration for her novel “The Price of Salt,” or “Carol.” Kathleen Senn committed suicide. Highsmith never learned the fate of her inspiration.
These are just two examples of the lives Highsmith entered – one prominently; the other in an undercurrent almost shadowy appearance. Despite her desire to love; and her enjoyment in loving, and being loved, Highsmith continually fell in love and harder out of it. For Highsmith love and resentment occupied the same place, on the emotional spectrum. After continual broken and unmade beds, left in her wake; it is no wonder that Highsmith eventually lived a lonely and displaced life.
Patricia Highsmith lived a rather turbulent life. Her relationships, at times were just barely tolerated. She loved and hated her own mother – who had attempted to abort her with turpentine. She had resented her stepfather Stanley Highsmith; who was a timid man, and had no real quality worth admiring. Her childhood was described as: ‘a little hell.’ She hated her family; and after her death left nothing to any of them. Her archives were left to the Swiss Literary Archives; and her entire estate was left to the artist and writers retreat Yaddo. Still those that new Highsmith, stated she was shy, but tender, that she was honest, and had a great sense of humour; but also generous and a good friend. I think that those that took the time to get to know Patricia Highsmith, often discovered, the woman that she did her best to hide. One of Highsmith’s mannerisms was to hide behind the bangs of her hair; only furthering, the opinion that many had of her girlish shyness; or the debilitating shyness that plagued her.
After reading Andrew Wilson’s well put together biography in the company of Joan Schenkar’s biography; I can safely say that I look to Patricia Highsmith, not as a foreshadowing being, of what I may one day become; but rather I look at Patricia Highsmith as a contradictory, complicated person; and as a dear old friend. Highsmith was someone, who had loved, and had been loved – though it did not always work out. She was a survivor through and through. Despite the adversities in her life, she always came out – in a reasonable manner; on top. Highsmith might be overlooked as a writer – and as a writer of simple crime fiction; over time it may be seen, that she psychologically, vivisected the human psyche in regards to guilt; and the finer qualities of bad behavior. In time her work will prove to have straddled the line between crime fiction and mainstream fiction. “Edith’s Diary,” is the prime example. Still in my opinion Patricia Highsmith is far more fascinating as a person then she was a writer. In the future when discussing her with friends and strangers – especially at dinner parties; I’ll be sure to bring out snails, and reiterate the story of Highsmith, and her fascinating relationship with her gastropod friends.
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 is a resurgence of interest, in the work of Patricia Highsmith; the grandmother and dame of the psychological thriller. There is also a renewed interest into the authors, life as well. In a sense it started back in nineteen-ninety nine, with the release of “The Talented Mister Ripley,” staring Matt Damon and Jude Law. However the film failed to stir interest in the author, to any intensity. Yet Highsmith had come back to haunt the literary world once again in two-thousand and three; with Andrew Wilson’s biography of Patricia Highsmith: “Beautiful Shadow: a Life of Patricia Highsmith.” Six years later, Joan Schenkar published her enormously detailed biography of Highsmith titled: “The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith.” Now adaptations of Highsmith’s works are back in circulation. In May of two-thousand and fourteen, “The Two Faces of January,” an adaption of Highsmith’s nineteen-sixty four novel, with the same name, will be released. “Carol,” an adaption of Highsmith’s complicated, lesbian romance novel, is also in production. “Carol,” which was originally published as: “The Price of Salt,” under the pseudonym Claire Morgan, is famous for being the first work of fiction, that deals with homosexual love, and ends on a happy note. Virago has also just recently released Highsmith’s novels in ebook format; and three of Highsmith’s novels: “The Glass Cell,” “A Suspension of Mercy,” and “Those Who Walk Away,” will be released with new introductions by her most recent biographer Joan Schenkar. There is also a play staring the author as a character, that will be performed at the Geffen Playhouse, written by the Australian playwright Joanna Murray-Smith; and titled “Switzerland,” will be a part of the twenty-fourteen and twenty-fifteen season.
