Hello Gentle Reader
When you have read an authors work, it is often difficult not to compare their work, to prior reads. Such is the case with J.M.G Le Clezio and his two short story collections: “Mondo: and Other Stories,” and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts.” “Mondo: and Other Stories,” came out, in the late seventies; and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” followed suit in the early eighties. Both publications, did not find an English translation until, decade(s) after their initial publications. “Mondo: and Other Stories,” deals heavily with an innocent and dream like atmosphere; each stories focal point is growing up – generally in the ways of, a rite of passage. Young people are at the centre of the book; and their eventual departure from childhood, into the greater (and wider) world of adulthood; often in small cases. With the said collection, Le Clezio was able to write evocatively, about growing up; the slow process of shedding ones innocence and the eventual understanding of one changing and becoming an adult. Reading “Mondo: and Other Stories,” often left me with a feeling of nostalgia. As a reader – at any age – the ability to associate with an authors work is a great pleasure. Some literature is meant to educate; some bears witness. Others however, come to into a reader’s life, and allow there to be some form of association, with the written text, and the author who writes it. It is this moment of shared nostalgia – that allows for a sense of empathy to, be reached beyond geographical boundaries, and beyond the limitations of language. As an avid bibliophile – to the point that it is painful to look at the bank account; reading such literature is a great treat; and it is often few and far between. That being said; when such publications do come across ones path, they are to be treasured, and to be held dear. They hold a special place on the bookshelf. These books do not sit higher than others; nor do they sit lower. But upon a passing glance at them they are immediately recognized, by that sudden resurfacing of the enjoyment of reading them. Not through the technicalities of the text; not through the linguistic acrobatics of language; not through story or plot; but rather though that shared empathetic link of a shared understanding. That is why “Mondo: and Other Stories,” was a great enjoyment to read, and a book to treasure and hold dear.
“The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is a lot different, then “Mondo: and Other Stories,” it goes back to Le Clezio’s themes as a “new novelist,” (Nouveau Roman) in the same vein as other such authors like: Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarruate, Marguerite Duras; as well as fellow Nobel Laureate, Claude Simon – who disagreed being grouped with the other authors; as well as literary philosopher Maurice Blanchot, and German speaking writer Peter Handke. In “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” it rehashes the themes of Le Clezio’s early work. The failure and boundaries of language, existential crisis, nihilistic desperation, and a world engulfing alienation and loneliness that leads to self-imposed solitary confinement and exile from all human contact. That also being stated, the stories, are written in Le Clezio’s more mature style. This can clearly be seen in the following passage from the story: “Ariadne,”
“The people aren’t anywhere to be seen; they’ve disappeared. The hulls of parked cars stand alone, just like these out in the immense car graveyards a little way upriver. This is their day, a day for abandoned carcasses with no motors, no doors, no wheels, with headlights gouged out, windshields shattered, hoods gaping and showing the black holes from which their cylinder heads have been torn.”
Immediately, it shows Le Clezio’s more well known mature style, that he had become famous for, and would later help him to go on to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. However the themes here are certainly pay homage to his rebellious youth; his pessimistic leanings in a modernized and consumerist world. The world, in which Le Clezio writes about, is a lament. A lament, of a world that is overdeveloped and in the process loses its self. The story: “Villa Aurora,” is a prime example. It’s a story that depicts a childhood paradise of memory, and nostalgia, slowly be consumed by the ever progressing world. However it had a lot, of that similar prose, that drew me into: “Mondo: and Other Stories.”
“Still, it's strange too when I think about those days--it's as if we all knew she was there, that she lived in the house, that this was her realm. Without even knowing what her real name was, we were aware of her presence; we were her familiars, her neighbors. There was a part of her that dwelled in the place, up there on the hilltop back them. Something we couldn’t really see but that was present in the trees, in the palms, in the shape of the white house, in the two stone pillars of the gateway, and in the high, rusty gate chained shut.”
It held true, to my preconceived notion of what the story would be like. It is draped in ethereal evocations and mixed with a heavy atmosphere of dream like, uncertainty. It was by far the only story that allowed me to truly conceive the notion that it held that similar sliver to the works that I have read before, and held dear, because of that capability. However “Villa Aurora,” was still off. It didn’t quite strike the same chord. This bothered me the most, because I know that the capability was there, it truly was. Somehow Le Clezio lost that ability. He was unable to reproduce old results; or I had come into the work with higher expectations. Yet I read on, holding my disappointment aside. The story finishes with, a portrait of times progression forward, and its lack of care or understanding of what it leaves behind:
“A year later, I was able to return to the hilltop. I'd thought about it constantly, and despite all the activity and futility of student life, deep down, there was still that feeling of uneasiness in me. Why? I think that ultimately I'd never quite been able to get used to not being what I had been, the child who went through the breach in the wall and who'd found all those hiding places and passageways there in the great wild garden among the cats and insect calls. It has remained within me, alive deep down inside me, despite all the wide world that had drawn me away.”
In a sense this story about the childhood homecoming, to only find one’s own childhood being engulfed in a world of window dressing and superficiality is, quite melancholic. One word that is associated with “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is “depressing.” The story “Villa Aurora,” begins with an air of uncertainty in one’s own memory. It shifts then towards tainted and rose tinted memories that are akin to that of a fairy story. It then ends, with the note that a childhood paradise becomes a lonely beacon of hope – that will eventually meet its own demise, in a forever progressing world. When the light keeper dies so does the light.
Le Clezio is a rich writer. His work is wealthy and detailed, and written with such a beautiful style. His eye is trained to the landscape. It showcases his well traversed life. It comes to such a pity that, Le Clezio has depicted the landscapes here as deserted and alienated worlds. These worlds showcase human suffering in solitude, and alienated to the point of being disenfranchised. Le Clezio has compassion for these characters. They are the overlooked; the underprivileged. Le Clezio offers his compassionate gaze to these characters; and in doing so, has in a sense written this book about them, in a sense, to try and offer justice to their situations. The truth of the matter is, one must first know, and be acquainted with these harsh realities. If not, they come across, as someone standing on their soapbox crying out in monotonous voice, of how those who allow these atrocities to continue are as much to blame for the suffering of their fellow mankind/humankind then those who crack the whip. This is what leads “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” to become monotonous in its reading. To call it literary indigestion, would not be far off. However, it does offer a portrait into Le Clezio’s personal obsessions in regards to the disenfranchised or lost. However, I prefer Le Clezio when he is not taking up the mantel of social injustice writer. I prefer Le Clezio when he evokes nostalgia; not detailing the failures and limitations of society or of language. Perhaps after “Mondo: and Other Stories,” becomes less apparent in my memory, I can come back to “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” with a less biased tone and understanding of the author.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Friday, 21 November 2014
Thursday, 6 November 2014
Radio
Hello Gentle Reader
Compression versus augmentation is a constant debate that is waged with my own reading preferences. Does a novel of shorter length, more lyrical prose, and a more focused approach, thrive better; than the sprawling novel of five hundred pages or more, with its expansive gestures and movements, as well as its cast of characters, that can afford the occasional monologue, and philosophical discussions and debates. It continually appears, that shorter novels are more my preference then their longer counterparts. If it takes a writer, five hundred to a thousand pages (or more) to say anything of profundity or at least anything of interest; then there is no point in reading such a novel. The current fashion trend, in American letters is a desire for the larger scale novels. The most recent example that comes to mind is “The Goldfinch,” by Donna Tartt which comes in at about seven-hundred and eighty four pages long. Before Tartt’s novel, there was DeLillo’s novel “Underworld,” at eight hundred and twenty seven pages; and between these two authors and their novels there was Pynchon’s novel “Against the Day,” at one thousand and eighty five pages long. Yet America is not entirely alone in this literary verbose event. The Hungarian writer Peter Nadas novel “Parallel Stories,” clocks in at one thousand five hundred and twenty pages long. Its best described as a phone book. Why some authors feel a desperate need to write ‘big books,’ is beyond me. Perhaps the subject matter requires it; or the style; or the plot. The last large novel, that I have read, and had exhausted me was Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook.” This novel reaffirmed to me the exhaustive powers of a ‘big book.’ It was long and had its moments; but its ambitions were not always fruitful or full filled.
