Hello Gentle Reader
The longlist for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize has been announced. On the list are some of the usual suspected writers have made it to the list: Karl Ove Knausgaard and Haruki Murakami. However the longlist also has five translated German authors on the longlist competing for the award. Here is the longlist in full:
Jenny Erpenbeck – “The End of Days,”
Judith Schalansky – “The Giraffe’s Neck,”
Daniel Kehlmann – “F,”
Timur Vermes – “Look Who’s Back,”
Stefanie de Velasco – “Tiger Milk,”
Jung-Myung Lee – “The Investigation,”
Can Xue – “The Last Lover,”
Juan Tomás Ávila Laurel – “By Night the Mountain Burns,”
Tomás González – “In the Beginning Was the Sea,”
Marcello Fois – “Bloodlines,”
Tomas Bannerhed – “The Ravens,”
Erwin Mortier – “While the Gods Were Sleeping,”
Hamid Ismailov – “The Dead Lake,”
Karl Ove Knausgaard – “Book 3 – Boyhood Island,”
Haruki Murakami – “Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage,”
It is interesting to see so many German writers nominated for the award; and at the sametime it comes to no surprise that both literary celebrities Knausgaard and Murakami, are also on the longlist. Good luck, regardless to the authors!
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, 12 March 2015
Thursday, 5 March 2015
The Cold Centre
Hello Gentle Reader
The twentieth century certainly must have been one of the most innovative, progressive and tumultuous centuries of recent memory. The world had fallen into place, and fallen apart simultaneously. Countries were divided; new ones formed from the divisions; independence was at hand; and eventual annexation and amalgamation would take place. Governments formed. Governments were dissolved. War brought the world to its knees. It would be a war that at the time was deemed to end all wars. What subsumed was tragedy. Trench warfare brought the opposing armies into stalemates. Despite the innovations of technology and science, at the time warfare had not adapted to the new tools implanted. War was still chivalrous. Yet it was not the only war to be; and by far did not end the concept of war; but was merely a precursor to the changing dynamics of war. From here peace came; but only in the form of a world ravaged by human destruction. Work – none to be found. Yet the twentieth century progressed into new forms of expression as well. Where the Victorians first began to experiment in new artistic measures, and expression, their theories carried on into other disciplines and opened up a new world of creative possibilities, which were outlaid in manifestos: Surrealism, Dadaism, cubism, and futurism. Modernism did away with the concepts of a novel, in the late nineteenth century. Yet it founds its final maturation in the early twentieth century, with acclaimed authors that included Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. The novel was taken away from the societal realms and bleak realism; and probed with new found psychoanalytical theories the concept of the human mind; and the literary mode of expression was to become such a medium to explore characters via thought and internal workings – rather than action and external dialogue. Modernism reassessed society after the horrors of the First World War. What would soon come as modernism started to lose its sway on the world, would be yet another grand tragedy that would scar the world, stain human history and show mankind how innovative it was; but also how innovation is equally destructive as it is altruistic. With the outbreak of the Second World War, one realized that peace was not at hand, and possibly never will be. In this time period, the chivalry of war was lost. The world had progressed towards production of tanks, which appeared to be unstoppable and unbreakable. Rockets showed the possibility of space being no longer unattainable or unreachable – but a possible new heavenly frontier to explore. Destruction was less tragic; and more easily acquired. Bombings were a present fact of day to day life – relentless and without discrimination. When the Second World War ended however, we saw what terror truly looked like. War on its own was a dreadful; but what was soon discovered after the war, was how mankind could cross the line between human and monster, without looking back. What no one knew at the time was: how little distance lied between the two. Society and mankind was forced to look into the atrocities that had taken place, with systematic and meticulous planning. How death became a factory. How countries were sustained via the use of slave labour. We realized that beneath the uniforms, beneath the armour, the guns, the bullets – beneath the entire machine called ‘War,’ there was a nihilistic seed waiting to be watered, and when it is given water and sunlight, one is willing to do anything. People looked into the hollowed eyes of survivors. They gazed into the blank stares of the victims. What stared back was the abyss. But also a plea: never let this history repeat itself.