Patricia Highsmith is not well known. She is not held to the same popular acclaim like that of other crime writers: Raymond Chandler, Agatha Christie, or Arthur Conan Doyle. My experience in asking if someone has heard of Patricia Highsmith is that they will generally answer: ‘no.’ if you care to infer the question further, by adding: ‘she’s the author of: “The Talented Mister Ripley,”’ then people will say they have heard of the novel. The work of Highsmith – especially the character of Thomas ‘Tom,’ Ripley; have gone on to overshadow the woman that had written them. Highsmith is often lumped in with crime fiction – which the author had an ambivalent relationship with. Her style may have been blunt, flat, and incredibly straightforward; yet there was no denying her literary influences: Kafka, Dostoevsky, Camus and Henry James. Though her brilliance as a writer, in tackling subjects, such as: guilt, identity, displacement, sexuality – all in her signature cold, clammy, claustrophobic world of, apprehension and uncertainty; populated by amoral characters; had garnered her respect. Most of that respect though, came from Europe. A place that Highsmith had made her adopted home, for the last thirty-two years of her life. As for her status in America; Highsmith held cult status.
One publisher had gone on to tell Patricia Highsmith the news that, she was not all that popular in America because none of her characters were likeable. In cantankerous fashion Highsmith fired back: “Maybe it’s because I don’t like people.” Truth be told, Patricia Highsmith’s world was a world filled with irrationality and existential crises. Her most famous creation is an amoral conman. In the eyes of Patricia Highsmith, murder was just as much a mundane act, as ironing ones clothes. Which is why, an ironing press in a hotel room, could easily be imagined, as a torture device in her mind.
When describing to a friend, who Patricia Highsmith was, they were delighted in her eccentricities. The fact that she brought a handbag of snails to a dinner party, so she had someone to talk to; and according to an article/story; when the conversation died down to a pause, she would plop snails on to the table from her purse, and allow them to crawl around. This dear friend of mine, even went on to declare that if Patricia Highsmith were around today, and lived closer by, that she would be someone worth associating with. However, as Highsmith new best, it’s not all fun and games in life. She was no different. She had a fierce dependency to alcohol. To call her an uncomfortable lesbian, who did not particularly like women, would be considered an understatement. To call her a misogynist – would not be entirely true either. She had a severe stance in regards to the Jewish population and to Israel. To call her anti-Semitic; would be a rather honest statement. She was liberal; but also racist. Highsmith would rather chain smoke then eat. To be alone and lonely, was a much better option than being surrounded by people, and suffering through the verbal spitfire of: chit chat. She thought of her own gender as dirty. The thought of women in libraries, disgusted her; as they could be reading and menstruating at the same time. Despite her eccentricities; and her less then appealing traits; she had her redeemable qualities. She had a sense of humour; though it was black. In fact her short story collection: “Little Tales of Misogyny,” was more satirical then it was misogynistic. She was an avid gardener. Though some say it was rather disorganized. She loved animals. Patricia enjoyed the company of animals over people. She even had a language that she spoke to her cats in; a peculiar trait, which many were not quite sure how to take; much like her sense of humour; or her abrupt honesty. Still this did not deter my friend from Highsmith; and at the moment is enjoying my copy of her other biography: “The Talented Miss Highsmith: The Secret Life and Serious Art of Patricia Highsmith.”
When I had first read Patricia Highsmith’s biography – the two-thousand and nine edition; by Joan Schenkar; admittedly I was frightened by what I read. Highsmith at the time appeared: cruel, misanthropic, guarded, jaded, and incredibly lonely. Patricia Highsmith was lonely, and unhappy. However Highsmith did experience, moments of intense joy. Yet over time that joy just petered out; or was ended on rather harsh terms. After these moments of joy and love; Highsmith would then experience depressions. Later in life, Highsmith’s only joy was her work. Without her writing, Highsmith’s life would have been unmanageable. What she would have done; from murder to suicide; is not clear. Though it is thankful she had her writing to turn to. Something that kept her occupied; and offered her a purpose; to an otherwise troubled life.