“The Golden Notebook,” had its moments of awe, and profound understanding. At the same time, it appeared that Doris Lessing had bit off more then she could chew at times. The yellow notebook, was supposed to be a novel on its own – which ended up becoming a tedious read. The red notebook, was idealistic, and showcased Lessing’s eventual distrust of all ideologies – organized and not. The black notebook detailed memories of her time in Africa, and the eventual roots of her communist leanings; later to be distanced in the red notebook. The blue notebook was the one that tied them together. In the end “The Golden Notebook,” suffered at its own length. The book moved like a heart monitor. There are moments of progression that lead to intense passion, and intellectual stimulation until they reached their zenith. Then the slow decline, and the final rut and nadir become complacent once again. It becomes a rollercoaster read. After a while though, it becomes tedious reading. What saved Lessing’s novel? Her ability to write the novel during a social changing time; also to place the novel in this social movement; but also to look into the individual in a fragmented concept of different beings and facades and slowly pull back the layers bit by bit.
“Radio,” by Tõnu Õnnepalu, falls into this big book trap. Admittedly Gentle Reader, I did not finish this book. After countless attempts getting through the novel; and a attitude that: ‘I must persist,’ it eventually became clear; that Õnnepalu’s second English translated novel was by all means, weightless, flat and plotless. The greatest disappointment with “Radio,” is that: I knew Õnnepalu could do better. To compare “Border State,” and “Radio,” is not fair. “Border State,” thrived on its poetic language, its drifting narrative – between memories, confession, and meditation. “Radio,” on the other hand, was filled with observations and commentary; but by a conceited narrator, whose views of the world are of a jaded nature. The back of the book even states the grotesqueries of the narrator by stating that he is: “oversensitive and narcissistic,” two statements that turned out to be unfortunately true. The narrator of this novel is the centre piece; but he is self-absorbed, superficial, and has a condescending view of the world around him. The narrator continually juxtaposes, memories of his homeland: communist Estonia; to that of his experiences in Paris, France. The consensus of the narrator is: capitalism did not beat communism in some ideology war. Capitalism has just become the preferred state of living for the time being.
One of the greatest faults of this novel is the lack of any engaging character. Characters are filtered through the narrator’s eyes; and are open to his opinions, judgments and biases. Any sense of personality or individuality is quickly disregarded as unnecessary and irrelevant. This leads all other characters; all other individuals that may come up throughout his novel, to become flat, and as tasteless as cardboard; and it quickly becomes apparent that, when they are reintroduced, it is hard to remember who they are and their relationship to the narrator. The only character, which is given any room to breathe and develop, is that of: Liz Franz. She is the narrator’s infatuation and obsession. A memory that has since disappeared, and now is a constant reminder of the narrators alienation and loneliness, in the greater world. Despite this however, her story is quickly watered down with the endless bombardments and commentaries of soviet history, and local history, folklore, and other mundane and menial observations.
“Radio,” is a novel of details – of every kind of detail; filtered through the lenses of a self-absorbed, narcissistic, middle-aged homosexual filmmaker. The novel is filled with this narrators opinions of modern society; the fashion faux pas, called communism; and general observations wrapped with condescending remarks, acerbic judgments; and fantasies that could never come true, or have since fallen into memories ashes. While reading it, until the point that I stopped; I realized that there was no way that I could read a five hundred and sixty five page novel; of one individuals constant vitriolic assessments of society on one side or the society on the other hand. There was nothing engaging in this novel; despite the promises that were given by the publisher; and the promises of reading Õnnepalu prior to this book. The novel suffers in its concepts it wishes to convey without the proper way of doing so. It’s a sluggish book; wrapped up in its own ideas, rather than presenting them in a unique format, that will engage a reader.
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
Compression versus augmentation is a constant debate that is waged with my own reading preferences. Does a novel of shorter length, more lyrical prose, and a more focused approach, thrive better; than the sprawling novel of five hundred pages or more, with its expansive gestures and movements, as well as its cast of characters, that can afford the occasional monologue, and philosophical discussions and debates. It continually appears, that shorter novels are more my preference then their longer counterparts. If it takes a writer, five hundred to a thousand pages (or more) to say anything of profundity or at least anything of interest; then there is no point in reading such a novel. The current fashion trend, in American letters is a desire for the larger scale novels. The most recent example that comes to mind is “The Goldfinch,” by Donna Tartt which comes in at about seven-hundred and eighty four pages long. Before Tartt’s novel, there was DeLillo’s novel “Underworld,” at eight hundred and twenty seven pages; and between these two authors and their novels there was Pynchon’s novel “Against the Day,” at one thousand and eighty five pages long. Yet America is not entirely alone in this literary verbose event. The Hungarian writer Peter Nadas novel “Parallel Stories,” clocks in at one thousand five hundred and twenty pages long. Its best described as a phone book. Why some authors feel a desperate need to write ‘big books,’ is beyond me. Perhaps the subject matter requires it; or the style; or the plot. The last large novel, that I have read, and had exhausted me was Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook.” This novel reaffirmed to me the exhaustive powers of a ‘big book.’ It was long and had its moments; but its ambitions were not always fruitful or full filled.
“The Golden Notebook,” had its moments of awe, and profound understanding. At the same time, it appeared that Doris Lessing had bit off more then she could chew at times. The yellow notebook, was supposed to be a novel on its own – which ended up becoming a tedious read. The red notebook, was idealistic, and showcased Lessing’s eventual distrust of all ideologies – organized and not. The black notebook detailed memories of her time in Africa, and the eventual roots of her communist leanings; later to be distanced in the red notebook. The blue notebook was the one that tied them together. In the end “The Golden Notebook,” suffered at its own length. The book moved like a heart monitor. There are moments of progression that lead to intense passion, and intellectual stimulation until they reached their zenith. Then the slow decline, and the final rut and nadir become complacent once again. It becomes a rollercoaster read. After a while though, it becomes tedious reading. What saved Lessing’s novel? Her ability to write the novel during a social changing time; also to place the novel in this social movement; but also to look into the individual in a fragmented concept of different beings and facades and slowly pull back the layers bit by bit.
“Radio,” by Tõnu Õnnepalu, falls into this big book trap. Admittedly Gentle Reader, I did not finish this book. After countless attempts getting through the novel; and a attitude that: ‘I must persist,’ it eventually became clear; that Õnnepalu’s second English translated novel was by all means, weightless, flat and plotless. The greatest disappointment with “Radio,” is that: I knew Õnnepalu could do better. To compare “Border State,” and “Radio,” is not fair. “Border State,” thrived on its poetic language, its drifting narrative – between memories, confession, and meditation. “Radio,” on the other hand, was filled with observations and commentary; but by a conceited narrator, whose views of the world are of a jaded nature. The back of the book even states the grotesqueries of the narrator by stating that he is: “oversensitive and narcissistic,” two statements that turned out to be unfortunately true. The narrator of this novel is the centre piece; but he is self-absorbed, superficial, and has a condescending view of the world around him. The narrator continually juxtaposes, memories of his homeland: communist Estonia; to that of his experiences in Paris, France. The consensus of the narrator is: capitalism did not beat communism in some ideology war. Capitalism has just become the preferred state of living for the time being.
One of the greatest faults of this novel is the lack of any engaging character. Characters are filtered through the narrator’s eyes; and are open to his opinions, judgments and biases. Any sense of personality or individuality is quickly disregarded as unnecessary and irrelevant. This leads all other characters; all other individuals that may come up throughout his novel, to become flat, and as tasteless as cardboard; and it quickly becomes apparent that, when they are reintroduced, it is hard to remember who they are and their relationship to the narrator. The only character, which is given any room to breathe and develop, is that of: Liz Franz. She is the narrator’s infatuation and obsession. A memory that has since disappeared, and now is a constant reminder of the narrators alienation and loneliness, in the greater world. Despite this however, her story is quickly watered down with the endless bombardments and commentaries of soviet history, and local history, folklore, and other mundane and menial observations.