Yet this was just the start of realizing our own acquired concept of power, which was endowed to human beings in this century. Society realized, that the end of times did not mean celestial apocalypse or biblical Armageddon. The end could be brought on by human hands. It came in the form of a red button, which could be mistakenly pushed. After the Second World War postmodernism came into being. It viewed mankind’s great potential of doing good, with skeptical eyes; realizing how easy it was to revert to animalistic and advanced draconian measures for some cause, for some reason, for some ideology. The twentieth century moved forward. Progression continued, and so did the world. The world had become split, not just by borders and countries, but also by ideologies. Such ideas became sources of power and of paranoia. This had led to a golden age of espionage and covert affairs.
In “The Paris Review,” German writer Jenny Erpenbeck writes of her memories of: “living on the edge of the world,” where the Berlin wall once stood, that became the physical barrier and barricade, which had separated the world. A world divided by opposing ideologies, where one was bathed in the gray light of communism: a ideology of utopian concepts, which had found itself corrupted by power and control; and that of capitalism: a ideology of freedom both economically and personal, that found itself contorted and manipulated in a manner, which abused freedom to fill one’s own pockets. With the fall of the Berlin Wall Erpenbeck wrote of new words being thrown around: freedom, independence, and unification. Yet it soon became clear that the divide was not just a physical wall; but an attitude that many on opposing sides could not grapple with. Freedom to travel, expression, and to shop – became uncertain nightmares that disrupted what was once daily life. The world that once sat on the edge of the world had been pushed over the edge. The question would be, would it fall into place or would it fall apart. This is the world that Inka Parei writes about in “The Cold Centre.”
Location becomes a character in itself for Inka Parei. Her three published novels each take place in the former GDR, and deal with the recent history of Germany. The “Cold Centre,” itself deals with the manufacturing of cold to sustain the publication of “Neues Deutschland,” and the ideology that it was to openly propagate. It was to spread the propaganda like pollen – only on the wings of paper and in letters of ink. The novel is narrated by an unnamed man in the first person. He was a refrigerant technician. His job like his co-workers: maintain the desired temperature for the press of “Neues Deutschland,” as it fulfilled its own duty, by manufacturing ideology and propaganda to spoon feed the populace into continually have hope and praise the system in which they were forced to live under.
The novel moves between the present and the past. Parei writes of a lost world in “The Cold Centre.” A world of a forgotten and failed political system. A world of pipes that dripped with condensation. A background of blinking lights – solid green lights, lights that would turn red when errors occurred and emergencies were in motion; as well as large black switches. The descriptions of the turbines, compressors, and the loud running machines, reminded me of the ammonia plants of hockey rinks. How the concrete floor would shake when the plant ran: compressors operational, turbines out of sight spinning, belts vibrating. The pipes coloured to code; and labeled accordingly. Steam pouring out of the building. The difference: the plants in the hockey rinks were to maintain ice; where the cold centre of this novel was to maintain the operation and distribution of ideology. – In the present this former world has since been destroyed. The buildings were antiques of time that did not need to be praised or remembered. The people of the east where to step out of grey light of their oppression, and to step into the neon lights of a new world with promises of freedoms: freedom of expression, to travel, and to shop. Despite the physicality of the world being united different perspectives and understandings of the world still remained. As the narrator points out conflicts arose from individuals ingrained views of the world:
“I was ashamed at having worked there. It made no difference in this context that I’d been a simple worker, not responsible for the newspaper’s content. The reason for my feeling was not the fact I’d been so close to a political system that is now widely rejected. It was that I hadn’t realized that at the time, I’d been a part of something without understanding what it was and without seeing the slightest need to think about it—just as children feel at one with their surroundings they grow up in, consider them the norm.”