Her former American publisher Otto Penzler has been outright and forthcoming in his opinion of Patricia Highsmith:
“She was a mean, cruel, hard, unlovable, unloving human being. I could never penetrate how any human being could be that relentlessly ugly”
That being said:
“[ . . . ] But her books? Brilliant.”
Now on my second attempt at getting re-acquainted with Highsmith, there was less trepidation; and certainly there was no naïve anticipation. Opening the book I decided to keep an objective air; and hope to rekindle, something that was lost, in the first time that I had read a Highsmith biography. I was well aware the first time, around that Highsmith was relentless in her opinions; especially those in regards to her views on Jews and Israel. I was also well aware, that she was a chain smoking anorexic, misanthrope alcoholic. There could be no punches pulled this time. Yet hopefully the second time around, I hoped that I would not see so much in common with Highsmith. Though upon discussing some of Highsmith’s traits with my friend; it was clear, we held some interesting similarities. A displeasure in regards to overcrowded and large parties; a somewhat (though Highsmith’s was far more acerbic then mine) barbed tongue; a sense of humour – though Highsmith’s was far more macabre. Thankfully I can count that our differences between us is far greater than our similarities. That being said when invited to dinner parties, I have been advised to bring snails, as company.
What might surprise a lot of people of this biography – which is written in a more traditional manner in regards to a biography; is how hot blooded Highsmith was. In her later years, she was a cold fish. Many people choose to remember, the persona that they had seen. The irritable, crotchety, old miser of a woman. Yet in her younger years, Highsmith was an anxious self-conscious child. She looked always uncertain, when facing a camera. Still as she got older, she was still shy, but was always on prowl for love. Though the often ended in disaster as they had started in intense passion. One of her former lovers; committed suicide by drinking nitric acid. Highsmith in the beginning blamed herself, for the death. Though she often placed the portrait, that her lover (an artist) had done for her, in prominent place in her home.
Tragedy however bestowed a total stranger, who Highsmith was infatuated with. Kathleen Senn, came into Bloomingdale’s toy department, to buy a trinket for her children, one Christmas season. The young Patricia Highsmith, served Mrs. Senn, and became interested in the woman, after their brief transaction. Highsmith stocked this woman, feeling a joyful guilt in it. However Patricia Highsmith never learned the fate that awaited her inspiration for her novel “The Price of Salt,” or “Carol.” Kathleen Senn committed suicide. Highsmith never learned the fate of her inspiration.
These are just two examples of the lives Highsmith entered – one prominently; the other in an undercurrent almost shadowy appearance. Despite her desire to love; and her enjoyment in loving, and being loved, Highsmith continually fell in love and harder out of it. For Highsmith love and resentment occupied the same place, on the emotional spectrum. After continual broken and unmade beds, left in her wake; it is no wonder that Highsmith eventually lived a lonely and displaced life.
Patricia Highsmith lived a rather turbulent life. Her relationships, at times were just barely tolerated. She loved and hated her own mother – who had attempted to abort her with turpentine. She had resented her stepfather Stanley Highsmith; who was a timid man, and had no real quality worth admiring. Her childhood was described as: ‘a little hell.’ She hated her family; and after her death left nothing to any of them. Her archives were left to the Swiss Literary Archives; and her entire estate was left to the artist and writers retreat Yaddo. Still those that new Highsmith, stated she was shy, but tender, that she was honest, and had a great sense of humour; but also generous and a good friend. I think that those that took the time to get to know Patricia Highsmith, often discovered, the woman that she did her best to hide. One of Highsmith’s mannerisms was to hide behind the bangs of her hair; only furthering, the opinion that many had of her girlish shyness; or the debilitating shyness that plagued her.