“Radio,” is a novel of details – of every kind of detail; filtered through the lenses of a self-absorbed, narcissistic, middle-aged homosexual filmmaker. The novel is filled with this narrators opinions of modern society; the fashion faux pas, called communism; and general observations wrapped with condescending remarks, acerbic judgments; and fantasies that could never come true, or have since fallen into memories ashes. While reading it, until the point that I stopped; I realized that there was no way that I could read a five hundred and sixty five page novel; of one individuals constant vitriolic assessments of society on one side or the society on the other hand. There was nothing engaging in this novel; despite the promises that were given by the publisher; and the promises of reading Õnnepalu prior to this book. The novel suffers in its concepts it wishes to convey without the proper way of doing so. It’s a sluggish book; wrapped up in its own ideas, rather than presenting them in a unique format, that will engage a reader.
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, 30 October 2014
The Origin of the World
Hello Gentle Reader
I have read Michon prior. His debut “Small Lives,” caught and piqued my interest with its premise. However, when I opened the book up, I had discovered, that I had stumbled upon a writer, who at the time struck me as a: adjective addicted author, who juiced with continual pretentious adjectives, to fill his sentences with his own cleverness. I was not by any means impressed with finishing the book. The novel itself began, like one would begin walking into a forest. It’s beautiful and a wonder to behold. However after journeying deeper, the landscape changed more: the sentences grew in their length; the adjectives became more abundant, and I had become lost. I had broken the cardinal rule of traveling in unfamiliar landscapes: leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Yet it in the end it did not matter. After getting over the pretentions laid down by what I saw as a young authors attempt at appearing as great the authors before him, with is unnecessary verbosity; I trudged on and finished the book with ambivalent uncertainty. In the end, and after reading “Small Lives,” there were large amounts of trepidation. The prose it seemed was overtly saturated, and far too sweetened with the authors own attempts at poetic grandiloquent wit with language, and redundant prose. Time lapsed however, and once again I would give Michon another go. His next novel was again published by one of my favourite publishers: Archipelago Books; was “The Eleven.” A slim novel, which tackled a, fictional artists, painting that depicts the eleven members of The Committee for Public Safety during the Reign of Terror, which followed the French Revolution. This attempt lasted by only a few pages, before its purple conceited behavior ended up being redundant, tedious and contrite. After my attempts at reading “The Eleven,” and the failed acts of trying to engage me as a reader, I started to wonder, what is it that everyone is praising with Michon? Have I somehow failed to miss the enjoyment, and the intellectual stimulation, that is promised with Michon’s work? After doubting myself, I started to look at the author’s work, which I had read. “The Eleven,” was conceited and contrite of its own self-absorbed world, written in such purple prose, that it failed to see its own failures. “Small Lives,” I had been forgiving with. It was a first novel. The attempt at polishing and over indulgence in a thesaurus was novice. I weighted my findings carefully. Yet I decided to give Michon another try. Despite my frustrations with his previous work, there was an inclination; that there was something in his works that I was missing. “The Origin of The World,” happened to be a book of redeeming qualities, which showcases in positive light, Michon’s prose, as being short, but dense.
Desire and love are two edges of the same knife. However, the both deal with the concept of attraction in different manners. Where love is conceived through time and getting to know an individual. Desire is spawned from a shallow pool of lust. Where love can be sustained; desire is all about the instantaneous gratification of the now. It is only the quenching of the fire of raging hormones. Love pushes the darkness back. Love is the understanding of two hearts beating at the same frequency; on a level of mutual understanding. Michon’s portraitist of a novel: “The Origin of The World,” discusses the painful tribulations of having desire; and the realities of realising that they are not, to be attained; and the cruelties, that take place after which the tormented emotions find their release. The prose is dense as it is thick; to further showcase its observant powers. It is an imagist like book. It orbits around observations, and dream like fantasies. Compared to the portraits that Michon has done prior – such as those detailing the lives of painters; and other famous individuals like Rimbaud; “The Origin of The World,” is almost akin to that of a conventional novel.
The landscape, in which Michon describes, becomes less and less than a scenic backdrop; but rather a character in itself that has shaped the original inhabits of it. Our narrator is an outsider. He is a young twenty year old teacher; he arrives in this new desolate and ancient world, by bus and is greeted by the September autumnal rains. Our narrator however, appears to assimilate in the town rather quickly. He settles into the hotel; and finds food, beer, and the atmosphere of the town in its poignant bar.
“Three steps took you down into the bar, it was painted that blood red once called rouge antique; it smelled of saltpeter; between long silences, a scattering of seated drinkers spoke loudly of gunshots and fishing; their movements in the low light cast their shadows over the walls; if you looked above the counter you would see a stuffed fox start at you, its pointed head turned violently your way but with its body running along the length of the wall, as if in flight.”
The above passage, gives an immediate sense of the new surroundings in which the narrator finds himself. He is young, and that is the only detail that has been given beforehand. His life before this town are not known. The town itself has been exiled out of, times ruling realms; and has since become squandered; with only fishing and scaling as terms for discussion. While reading the above passage, there came a sense of nostalgia. Where this bar was red; where I had come from the local bar was painted blue; though the colour inside was that of a wasted liver. The colour of cowardice and beer. Yellow now is a continual reminder of attempts to flee the mundane monotony of everyday life. – Despite the above passage however, Michon shows his Faulknerian flare for a shift in the perspective, from a simple description; to a passage that reflects the mental anguish of the narrator at the prospect of meeting his new students:
“The night, the creature’s eyes, the red walls, these peoples rough talk, their archaic words— all of this sent me back to some uncertain, pleasure less moment passed, filled me with a vague fear that was compounded by the fear of soon having to face m students: this past seemed to be my future, these shady fisherman whose captains were loading me onto the rickety raft of the adult life, and who reaching the rivers middle, were stripping me and throwing me to the bottom [ . . . ],”
It becomes clear, that the narrator finds himself uncomfortable in his new role as both teacher and as an adult. He is no longer a student; and no longer a child. He will become a figure of authority both as a teacher and as an adult. Michon’s prose in these regards are matter of fact and sardonic. However, our young narrator soon becomes acquainted with the object of his desire. A simple tobacconist; who runs a shop. How our narrator finds her desirable is not made clear, through the prose. Yet she is described, through and through – with prose that is at once innocent in its sheer objective desire; and sexually malicious in its juvenile need to quench the primitive thirst.
The novel is filled with atmosphere, which is rendered beautifully thanks to Michon’s writing. It’s dazzling and polished to almost baroque effect. However if you are looking for a novel of a traditional narrative, it would be wise to omit this novel. What happens is lost eventually. The entire text and novella is strained through, time after time, to ensure the quality becomes dense, polished and pristine. Any hint of any traditional structure of the novel is quickly, sifted out. What is left is a novel that survives not on plot; but on its slice of life vignettes and observations. The language is both what keeps this book together; but is also its sole challenger as well. After a while the words, begin to melt in to one another and if a reader is not patient in their reading of the novel, there will be disappointment and frustrations. There is a slight sense of satisfaction though, of reading a Michon novel, and seeing why the author has the reputation that he has. When one says that a short novel or short prose is lightweight, Michon is the author to prove that, that perspective is wrong. His prose is dense, and seethes with details. Michon is a portraitist. His works are intimate and detailed. He is the writer and the champion of the details that go unnoticed. The author is not one of cinematic panoramas. His work is poetic, dense and intensely intimate; almost to a fault. Yet his detailed approach give his works, their own blend of literary uncertainty in a good way. Short is powerful. Small is grand. It is also difficult and packed with ideas profound and philosophical. Michon is proof of that.