“The Cold Centre,” is a novel that scours the personal past of an individual, as he tries to understand the repercussions of his past, as well as the system, and how despite the attempts of destroying this old world – continue to find ways to exist or lest leave their mark. Such as the “Neues Deutschland,” large brass ND remaining on the old building, because the letters were too heavy to move. Yet the novel is compressed, as our narrator attempts to organize and investigate his past workspace, and his old co-workers to try and understand why someone he cares about his suffering from cancer. Bringing to light how the Chernobyl disaster was not just quarantined to one area, but found its contaminating irradiated touch far into the world of the Iron Curtain. The novel probes how the past – despite the landscape changing or being removed; still creeps into the present. As the novel shows, it can creep in with questions regarding the past, and the claustrophobia of the past collapsing, disintegrating and being demolished – while questions of the present still required to be answered.
“The Cold Centre,” is a novel that probes personal history via the larger historical moments. It is a novel that surrounds itself in location, to offer both atmosphere but also understanding of the conditions of life. Landscape, space, and place – become characters in themselves; they become external forces that influence and offer answers about the characters. The language is sparse, matter of fact. The shifts of time come abruptly, but eventually coherent and as the novel comes to its own close. Inka Parei asks the question of how a city that existed on the edge of the world, made due and survived after being pushed over that edge – did it truly neatly fall back into place, or did that old world just fall apart, while the new world reunited with it, to become whole once again.
“Just as I had before, I now lived in a world filled with people, with cities and streets, schools and government offices and with nature, with which I was fairly familiar. And almost all those things were referred to using words I knew. But if the same language was used in such different worlds, could I trust that language?”
How does on collapse after their world is pushed over the edge, and is sent plummeting into the end? For Herta Müller, when she was in Romania she was: the German; when she arrived to West Germany she was: the Romanian. Did and do such divides for this ‘homecoming,’ and reunification still linger in Germany and Berlin today. Are the divides between East and West, now perceptional divides, rather than the ideological ones that had separated and segregated?
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 twentieth century certainly must have been one of the most innovative, progressive and tumultuous centuries of recent memory. The world had fallen into place, and fallen apart simultaneously. Countries were divided; new ones formed from the divisions; independence was at hand; and eventual annexation and amalgamation would take place. Governments formed. Governments were dissolved. War brought the world to its knees. It would be a war that at the time was deemed to end all wars. What subsumed was tragedy. Trench warfare brought the opposing armies into stalemates. Despite the innovations of technology and science, at the time warfare had not adapted to the new tools implanted. War was still chivalrous. Yet it was not the only war to be; and by far did not end the concept of war; but was merely a precursor to the changing dynamics of war. From here peace came; but only in the form of a world ravaged by human destruction. Work – none to be found. Yet the twentieth century progressed into new forms of expression as well. Where the Victorians first began to experiment in new artistic measures, and expression, their theories carried on into other disciplines and opened up a new world of creative possibilities, which were outlaid in manifestos: Surrealism, Dadaism, cubism, and futurism. Modernism did away with the concepts of a novel, in the late nineteenth century. Yet it founds its final maturation in the early twentieth century, with acclaimed authors that included Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. The novel was taken away from the societal realms and bleak realism; and probed with new found psychoanalytical theories the concept of the human mind; and the literary mode of expression was to become such a medium to explore characters via thought and internal workings – rather than action and external dialogue. Modernism reassessed society after the horrors of the First World War. What would soon come as modernism started to lose its sway on the world, would be yet another grand tragedy that would scar the world, stain human history and show mankind how innovative it was; but also how innovation is equally destructive as it is altruistic. With the outbreak of the Second World War, one realized that peace was not at hand, and possibly never will be. In this time period, the chivalry of war was lost. The world had progressed towards production of tanks, which appeared to be unstoppable and unbreakable. Rockets showed the possibility of space being no longer unattainable or unreachable – but a possible new heavenly frontier to explore. Destruction was less tragic; and more easily acquired. Bombings were a present fact of day to day life – relentless and without discrimination. When the Second World War ended however, we saw what terror truly looked like. War on its own was a dreadful; but what was soon discovered after the war, was how mankind could cross the line between human and monster, without looking back. What no one knew at the time was: how little distance lied between the two. Society and mankind was forced to look into the atrocities that had taken place, with systematic and meticulous planning. How death became a factory. How countries were sustained via the use of slave labour. We realized that beneath the uniforms, beneath the armour, the guns, the bullets – beneath the entire machine called ‘War,’ there was a nihilistic seed waiting to be watered, and when it is given water and sunlight, one is willing to do anything. People looked into the hollowed eyes of survivors. They gazed into the blank stares of the victims. What stared back was the abyss. But also a plea: never let this history repeat itself.