After reading Andrew Wilson’s well put together biography in the company of Joan Schenkar’s biography; I can safely say that I look to Patricia Highsmith, not as a foreshadowing being, of what I may one day become; but rather I look at Patricia Highsmith as a contradictory, complicated person; and as a dear old friend. Highsmith was someone, who had loved, and had been loved – though it did not always work out. She was a survivor through and through. Despite the adversities in her life, she always came out – in a reasonable manner; on top. Highsmith might be overlooked as a writer – and as a writer of simple crime fiction; over time it may be seen, that she psychologically, vivisected the human psyche in regards to guilt; and the finer qualities of bad behavior. In time her work will prove to have straddled the line between crime fiction and mainstream fiction. “Edith’s Diary,” is the prime example. Still in my opinion Patricia Highsmith is far more fascinating as a person then she was a writer. In the future when discussing her with friends and strangers – especially at dinner parties; I’ll be sure to bring out snails, and reiterate the story of Highsmith, and her fascinating relationship with her gastropod friends.
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, 26 June 2014
In Literary News
Hello Gentle Reader
Carmen Balcells in Spanish and Latin American literature is a name to be reckoned with. She has been nicknamed La Mamá Grande – after one of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s short stories (Big Momma’s Funeral). She is the literary agent of some of the greatest giants of the Latin American Boom, and Spanish language literature in general. She has managed six Nobel Laureates in Literature – including the recently deceased Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Mario Vargas Llosa. She has been referred to as one of the most influential women in Spanish letters. However, at eighty three years old, La Mamá Grande is aware of her age. The Latin Boom maybe over, but it is in debt to Carmen Balcells, for her liaison between Spain and Latin America; and the eventual release of such books translated into English for the rest of the world to enjoy. The backlist of the Boom lives on; however Balcells has no clear successor; which leaves a purgatory for her authors work. Who would negotiate and broker deals with foreign publishers? Who would ensure that her authors got their fair cut of the deal? All of this Balcells had done for each of them before hand, ensuring that each of her authors budded and bloomed accordingly. Her lavish parties are the talk of legends; and each of her authors adore, Balcells, looking to her as a friend and confidant. Yet with the onslaught of time, Balcells has come to a deal with the American literary agent Andrew Wylie, to create the Balcells-Wylie agency; in which Carmen Balcells authors would come under joint management of herself and Andrew Wylie. What this means for Wylie is that he is getting a deeper and more lucrative hold into the publishing industry of Spain and Latin America – specifically for Latin America; as sales continue to rise; since Spain was hit hard by the economic crisis. Wylie has attempted three times to get a stronger foot hold into this literary market. Hopefully this means more Spanish authors that are not well known, will soon be published into English, and the Spanish speaking worlds of Latin America and Spain, will be able to achieve a stronger dialogue between the two languages. Time will have to tell.
Continuing with the Latin American Spanish language theme:
Recently new poems by Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda had been discovered. What is interesting in regards to this ‘universal significance,’ as the manager of Neruda’s estate has stated; is that the poems discovered are in Neruda’s mature style. These are not amateur poems, by a younger poet; but the poetry that Neruda has become famous for. Six of the twenty poems that were discovered are love poems; and the other fourteen vary in the themes of Neruda’s universe. Though these poems are to be published in Latin America this year, and then in Spain next year; there is no news when they will be published in English.
[Last and least:]
The Peace Prize of the German Book Trade has also announced this years winner. The American writer, computer scientist and composer of classical music: Jaron Lannier has been announced to receive the prize; which he will receive October during the Frankfurt Book Fair. Previous winners include Liao Yiwu the expatriate Chinese author in two-thousand and twelve and the Belarusian journalist and writer Svetlana Alexievich who won in two-thousand and thirteen. Congratulations to Jaron Lannier.