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
I have read Michon prior. His debut “Small Lives,” caught and piqued my interest with its premise. However, when I opened the book up, I had discovered, that I had stumbled upon a writer, who at the time struck me as a: adjective addicted author, who juiced with continual pretentious adjectives, to fill his sentences with his own cleverness. I was not by any means impressed with finishing the book. The novel itself began, like one would begin walking into a forest. It’s beautiful and a wonder to behold. However after journeying deeper, the landscape changed more: the sentences grew in their length; the adjectives became more abundant, and I had become lost. I had broken the cardinal rule of traveling in unfamiliar landscapes: leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Yet it in the end it did not matter. After getting over the pretentions laid down by what I saw as a young authors attempt at appearing as great the authors before him, with is unnecessary verbosity; I trudged on and finished the book with ambivalent uncertainty. In the end, and after reading “Small Lives,” there were large amounts of trepidation. The prose it seemed was overtly saturated, and far too sweetened with the authors own attempts at poetic grandiloquent wit with language, and redundant prose. Time lapsed however, and once again I would give Michon another go. His next novel was again published by one of my favourite publishers: Archipelago Books; was “The Eleven.” A slim novel, which tackled a, fictional artists, painting that depicts the eleven members of The Committee for Public Safety during the Reign of Terror, which followed the French Revolution. This attempt lasted by only a few pages, before its purple conceited behavior ended up being redundant, tedious and contrite. After my attempts at reading “The Eleven,” and the failed acts of trying to engage me as a reader, I started to wonder, what is it that everyone is praising with Michon? Have I somehow failed to miss the enjoyment, and the intellectual stimulation, that is promised with Michon’s work? After doubting myself, I started to look at the author’s work, which I had read. “The Eleven,” was conceited and contrite of its own self-absorbed world, written in such purple prose, that it failed to see its own failures. “Small Lives,” I had been forgiving with. It was a first novel. The attempt at polishing and over indulgence in a thesaurus was novice. I weighted my findings carefully. Yet I decided to give Michon another try. Despite my frustrations with his previous work, there was an inclination; that there was something in his works that I was missing. “The Origin of The World,” happened to be a book of redeeming qualities, which showcases in positive light, Michon’s prose, as being short, but dense.
Desire and love are two edges of the same knife. However, the both deal with the concept of attraction in different manners. Where love is conceived through time and getting to know an individual. Desire is spawned from a shallow pool of lust. Where love can be sustained; desire is all about the instantaneous gratification of the now. It is only the quenching of the fire of raging hormones. Love pushes the darkness back. Love is the understanding of two hearts beating at the same frequency; on a level of mutual understanding. Michon’s portraitist of a novel: “The Origin of The World,” discusses the painful tribulations of having desire; and the realities of realising that they are not, to be attained; and the cruelties, that take place after which the tormented emotions find their release. The prose is dense as it is thick; to further showcase its observant powers. It is an imagist like book. It orbits around observations, and dream like fantasies. Compared to the portraits that Michon has done prior – such as those detailing the lives of painters; and other famous individuals like Rimbaud; “The Origin of The World,” is almost akin to that of a conventional novel.
The landscape, in which Michon describes, becomes less and less than a scenic backdrop; but rather a character in itself that has shaped the original inhabits of it. Our narrator is an outsider. He is a young twenty year old teacher; he arrives in this new desolate and ancient world, by bus and is greeted by the September autumnal rains. Our narrator however, appears to assimilate in the town rather quickly. He settles into the hotel; and finds food, beer, and the atmosphere of the town in its poignant bar.
“Three steps took you down into the bar, it was painted that blood red once called rouge antique; it smelled of saltpeter; between long silences, a scattering of seated drinkers spoke loudly of gunshots and fishing; their movements in the low light cast their shadows over the walls; if you looked above the counter you would see a stuffed fox start at you, its pointed head turned violently your way but with its body running along the length of the wall, as if in flight.”
The above passage, gives an immediate sense of the new surroundings in which the narrator finds himself. He is young, and that is the only detail that has been given beforehand. His life before this town are not known. The town itself has been exiled out of, times ruling realms; and has since become squandered; with only fishing and scaling as terms for discussion. While reading the above passage, there came a sense of nostalgia. Where this bar was red; where I had come from the local bar was painted blue; though the colour inside was that of a wasted liver. The colour of cowardice and beer. Yellow now is a continual reminder of attempts to flee the mundane monotony of everyday life. – Despite the above passage however, Michon shows his Faulknerian flare for a shift in the perspective, from a simple description; to a passage that reflects the mental anguish of the narrator at the prospect of meeting his new students:
“The night, the creature’s eyes, the red walls, these peoples rough talk, their archaic words— all of this sent me back to some uncertain, pleasure less moment passed, filled me with a vague fear that was compounded by the fear of soon having to face m students: this past seemed to be my future, these shady fisherman whose captains were loading me onto the rickety raft of the adult life, and who reaching the rivers middle, were stripping me and throwing me to the bottom [ . . . ],”
It becomes clear, that the narrator finds himself uncomfortable in his new role as both teacher and as an adult. He is no longer a student; and no longer a child. He will become a figure of authority both as a teacher and as an adult. Michon’s prose in these regards are matter of fact and sardonic. However, our young narrator soon becomes acquainted with the object of his desire. A simple tobacconist; who runs a shop. How our narrator finds her desirable is not made clear, through the prose. Yet she is described, through and through – with prose that is at once innocent in its sheer objective desire; and sexually malicious in its juvenile need to quench the primitive thirst.
The novel is filled with atmosphere, which is rendered beautifully thanks to Michon’s writing. It’s dazzling and polished to almost baroque effect. However if you are looking for a novel of a traditional narrative, it would be wise to omit this novel. What happens is lost eventually. The entire text and novella is strained through, time after time, to ensure the quality becomes dense, polished and pristine. Any hint of any traditional structure of the novel is quickly, sifted out. What is left is a novel that survives not on plot; but on its slice of life vignettes and observations. The language is both what keeps this book together; but is also its sole challenger as well. After a while the words, begin to melt in to one another and if a reader is not patient in their reading of the novel, there will be disappointment and frustrations. There is a slight sense of satisfaction though, of reading a Michon novel, and seeing why the author has the reputation that he has. When one says that a short novel or short prose is lightweight, Michon is the author to prove that, that perspective is wrong. His prose is dense, and seethes with details. Michon is a portraitist. His works are intimate and detailed. He is the writer and the champion of the details that go unnoticed. The author is not one of cinematic panoramas. His work is poetic, dense and intensely intimate; almost to a fault. Yet his detailed approach give his works, their own blend of literary uncertainty in a good way. Short is powerful. Small is grand. It is also difficult and packed with ideas profound and philosophical. Michon is proof of that.
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, 23 October 2014
Mama Leone
Hello Gentle Reader
There are a few processes in regards to time and its unhindered passage. The first is birth. This is the first moment, where the individual that is being born, has no control over anything that happens: the circumstances in which they are being born; to whom they are being born to; and most importantly the entire event itself, and that very first breath. The novel itself best describes this passage into the world:
“I still didn’t understand at that point, so I filled my lungs with a deep breath and for the first time in my life confronted a paradox: though I didn’t have others to compare it to, the world where I’d appeared was terrifying, but something forced me to breathe, to bind myself to it in a way I never managed to bind myself to any woman.”
From there comes that lengthy process called “growing up.” It’s that process from toddler to child to teenager, which one develops, begins to understand the world, experience everything, and have a sense of boundaries instilled in them. This period in everyone’s life time feels like it stands still. The days feel long and never ending; the nights continually young – and stolen by the command that it is time for bed. As a child time was experienced at much more decelerated rate. Still everything was met with impatience. There was no time for waiting. Yet as time goes on, as children one begins to understand the fundamental difference between being a child, and the adults that surround them: years and time. Children (at least I did) was well aware of how different they are treated then their adult compatriots. Opinion – what could a child possibly know in regards to matters that would require an opinion? In this sense children are quickly scolded or patronized in some manner or another. This always leads to a child to have that aching suspicion that they are missing out on something; and after awhile time begins to move far to slow, and a desire – if not a need to grow up faster; becomes more apparent.