Yet this was just the start of realizing our own acquired concept of power, which was endowed to human beings in this century. Society realized, that the end of times did not mean celestial apocalypse or biblical Armageddon. The end could be brought on by human hands. It came in the form of a red button, which could be mistakenly pushed. After the Second World War postmodernism came into being. It viewed mankind’s great potential of doing good, with skeptical eyes; realizing how easy it was to revert to animalistic and advanced draconian measures for some cause, for some reason, for some ideology. The twentieth century moved forward. Progression continued, and so did the world. The world had become split, not just by borders and countries, but also by ideologies. Such ideas became sources of power and of paranoia. This had led to a golden age of espionage and covert affairs.
In “The Paris Review,” German writer Jenny Erpenbeck writes of her memories of: “living on the edge of the world,” where the Berlin wall once stood, that became the physical barrier and barricade, which had separated the world. A world divided by opposing ideologies, where one was bathed in the gray light of communism: a ideology of utopian concepts, which had found itself corrupted by power and control; and that of capitalism: a ideology of freedom both economically and personal, that found itself contorted and manipulated in a manner, which abused freedom to fill one’s own pockets. With the fall of the Berlin Wall Erpenbeck wrote of new words being thrown around: freedom, independence, and unification. Yet it soon became clear that the divide was not just a physical wall; but an attitude that many on opposing sides could not grapple with. Freedom to travel, expression, and to shop – became uncertain nightmares that disrupted what was once daily life. The world that once sat on the edge of the world had been pushed over the edge. The question would be, would it fall into place or would it fall apart. This is the world that Inka Parei writes about in “The Cold Centre.”
Location becomes a character in itself for Inka Parei. Her three published novels each take place in the former GDR, and deal with the recent history of Germany. The “Cold Centre,” itself deals with the manufacturing of cold to sustain the publication of “Neues Deutschland,” and the ideology that it was to openly propagate. It was to spread the propaganda like pollen – only on the wings of paper and in letters of ink. The novel is narrated by an unnamed man in the first person. He was a refrigerant technician. His job like his co-workers: maintain the desired temperature for the press of “Neues Deutschland,” as it fulfilled its own duty, by manufacturing ideology and propaganda to spoon feed the populace into continually have hope and praise the system in which they were forced to live under.
The novel moves between the present and the past. Parei writes of a lost world in “The Cold Centre.” A world of a forgotten and failed political system. A world of pipes that dripped with condensation. A background of blinking lights – solid green lights, lights that would turn red when errors occurred and emergencies were in motion; as well as large black switches. The descriptions of the turbines, compressors, and the loud running machines, reminded me of the ammonia plants of hockey rinks. How the concrete floor would shake when the plant ran: compressors operational, turbines out of sight spinning, belts vibrating. The pipes coloured to code; and labeled accordingly. Steam pouring out of the building. The difference: the plants in the hockey rinks were to maintain ice; where the cold centre of this novel was to maintain the operation and distribution of ideology. – In the present this former world has since been destroyed. The buildings were antiques of time that did not need to be praised or remembered. The people of the east where to step out of grey light of their oppression, and to step into the neon lights of a new world with promises of freedoms: freedom of expression, to travel, and to shop. Despite the physicality of the world being united different perspectives and understandings of the world still remained. As the narrator points out conflicts arose from individuals ingrained views of the world:
“I was ashamed at having worked there. It made no difference in this context that I’d been a simple worker, not responsible for the newspaper’s content. The reason for my feeling was not the fact I’d been so close to a political system that is now widely rejected. It was that I hadn’t realized that at the time, I’d been a part of something without understanding what it was and without seeing the slightest need to think about it—just as children feel at one with their surroundings they grow up in, consider them the norm.”