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
Carmen Balcells in Spanish and Latin American literature is a name to be reckoned with. She has been nicknamed La Mamá Grande – after one of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s short stories (Big Momma’s Funeral). She is the literary agent of some of the greatest giants of the Latin American Boom, and Spanish language literature in general. She has managed six Nobel Laureates in Literature – including the recently deceased Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Mario Vargas Llosa. She has been referred to as one of the most influential women in Spanish letters. However, at eighty three years old, La Mamá Grande is aware of her age. The Latin Boom maybe over, but it is in debt to Carmen Balcells, for her liaison between Spain and Latin America; and the eventual release of such books translated into English for the rest of the world to enjoy. The backlist of the Boom lives on; however Balcells has no clear successor; which leaves a purgatory for her authors work. Who would negotiate and broker deals with foreign publishers? Who would ensure that her authors got their fair cut of the deal? All of this Balcells had done for each of them before hand, ensuring that each of her authors budded and bloomed accordingly. Her lavish parties are the talk of legends; and each of her authors adore, Balcells, looking to her as a friend and confidant. Yet with the onslaught of time, Balcells has come to a deal with the American literary agent Andrew Wylie, to create the Balcells-Wylie agency; in which Carmen Balcells authors would come under joint management of herself and Andrew Wylie. What this means for Wylie is that he is getting a deeper and more lucrative hold into the publishing industry of Spain and Latin America – specifically for Latin America; as sales continue to rise; since Spain was hit hard by the economic crisis. Wylie has attempted three times to get a stronger foot hold into this literary market. Hopefully this means more Spanish authors that are not well known, will soon be published into English, and the Spanish speaking worlds of Latin America and Spain, will be able to achieve a stronger dialogue between the two languages. Time will have to tell.
Continuing with the Latin American Spanish language theme:
Recently new poems by Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda had been discovered. What is interesting in regards to this ‘universal significance,’ as the manager of Neruda’s estate has stated; is that the poems discovered are in Neruda’s mature style. These are not amateur poems, by a younger poet; but the poetry that Neruda has become famous for. Six of the twenty poems that were discovered are love poems; and the other fourteen vary in the themes of Neruda’s universe. Though these poems are to be published in Latin America this year, and then in Spain next year; there is no news when they will be published in English.
[Last and least:]
The Peace Prize of the German Book Trade has also announced this years winner. The American writer, computer scientist and composer of classical music: Jaron Lannier has been announced to receive the prize; which he will receive October during the Frankfurt Book Fair. Previous winners include Liao Yiwu the expatriate Chinese author in two-thousand and twelve and the Belarusian journalist and writer Svetlana Alexievich who won in two-thousand and thirteen. Congratulations to Jaron Lannier.
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
Friday, 13 June 2014
IMPAC Literary Dublin Award
Hello Gentle Reader
This year’s IMPAC Literary Dublin Award, has been awarded to the Colombian novelist Juan Gabriel Vásquez, for his novel: “The Sound of Things Falling.” The novel traces the Colombian drug trade, and was cited by critics as a: “consummate literary thriller that resonates long after the final page.” The judges citation for the prize had the following to say:
“Through a masterly command of layered time periods, spiralling mysteries and a noir palette, it reveals how intimate lives are overshadowed by history; how the past preys on the present; and how the fate of individuals as well as countries is moulded by distant, or covert, events.”
Juan Gabriel Vásquez was up against such veteran authors like Karl Ove Knausgaard from Norway and Frances Marie NDiaye; both of whom were named heavy contenders for the lucrative prize.
Congratulations are in order to Juan Gabriel Vásquez for his winning novel.
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 year’s IMPAC Literary Dublin Award, has been awarded to the Colombian novelist Juan Gabriel Vásquez, for his novel: “The Sound of Things Falling.” The novel traces the Colombian drug trade, and was cited by critics as a: “consummate literary thriller that resonates long after the final page.” The judges citation for the prize had the following to say:
“Through a masterly command of layered time periods, spiralling mysteries and a noir palette, it reveals how intimate lives are overshadowed by history; how the past preys on the present; and how the fate of individuals as well as countries is moulded by distant, or covert, events.”
Juan Gabriel Vásquez was up against such veteran authors like Karl Ove Knausgaard from Norway and Frances Marie NDiaye; both of whom were named heavy contenders for the lucrative prize.