While reading “Mama Leone,” I immediately came to reflect at periodicals on other books that I have read from a child’s perspective: “Touch,” by Adania Shibli and “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy were often reflected on while reading “Mama Leone,” – at least in the first part. But looking back throughout my collection of books, I smile at the characters who were children, that left an impression on me, or who I had enjoyed their perspectives from. The list could go on, from Kamal from “The Cairo Trilogy,” or “Lullaby,” from “Mondo and Other Stories.” These characters showcase a fresh and oddly eccentric view on the world around them. The smallest of issues – like getting into trouble; being shooed off, being reprimanded; but also when the adult world intrudes into the childhood realm of simpler understandings; and a child understanding that their world is being invaded by ‘adult problems.’ To be honest though, there is no nostalgia or reflection held towards my own childhood. Yet reading a book, which is portrayed from a child’s perspective, is always entertaining. Their world is fresh, new and exciting. Such books display a world, where adult concerns of the world, have yet to interlope and take root. Then again in my own childhood, I was worried that leaving lights on in the house would run up the electricity bill, up to the point, that it would no longer be affordable; which was paradoxical to my own fear of the dark, which lead to my own persistence of having the necessity of a night light. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the little girl from “Touch.” Her battles were grand, yet upon adult reflection, so miniscule to larger events. Much like Lullaby from “Lullaby,” who makes the decision not to return to school; and yet insists she does not have a boyfriend. Then there is Daniel from “The Boy Who Had Never Seen the Sea,” who makes the courageous to go live by the sea. All of the characters who were children at one point though eventually grow up. Kamal grows up, and becomes more engaged in the outside world. Lullaby faces a dangerous encounter with a stranger, and is forced to become self-aware of her own body growing up. “Firefly,” is also not immune to the process called growing up, and suffers the challenges of the world and the pains of growing up.
Miljenko the child narrator from the first section of this book is well aware of his odd place in the world, and his small stature in it. It is apparent early on that the narrator is well aware of what separates him from the adults that surround him. His own parents are not capable of raising him, nor were they capable of sustaining their own relationship. After a while it becomes apparent that his parents could no longer love each other; as their thoughts turned from what they loved or liked of each other; but what they began to hate and dislike about each other. This leads the narrator Miljenko to be raised by grandparents. What follows is Miljenko’s confusion with the world, his attempts at understanding it, and his moments of revelation. His curiosity is childlike and absurd at times. Like asking his grandmother if an individual can: “poop out their soul.” Miljenko is skirted from Sarajevo to summer homes, because of his grandfather’s asthma. Because of this sense of restlessness brought on by being old and disease; the narrator often does his best to make everywhere home. But also comes to understand his own outsider position in the world and the cities that he travels too. He is more than well aware that his mother is not a mother to him; but a child who had happened to have him, and was therefore not mature or entirely certain of the decision to have had him in the first place, as she herself is needy and requires his grandmothers love attention as much. Though she puts in an honest attempt at raising him, with books that she has read; but it becomes painfully clear after a while she reads these childhood development and parenting books as a form of scripture. She becomes cold towards her own child, continually vivisecting his development, and criticizing him. Something Miljenko turns into a serious game to avoid, the lectures, to avoid the talks, and to just go on his, own way. One begins to understand, despite the carefree behavior that Miljenko shows; he is in the end a alienated individual.
The first part of this book could be considered autobiographical on the author’s part. Yet embellishment and poetic license must have taken place. Jergović in a sense allows all readers to think of their own mental patterns, as they observe the child Miljenko’s patterns. Watching Miljenko deal with the cruelties of the world, as atrocious and mundane as they are; like his grandmother drowning the kittens of a family cat. Trying to discover his, own place in the world; and how death is a shadow that follows those in old age. How the smallest smack or reprimanded and deserved scolding – or getting it on the snout; is warrant enough to think of ways to get back at the adult world. Such as, getting into the toy box, and imagining oneself driving away; far away. To be done with the small world we ourselves inhabit, and those that fill our lives with continual lectures, and sermons on what is to be a good person, and what constitutes to be a bad person. Yet it is the moments so tender like meeting a American who is most likely a spy and his German Shepherd Donna and declaring her his girlfriend. These are the moments that make the story great, in how they grapple with the adult world form a child’s perspective, without losing the nature childlike naivety and innocence.
The second part of this collection of short stories, are not related to the first part. The second part I found it more difficult to enjoy. After over a hundred pages surrounded with Miljenko, and his odd sense of the world, we switch to third person narrations. These narrations discuss the Balkans War. This was the war, which had split up the former Soviet state of Yugoslavia. What followed were fragmented countries, which had taken back what was there’s and their land: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia and Serbia – as well as the disputed Kosovo. Miljenko Jergović, writes in the latter part of this collection of short stories, to understand what had happened. He writes of émigré’s and refugees who have fled their war torn homeland, for somewhere else; another place to call home, as theirs was in a domestic dispute. Jergović writes of aimless wanderings, their harder lives, and their uncertain futures in these short stories. One comes to understand that the war did not just separate countries; destroy buildings, kill people – it sent people scattering to the four corners of the world; in a desperate attempt to call another place home. These stories are about their struggles, of adjusting to new worlds, new languages, and new cultures – in a place where no one knows who you are, and where they do not care. These are the stories that recount the make it or break it, lives that followed the Balkans war. Jergović is an interesting author because he is Bosnian, but lives in Croatia and writes in Croatian.
If you are to read “Mama Leone,” it should be for the first part alone on its own merits. Jergović had written empathetic stories, which a reader can relate to. Despite the stories being primarily set in Sarajevo and having a rooted sense of place and are tangible towards the surroundings; there is an understanding that these stories could have been set anywhere in the world; because they have that relatable experience of being a child and growing up. As for the second part of book, they are concerned with the eventual split and destruction of the nations involved and the displacement of the people; but there’s something off – perhaps it is because the first part was dedicated so long to a single character that, it was difficult to become attached once again to these new characters – and their vignette’s and portraits of their displacement and restlessness. In all though a great collection of short stories. Jergović is one of the greatest writes from this region of Eastern Europe; and it can plainly be seen why.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
There are a few processes in regards to time and its unhindered passage. The first is birth. This is the first moment, where the individual that is being born, has no control over anything that happens: the circumstances in which they are being born; to whom they are being born to; and most importantly the entire event itself, and that very first breath. The novel itself best describes this passage into the world:
“I still didn’t understand at that point, so I filled my lungs with a deep breath and for the first time in my life confronted a paradox: though I didn’t have others to compare it to, the world where I’d appeared was terrifying, but something forced me to breathe, to bind myself to it in a way I never managed to bind myself to any woman.”
From there comes that lengthy process called “growing up.” It’s that process from toddler to child to teenager, which one develops, begins to understand the world, experience everything, and have a sense of boundaries instilled in them. This period in everyone’s life time feels like it stands still. The days feel long and never ending; the nights continually young – and stolen by the command that it is time for bed. As a child time was experienced at much more decelerated rate. Still everything was met with impatience. There was no time for waiting. Yet as time goes on, as children one begins to understand the fundamental difference between being a child, and the adults that surround them: years and time. Children (at least I did) was well aware of how different they are treated then their adult compatriots. Opinion – what could a child possibly know in regards to matters that would require an opinion? In this sense children are quickly scolded or patronized in some manner or another. This always leads to a child to have that aching suspicion that they are missing out on something; and after awhile time begins to move far to slow, and a desire – if not a need to grow up faster; becomes more apparent.
While reading “Mama Leone,” I immediately came to reflect at periodicals on other books that I have read from a child’s perspective: “Touch,” by Adania Shibli and “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy were often reflected on while reading “Mama Leone,” – at least in the first part. But looking back throughout my collection of books, I smile at the characters who were children, that left an impression on me, or who I had enjoyed their perspectives from. The list could go on, from Kamal from “The Cairo Trilogy,” or “Lullaby,” from “Mondo and Other Stories.” These characters showcase a fresh and oddly eccentric view on the world around them. The smallest of issues – like getting into trouble; being shooed off, being reprimanded; but also when the adult world intrudes into the childhood realm of simpler understandings; and a child understanding that their world is being invaded by ‘adult problems.’ To be honest though, there is no nostalgia or reflection held towards my own childhood. Yet reading a book, which is portrayed from a child’s perspective, is always entertaining. Their world is fresh, new and exciting. Such books display a world, where adult concerns of the world, have yet to interlope and take root. Then again in my own childhood, I was worried that leaving lights on in the house would run up the electricity bill, up to the point, that it would no longer be affordable; which was paradoxical to my own fear of the dark, which lead to my own persistence of having the necessity of a night light. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the little girl from “Touch.” Her battles were grand, yet upon adult reflection, so miniscule to larger events. Much like Lullaby from “Lullaby,” who makes the decision not to return to school; and yet insists she does not have a boyfriend. Then there is Daniel from “The Boy Who Had Never Seen the Sea,” who makes the courageous to go live by the sea. All of the characters who were children at one point though eventually grow up. Kamal grows up, and becomes more engaged in the outside world. Lullaby faces a dangerous encounter with a stranger, and is forced to become self-aware of her own body growing up. “Firefly,” is also not immune to the process called growing up, and suffers the challenges of the world and the pains of growing up.