Congratulations are in order to Juan Gabriel Vásquez for his winning novel.
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, 5 June 2014
Poetry and the Everyday – A Great Divide
Hello Gentle Reader
Jeremy Paxman a British broadcaster; who is known as the host on the BBC program “Newsnight,” – which after twenty five years of hosting, he is now leaving; was one of the judges for the Forward Prize for Poetry. Paxman was very receptive to the poetry that he read, going as far as to state: “nothing on the shortlist that I don't feel better for having read.” However Paxman made a rather controversial statement, in the end – a statement that I agree with:
From “The Guardian: Books,” Article:
“I think poetry has really rather connived at its own irrelevance and that shouldn't happen, because it's the most delightful thing," said Paxman. "It seems to me very often that poets now seem to be talking to other poets and that is not talking to people as a whole.”
In this case Paxman is right. Poetry has locked itself away from the public, and become a reclusive old man or woman, hiding behind volumes and volumes of poetry, barricaded in the ivory tower, in which they only communicate with other poets via a ‘correspondence of air.’ In a sense poetry and poets have lost sight of the greater and larger world around them. There appears to be a lack of mutual grounds of agreement with poets and the everyday reader, and that has since alienated poetry from the general public, and the general public from poetry. Where one has moved on with their lives – choosing to engage with films, daytime soap operas, talk shows, and the dreaded ‘reality tv,’ that can be summed up as: sixteen and pregnant, [some] shore, or the [supposedly] real housewives of [insert some place]; as well as video games, and other such forms of entertainment. The other however, hides away from a world, which they could neither fathom nor wish to be a part of. Now there is regret and resentment in the decision to hide away from the world. Poetry sales decline more and more. The art of writing poetry is now seen as a specialty in itself. It has the connotations of: ‘scholars only,’ attached to it; or the thought of lovers struck by their desire to be with each other; or that of the broken hearted; weaving their feelings into words. In the end poetry has since been rendered to the most superficial forms, and has been left as the begrudged obligations that one’s English teacher must teach in their class. The groans of students when the sentence: “today we start discussing poetry,” can still be heard echoing in the minds of every former student of High School; each of whom have happily forgotten the Italian and Shakespearian sonnet.
Still poetry is not entirely written in vain. Poetry (as those who have come to its defense) is often recited at funerals and marriages; why else do we have poet laureates, and a poem recited at presidential inaugurations. Poetry is the expression of emotion through imagery, laced together in a form that straddles the lines between prose and music. Poetry’s place in the world is small. It is recited at events of meaning. They can be used to up the sentimental value of the moment. They drive a point home in recitation of a specific line; as I had just done the other day when discussing ‘love,’ with a co-worker the two lines that I recited were from two different poets:
“It is better to have loved and lost, then to have never loved at all.”
- Lord Alfred Tennyson
“The heart will break, but broken live on.”
- Lord Byron
Through the words of two poets, I was able to drive my point home. It appears that poetry is not entirely dead. It is alienated from the everyday reader; who have moved away from poetry and moved into other areas of pastimes. However poetry is still around and alive. Though poets have locked themselves away from the world, and some have found great success in the literary world; John Paxman’s comments that poetry has become: “rather connived at its own irrelevance.” It still is finding new ways to engage with the world, such as performance poetry, and poetry slams.
Should poets be forced to answer to inquisitions as John Paxman has suggested; to defend their choice of words, imagery, and the form itself? Perhaps it’s not always the poets to blame. In my opinion: it is how we teach poetry, and how we learn poetry that could make the difference. Poetry should be taught not as a black and white, subject, but be open to interpretation, and all interpretations should be openly discussed. This way students do not receive a dreadful disgust of poetry, but rather are asked to think for themselves, see something in a new and different light, and formulate an opinion based upon their own thoughts and associations from the poem.
I would like to leave off with the satirical poem: “Poetry Reading,” by Wisława Szymborska:
“To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.
The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.
Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.
In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore:
he dreams his wife's alive again. What's more,
she's making him that tart she used to bake.
Aflame, but carefully-don't burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.”
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
Jeremy Paxman a British broadcaster; who is known as the host on the BBC program “Newsnight,” – which after twenty five years of hosting, he is now leaving; was one of the judges for the Forward Prize for Poetry. Paxman was very receptive to the poetry that he read, going as far as to state: “nothing on the shortlist that I don't feel better for having read.” However Paxman made a rather controversial statement, in the end – a statement that I agree with:
From “The Guardian: Books,” Article:
“I think poetry has really rather connived at its own irrelevance and that shouldn't happen, because it's the most delightful thing," said Paxman. "It seems to me very often that poets now seem to be talking to other poets and that is not talking to people as a whole.”
In this case Paxman is right. Poetry has locked itself away from the public, and become a reclusive old man or woman, hiding behind volumes and volumes of poetry, barricaded in the ivory tower, in which they only communicate with other poets via a ‘correspondence of air.’ In a sense poetry and poets have lost sight of the greater and larger world around them. There appears to be a lack of mutual grounds of agreement with poets and the everyday reader, and that has since alienated poetry from the general public, and the general public from poetry. Where one has moved on with their lives – choosing to engage with films, daytime soap operas, talk shows, and the dreaded ‘reality tv,’ that can be summed up as: sixteen and pregnant, [some] shore, or the [supposedly] real housewives of [insert some place]; as well as video games, and other such forms of entertainment. The other however, hides away from a world, which they could neither fathom nor wish to be a part of. Now there is regret and resentment in the decision to hide away from the world. Poetry sales decline more and more. The art of writing poetry is now seen as a specialty in itself. It has the connotations of: ‘scholars only,’ attached to it; or the thought of lovers struck by their desire to be with each other; or that of the broken hearted; weaving their feelings into words. In the end poetry has since been rendered to the most superficial forms, and has been left as the begrudged obligations that one’s English teacher must teach in their class. The groans of students when the sentence: “today we start discussing poetry,” can still be heard echoing in the minds of every former student of High School; each of whom have happily forgotten the Italian and Shakespearian sonnet.
Still poetry is not entirely written in vain. Poetry (as those who have come to its defense) is often recited at funerals and marriages; why else do we have poet laureates, and a poem recited at presidential inaugurations. Poetry is the expression of emotion through imagery, laced together in a form that straddles the lines between prose and music. Poetry’s place in the world is small. It is recited at events of meaning. They can be used to up the sentimental value of the moment. They drive a point home in recitation of a specific line; as I had just done the other day when discussing ‘love,’ with a co-worker the two lines that I recited were from two different poets:
“It is better to have loved and lost, then to have never loved at all.”
- Lord Alfred Tennyson
“The heart will break, but broken live on.”
- Lord Byron
Through the words of two poets, I was able to drive my point home. It appears that poetry is not entirely dead. It is alienated from the everyday reader; who have moved away from poetry and moved into other areas of pastimes. However poetry is still around and alive. Though poets have locked themselves away from the world, and some have found great success in the literary world; John Paxman’s comments that poetry has become: “rather connived at its own irrelevance.” It still is finding new ways to engage with the world, such as performance poetry, and poetry slams.
Should poets be forced to answer to inquisitions as John Paxman has suggested; to defend their choice of words, imagery, and the form itself? Perhaps it’s not always the poets to blame. In my opinion: it is how we teach poetry, and how we learn poetry that could make the difference. Poetry should be taught not as a black and white, subject, but be open to interpretation, and all interpretations should be openly discussed. This way students do not receive a dreadful disgust of poetry, but rather are asked to think for themselves, see something in a new and different light, and formulate an opinion based upon their own thoughts and associations from the poem.
I would like to leave off with the satirical poem: “Poetry Reading,” by Wisława Szymborska:
“To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.
The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.
Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.
In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore:
he dreams his wife's alive again. What's more,
she's making him that tart she used to bake.
Aflame, but carefully-don't burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.”
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
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