Miljenko the child narrator from the first section of this book is well aware of his odd place in the world, and his small stature in it. It is apparent early on that the narrator is well aware of what separates him from the adults that surround him. His own parents are not capable of raising him, nor were they capable of sustaining their own relationship. After a while it becomes apparent that his parents could no longer love each other; as their thoughts turned from what they loved or liked of each other; but what they began to hate and dislike about each other. This leads the narrator Miljenko to be raised by grandparents. What follows is Miljenko’s confusion with the world, his attempts at understanding it, and his moments of revelation. His curiosity is childlike and absurd at times. Like asking his grandmother if an individual can: “poop out their soul.” Miljenko is skirted from Sarajevo to summer homes, because of his grandfather’s asthma. Because of this sense of restlessness brought on by being old and disease; the narrator often does his best to make everywhere home. But also comes to understand his own outsider position in the world and the cities that he travels too. He is more than well aware that his mother is not a mother to him; but a child who had happened to have him, and was therefore not mature or entirely certain of the decision to have had him in the first place, as she herself is needy and requires his grandmothers love attention as much. Though she puts in an honest attempt at raising him, with books that she has read; but it becomes painfully clear after a while she reads these childhood development and parenting books as a form of scripture. She becomes cold towards her own child, continually vivisecting his development, and criticizing him. Something Miljenko turns into a serious game to avoid, the lectures, to avoid the talks, and to just go on his, own way. One begins to understand, despite the carefree behavior that Miljenko shows; he is in the end a alienated individual.
The first part of this book could be considered autobiographical on the author’s part. Yet embellishment and poetic license must have taken place. Jergović in a sense allows all readers to think of their own mental patterns, as they observe the child Miljenko’s patterns. Watching Miljenko deal with the cruelties of the world, as atrocious and mundane as they are; like his grandmother drowning the kittens of a family cat. Trying to discover his, own place in the world; and how death is a shadow that follows those in old age. How the smallest smack or reprimanded and deserved scolding – or getting it on the snout; is warrant enough to think of ways to get back at the adult world. Such as, getting into the toy box, and imagining oneself driving away; far away. To be done with the small world we ourselves inhabit, and those that fill our lives with continual lectures, and sermons on what is to be a good person, and what constitutes to be a bad person. Yet it is the moments so tender like meeting a American who is most likely a spy and his German Shepherd Donna and declaring her his girlfriend. These are the moments that make the story great, in how they grapple with the adult world form a child’s perspective, without losing the nature childlike naivety and innocence.
The second part of this collection of short stories, are not related to the first part. The second part I found it more difficult to enjoy. After over a hundred pages surrounded with Miljenko, and his odd sense of the world, we switch to third person narrations. These narrations discuss the Balkans War. This was the war, which had split up the former Soviet state of Yugoslavia. What followed were fragmented countries, which had taken back what was there’s and their land: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia and Serbia – as well as the disputed Kosovo. Miljenko Jergović, writes in the latter part of this collection of short stories, to understand what had happened. He writes of émigré’s and refugees who have fled their war torn homeland, for somewhere else; another place to call home, as theirs was in a domestic dispute. Jergović writes of aimless wanderings, their harder lives, and their uncertain futures in these short stories. One comes to understand that the war did not just separate countries; destroy buildings, kill people – it sent people scattering to the four corners of the world; in a desperate attempt to call another place home. These stories are about their struggles, of adjusting to new worlds, new languages, and new cultures – in a place where no one knows who you are, and where they do not care. These are the stories that recount the make it or break it, lives that followed the Balkans war. Jergović is an interesting author because he is Bosnian, but lives in Croatia and writes in Croatian.
If you are to read “Mama Leone,” it should be for the first part alone on its own merits. Jergović had written empathetic stories, which a reader can relate to. Despite the stories being primarily set in Sarajevo and having a rooted sense of place and are tangible towards the surroundings; there is an understanding that these stories could have been set anywhere in the world; because they have that relatable experience of being a child and growing up. As for the second part of book, they are concerned with the eventual split and destruction of the nations involved and the displacement of the people; but there’s something off – perhaps it is because the first part was dedicated so long to a single character that, it was difficult to become attached once again to these new characters – and their vignette’s and portraits of their displacement and restlessness. In all though a great collection of short stories. Jergović is one of the greatest writes from this region of Eastern Europe; and it can plainly be seen why.
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, 15 October 2014
The Booker Prize Winner
Hello Gentle Reader
This year’s Booker Prize, which was open to American authors, has been awarded to the Australian novelist Richard Flanagan, for his novel: “The Narrow Road to the Deep North.” The novel details the construction of the Burma Railway (also known as the Death Railway) during World War II by forced labourers under the Japanese Empire. The novel has been called more than just a war time novel. It may detail the struggle during the time, its cruelties and its lack of human dignity; but according to the Booker Prize judges, it is more about the relationships within in the novel, that shine through the nuances throughout. Flanagan was not the pundit’s favourite however. He was considered more of a dark horse, then contender for the award.
Congratulations to Richard Flanagan on achieving this award!
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 Booker Prize, which was open to American authors, has been awarded to the Australian novelist Richard Flanagan, for his novel: “The Narrow Road to the Deep North.” The novel details the construction of the Burma Railway (also known as the Death Railway) during World War II by forced labourers under the Japanese Empire. The novel has been called more than just a war time novel. It may detail the struggle during the time, its cruelties and its lack of human dignity; but according to the Booker Prize judges, it is more about the relationships within in the novel, that shine through the nuances throughout. Flanagan was not the pundit’s favourite however. He was considered more of a dark horse, then contender for the award.
Congratulations to Richard Flanagan on achieving this award!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 14 October 2014
The Booker Prize – Criticism before a Winner –
Hello Gentle Reader
There has been a lot of criticism as of late, with the Booker Prize. The first wave of criticism came back in two-thousand and eleven, where the award focused more on readability and accessibility rather than, focusing on the merits of the works on a literary level, or opening the doors of the novel to newer frontiers. The award that year went to Julian Bars for his novel “The Sense of an Ending.” In two-thousand and twelve, as expected the Novel went to Hilary Mantel (for a second time) with “Bring Up the Bodies.” Two-Thousand and thirteen went without a hitch – at least in the beginning. The shortlist of last year’s award, as praised for being one of the most exciting in many years. The winner was Eleanor Catton from New Zealand. She is now the youngest author to win the award, at the age of twenty-eight, and her novel “The Luminaries,” is the longest novel to have won, at a staggering count of eight hundred and thirty two pages long. Yet the award was overshadowed by the news that the next Booker Prize would be opening its door to the inclusion of authors from America. Criticism ensured, by critics and authors alike – myself included; though I am neither. Yet once again, the Booker Prize finds itself still on the brink of questionable relevancy. The organization itself had hoped that by inviting and including American authors, the prize would get a jumpstart to an already flat line heart rate. Unfortunately this attempt at defibrillation failed. The prizes position remains teetering on the edge of becoming obsolete in its own irrelevancy.
The inclusion of American writers did not inject a needed boost of adrenaline; nor has it sunk the prize. It merely just shows how vernacular the Booker Prize and its foundation; has become. It panhandles to the already known. The award goes to authors like Hilary Mantel, JM Coetzee, and Peter Carey in duplicates. How many times has Margaret Atwood both been longlisted and shortlisted? Howard Jacobson this year alone finds himself once again shortlisted for the award. Has the English language fallen into such disarray and quiescence torpor, that it has descended into nothing more than just the usual suspects over and over again, nominated, shortlisted and eventually winning? It is not the invitation of the American cousins that has destroyed the award – though their admittance should be revoked.
What is needed is the foundation, the judges and the jury to quite retracing old ground. The usual well established literary authors, continue to be shortlisted or longlisted, and better yet winning the award. Where are the days where authors were awarded the prize, based on their merits? Though I have not read Eleanor Catton novel – nor do I plan to at the moment; research and reading reviews; have showcased that Catton is that kind of author who the Booker should take note of: young, talented, and unknown, and should be given more consideration over such authors like Mantel and Coetzee or Carey. New blood is needed – not from other countries; rather from inside the commonwealth itself. Authors need to be considered not based on their name, or their book cover; but rather what the book itself entails. The Booker needs to go back to its roots, and award the novel on the author’s voice and singular vision portrayed within the novel. The days of looking at the shortlist like two-thousand and twelve, should stop – where one sees a usual suspect, and predicts with neither, enthusiasm and glee that the old author will win a second time; and that is just what had happened.
New blood is needed. If it is not a question of new blood, new writers, and the books being published in the English language; than the Booker Prize is a testament to the lack of originality that is being produced with the English language.
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 has been a lot of criticism as of late, with the Booker Prize. The first wave of criticism came back in two-thousand and eleven, where the award focused more on readability and accessibility rather than, focusing on the merits of the works on a literary level, or opening the doors of the novel to newer frontiers. The award that year went to Julian Bars for his novel “The Sense of an Ending.” In two-thousand and twelve, as expected the Novel went to Hilary Mantel (for a second time) with “Bring Up the Bodies.” Two-Thousand and thirteen went without a hitch – at least in the beginning. The shortlist of last year’s award, as praised for being one of the most exciting in many years. The winner was Eleanor Catton from New Zealand. She is now the youngest author to win the award, at the age of twenty-eight, and her novel “The Luminaries,” is the longest novel to have won, at a staggering count of eight hundred and thirty two pages long. Yet the award was overshadowed by the news that the next Booker Prize would be opening its door to the inclusion of authors from America. Criticism ensured, by critics and authors alike – myself included; though I am neither. Yet once again, the Booker Prize finds itself still on the brink of questionable relevancy. The organization itself had hoped that by inviting and including American authors, the prize would get a jumpstart to an already flat line heart rate. Unfortunately this attempt at defibrillation failed. The prizes position remains teetering on the edge of becoming obsolete in its own irrelevancy.
The inclusion of American writers did not inject a needed boost of adrenaline; nor has it sunk the prize. It merely just shows how vernacular the Booker Prize and its foundation; has become. It panhandles to the already known. The award goes to authors like Hilary Mantel, JM Coetzee, and Peter Carey in duplicates. How many times has Margaret Atwood both been longlisted and shortlisted? Howard Jacobson this year alone finds himself once again shortlisted for the award. Has the English language fallen into such disarray and quiescence torpor, that it has descended into nothing more than just the usual suspects over and over again, nominated, shortlisted and eventually winning? It is not the invitation of the American cousins that has destroyed the award – though their admittance should be revoked.
What is needed is the foundation, the judges and the jury to quite retracing old ground. The usual well established literary authors, continue to be shortlisted or longlisted, and better yet winning the award. Where are the days where authors were awarded the prize, based on their merits? Though I have not read Eleanor Catton novel – nor do I plan to at the moment; research and reading reviews; have showcased that Catton is that kind of author who the Booker should take note of: young, talented, and unknown, and should be given more consideration over such authors like Mantel and Coetzee or Carey. New blood is needed – not from other countries; rather from inside the commonwealth itself. Authors need to be considered not based on their name, or their book cover; but rather what the book itself entails. The Booker needs to go back to its roots, and award the novel on the author’s voice and singular vision portrayed within the novel. The days of looking at the shortlist like two-thousand and twelve, should stop – where one sees a usual suspect, and predicts with neither, enthusiasm and glee that the old author will win a second time; and that is just what had happened.
New blood is needed. If it is not a question of new blood, new writers, and the books being published in the English language; than the Booker Prize is a testament to the lack of originality that is being produced with the English language.
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, 10 October 2014
The German Book Prize 2014 Winner
Hello Gentle Reader
With the hype of the Nobel Prize for Literature announcement yesterday, the German Book Prize almost went unnoticed, to those outside of Germany. Conceding with the Frankfurt Book Fair, The German Book Prize ( the equivalent of the Booker Prize) winner is announced. This year’s winner is Lutz Seiler for his novel “Kruso.” The novel is a take on the Robinson Crusoe tale; with major changes and exceptions. Where Crusoe, was a explorer stranded in the foreign lands of the Caribbean’s on an island; Lutz Seiler’s novel places his main character on the island of Hiddensee in the former East Germany. The novel is around the time, leading up to the collapse of the Soviet Union; and details the pilgrimage dissidents made to the island to work seasonal jobs in hotels, restaurants and pools – and the attempts at escaping the bleak world of commusim through the Baltic sea. It’s a novel that details the past, and shows how alienated and abandoned East Germany was for a large part of the second half of the twentieth century.
Congratulations Lutz Seiler!
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
With the hype of the Nobel Prize for Literature announcement yesterday, the German Book Prize almost went unnoticed, to those outside of Germany. Conceding with the Frankfurt Book Fair, The German Book Prize ( the equivalent of the Booker Prize) winner is announced. This year’s winner is Lutz Seiler for his novel “Kruso.” The novel is a take on the Robinson Crusoe tale; with major changes and exceptions. Where Crusoe, was a explorer stranded in the foreign lands of the Caribbean’s on an island; Lutz Seiler’s novel places his main character on the island of Hiddensee in the former East Germany. The novel is around the time, leading up to the collapse of the Soviet Union; and details the pilgrimage dissidents made to the island to work seasonal jobs in hotels, restaurants and pools – and the attempts at escaping the bleak world of commusim through the Baltic sea. It’s a novel that details the past, and shows how alienated and abandoned East Germany was for a large part of the second half of the twentieth century.
Congratulations Lutz Seiler!
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, 9 October 2014
The Nobel Prize for Literature 2014
Hello Gentle Reader
The Two-Thousand and Fourteen Nobel Prize for Literature goes to the French author Patrick Modiano:
“for the art of memory with which he has evoked the most ungraspable human destinies and uncovered the life-world of the occupation.”
Congratulations to Patrick Modiano, for winning the Nobel Prize for Literature!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The Two-Thousand and Fourteen Nobel Prize for Literature goes to the French author Patrick Modiano:
“for the art of memory with which he has evoked the most ungraspable human destinies and uncovered the life-world of the occupation.”
Congratulations to Patrick Modiano, for winning the Nobel Prize for Literature!
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, 6 October 2014
Nobel Prize for Literature 2014 – Closing Thoughts
Hello Gentle Reader
This year’s Nobel speculation has been rather quiet, then years past. Many Nobel watchers blame the betting site ‘Ladbrokes,’ for opening up bets for this year’s Nobel, just moments after it was announced that Alice Munro “Master of the contemporary short story,” had won last year’s Nobel. Speculation in general has been sluggish. This year’s Nobel Laureate for Literature will be announced this coming Thursday: October 9th. Still the speculation has been continued to be lack luster and even, apathetic to some degree. My list of fifty authors did not receive the same hits it had last year; and a member of the internet forum “World Literature Forum,” (great forum by the way) had also commented on the lack of interest in this year’s award. The question does remain for many at the time; who will win the most covenanted literary award? Will it be a established and well known author like past laureates: Harold Pinter, Doris Lessing, Alice Munro, Mario Vargas Llosa, or V.S. Naipaul? Or, will it go to a more obscure author of the time like past laureates: Herta Müller, Jean-Marie Gustav Le Clezio, Claude Simon, or Elfriede Jelinek? Then there is the possibility of authors that are known, but toe the line of obscurity like past laureates: Jose Saramago, Tomas Transtromer, Wislwa Szymborska. Whoever this year’s laureate will be, it should be hopefully be a surprise. Personally myself I am hoping for an obscure author, that will open the doors to new, and exciting realms of literature and reading experiences.
Another quick comment that I will make as a general statement towards the years literary awards of this autumn; is a certain lack of originality, daring feats of experimentation. Rather the books that have made it to the shortlists, for the most part this year in many awards – have proven to have rehashed old ground. I had commented that the Booker Prize shortlist in particular was stagnant and lifeless. I continue to hold that opinion. The Goldsmith Literary Award, has also proven to lack any thought for creativity and or originality. Fingers crossed for the Nobel to be exciting.
Come Thursday Gentle Reader, we shall all know who this year’s Laureate. Here is my list of five authors, from my speculation who I would like to see win the Nobel this year, in no particular order.
Ersi Sotiropoulos (or) Kiki Dimoula – Greece –
Pepetela – Angola –
Leonard Nolens – Belgium –
Tua Forsström – Finland –
Doris Kareva – Estonia –
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. – Here’s a link to a video on the German Book Prize shortlisted authors and their books.
http://www.dw.de/shortlisted-german-book-prize-nominees/av-17959758
This year’s Nobel speculation has been rather quiet, then years past. Many Nobel watchers blame the betting site ‘Ladbrokes,’ for opening up bets for this year’s Nobel, just moments after it was announced that Alice Munro “Master of the contemporary short story,” had won last year’s Nobel. Speculation in general has been sluggish. This year’s Nobel Laureate for Literature will be announced this coming Thursday: October 9th. Still the speculation has been continued to be lack luster and even, apathetic to some degree. My list of fifty authors did not receive the same hits it had last year; and a member of the internet forum “World Literature Forum,” (great forum by the way) had also commented on the lack of interest in this year’s award. The question does remain for many at the time; who will win the most covenanted literary award? Will it be a established and well known author like past laureates: Harold Pinter, Doris Lessing, Alice Munro, Mario Vargas Llosa, or V.S. Naipaul? Or, will it go to a more obscure author of the time like past laureates: Herta Müller, Jean-Marie Gustav Le Clezio, Claude Simon, or Elfriede Jelinek? Then there is the possibility of authors that are known, but toe the line of obscurity like past laureates: Jose Saramago, Tomas Transtromer, Wislwa Szymborska. Whoever this year’s laureate will be, it should be hopefully be a surprise. Personally myself I am hoping for an obscure author, that will open the doors to new, and exciting realms of literature and reading experiences.
Another quick comment that I will make as a general statement towards the years literary awards of this autumn; is a certain lack of originality, daring feats of experimentation. Rather the books that have made it to the shortlists, for the most part this year in many awards – have proven to have rehashed old ground. I had commented that the Booker Prize shortlist in particular was stagnant and lifeless. I continue to hold that opinion. The Goldsmith Literary Award, has also proven to lack any thought for creativity and or originality. Fingers crossed for the Nobel to be exciting.
Come Thursday Gentle Reader, we shall all know who this year’s Laureate. Here is my list of five authors, from my speculation who I would like to see win the Nobel this year, in no particular order.
Ersi Sotiropoulos (or) Kiki Dimoula – Greece –
Pepetela – Angola –
Leonard Nolens – Belgium –
Tua Forsström – Finland –
Doris Kareva – Estonia –
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. – Here’s a link to a video on the German Book Prize shortlisted authors and their books.
http://www.dw.de/shortlisted-german-book-prize-nominees/av-17959758
Thursday, 25 September 2014
Maldives – Promoting Censorship
Maldives – Promoting Censorship
Hello Gentle Reader
This week is called “The Banned and Challenged Book Week.” This is where books known for their controversial view points and social criticism are often brought out from behind the barred – “restricted section,” of the library and are openly celebrated. These books are once again thrust into the spotlight, and the people who found decided to challenge them, are once again mocked as their testimony, are that of a patronizing parent who insists that they know more about what is right; not just for their children, but your children as well. Countries like China, and other totalitarian regimes, are also thrust into the spotlight for their attempts at smothering and destroying the written word, which works against the ‘party approved, ideological standards.’ The most recent country to join the list of countries that wish to stall literary progress and sharing of information and idea’s through the written word is Maldives. The Maldives Islands are a archipelago in the Asian continent, and are located in the Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea. The country’s governments do not want novels or poetry published, that will: cause adverse affects on society; or offend the Islamic principles of the country; but also ensure that social etiquettes are abided by. The government went on to retract the statement they had made, by ensuring that they will: “respect the constitutional right to freedom of expression and allow novel and constructive ideas.” However this has all be met with suspicions of criticism that this is to revert the country back into censorship. The move has also been called draconian. Protests have already gone underway through social media to combat this. Poetry (which has not been approved) has found an outpouring through social media. Since the end of a three decade long dictatorship, and the eventual democratic process finally taking hold in the country, it all feels like it is falling apart. The former president was forced to resign – allegedly by gun point. The new president is the brother of the former dictator. There is fears that a new autocratic government is come back into power; and demonstrations to that the Maldives a ‘Islamic State,’ have been taking place through the capital.
I am a firm believer, that when one takes over a country as a dictator or a authorities leader, it is not the army one fears; it is not the political or judicial process – it is the libraries and the schools that one fears. Educated people will not act like brow beaten dogs. They have a voice; they have intellect; they are well read, and articulate in their arguments. Once these are taken away, the slow ‘brain drain,’ begins and everything falls into place of complacent sheep. The right to speak. The right to write. The right to recite verse. These are rights, that encompass more than just ‘freedom of speech,’ they engulf new worlds of perspectives, and once those perspectives are taken away – nothing remains. It is logical to suggest that the works of many great writers, will most likely not reach the shores of the Maldives, or receive the blue stamp of approval.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The Guardian Article
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/sep/25/maldives-censor-books-islamic-codes
Hello Gentle Reader
This week is called “The Banned and Challenged Book Week.” This is where books known for their controversial view points and social criticism are often brought out from behind the barred – “restricted section,” of the library and are openly celebrated. These books are once again thrust into the spotlight, and the people who found decided to challenge them, are once again mocked as their testimony, are that of a patronizing parent who insists that they know more about what is right; not just for their children, but your children as well. Countries like China, and other totalitarian regimes, are also thrust into the spotlight for their attempts at smothering and destroying the written word, which works against the ‘party approved, ideological standards.’ The most recent country to join the list of countries that wish to stall literary progress and sharing of information and idea’s through the written word is Maldives. The Maldives Islands are a archipelago in the Asian continent, and are located in the Indian Ocean and Arabian Sea. The country’s governments do not want novels or poetry published, that will: cause adverse affects on society; or offend the Islamic principles of the country; but also ensure that social etiquettes are abided by. The government went on to retract the statement they had made, by ensuring that they will: “respect the constitutional right to freedom of expression and allow novel and constructive ideas.” However this has all be met with suspicions of criticism that this is to revert the country back into censorship. The move has also been called draconian. Protests have already gone underway through social media to combat this. Poetry (which has not been approved) has found an outpouring through social media. Since the end of a three decade long dictatorship, and the eventual democratic process finally taking hold in the country, it all feels like it is falling apart. The former president was forced to resign – allegedly by gun point. The new president is the brother of the former dictator. There is fears that a new autocratic government is come back into power; and demonstrations to that the Maldives a ‘Islamic State,’ have been taking place through the capital.
I am a firm believer, that when one takes over a country as a dictator or a authorities leader, it is not the army one fears; it is not the political or judicial process – it is the libraries and the schools that one fears. Educated people will not act like brow beaten dogs. They have a voice; they have intellect; they are well read, and articulate in their arguments. Once these are taken away, the slow ‘brain drain,’ begins and everything falls into place of complacent sheep. The right to speak. The right to write. The right to recite verse. These are rights, that encompass more than just ‘freedom of speech,’ they engulf new worlds of perspectives, and once those perspectives are taken away – nothing remains. It is logical to suggest that the works of many great writers, will most likely not reach the shores of the Maldives, or receive the blue stamp of approval.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The Guardian Article
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2014/sep/25/maldives-censor-books-islamic-codes
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)