“The Cold Centre,” is a novel that scours the personal past of an individual, as he tries to understand the repercussions of his past, as well as the system, and how despite the attempts of destroying this old world – continue to find ways to exist or lest leave their mark. Such as the “Neues Deutschland,” large brass ND remaining on the old building, because the letters were too heavy to move. Yet the novel is compressed, as our narrator attempts to organize and investigate his past workspace, and his old co-workers to try and understand why someone he cares about his suffering from cancer. Bringing to light how the Chernobyl disaster was not just quarantined to one area, but found its contaminating irradiated touch far into the world of the Iron Curtain. The novel probes how the past – despite the landscape changing or being removed; still creeps into the present. As the novel shows, it can creep in with questions regarding the past, and the claustrophobia of the past collapsing, disintegrating and being demolished – while questions of the present still required to be answered.
“The Cold Centre,” is a novel that probes personal history via the larger historical moments. It is a novel that surrounds itself in location, to offer both atmosphere but also understanding of the conditions of life. Landscape, space, and place – become characters in themselves; they become external forces that influence and offer answers about the characters. The language is sparse, matter of fact. The shifts of time come abruptly, but eventually coherent and as the novel comes to its own close. Inka Parei asks the question of how a city that existed on the edge of the world, made due and survived after being pushed over that edge – did it truly neatly fall back into place, or did that old world just fall apart, while the new world reunited with it, to become whole once again.
“Just as I had before, I now lived in a world filled with people, with cities and streets, schools and government offices and with nature, with which I was fairly familiar. And almost all those things were referred to using words I knew. But if the same language was used in such different worlds, could I trust that language?”
How does on collapse after their world is pushed over the edge, and is sent plummeting into the end? For Herta Müller, when she was in Romania she was: the German; when she arrived to West Germany she was: the Romanian. Did and do such divides for this ‘homecoming,’ and reunification still linger in Germany and Berlin today. Are the divides between East and West, now perceptional divides, rather than the ideological ones that had separated and segregated?
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 February 2015
Suspended Sentences
Hello Gentle Reader
When I was younger, crime was both abhorrent and repugnant as it was to a degree romantic. Bank robberies and homicide were disgusting acts. Atrocities beyond my childhood capabilities of comprehension – and yet they were soon out done, by far more extraordinary acts of nihilistic human cruelty. The capacity it seems at times to do horrible acts of violence, against one another, would almost lead anyone to believe that human beings are inherently evil. Yet human beings are not inherent in any moral direction – be it altruistic or evil. The age old perspectives – and the black and white theory, that human beings sway on a pendulum, in the divided moral world; is out dated and archaic. It’s not relevant nor is it revelatory. The archaic term ‘sin,’ and everyone being tempted to ‘sin,’ or by ‘sin,’ is also in dire need of being filed in the waste bin. For that concept is merely rubbish. Human beings are not ripped from the womb, with any predetermined concept of their inherent nature, in regards to morality or immorality. Human beings are inherently amoral. They lack morals, in the beginning. Children are naïve and ignorant. Why else would they require guidance and lessons on being polite and doing ‘the right things,’? There is no child born who decides from that first breath to their last, that they will be a murderer, that they will be a bank robber, or a tyrant. These predilections are developed over time; through environment, through development and upbringing.
To my younger self though – some crimes were slightly romantic. What young man did not dream of being an international spy like James Bond? Martini’s shaken and not stirred. Licenses to kill. A life of luxury and opulence; with the dangers and adventures associated with espionage. This was the beginning of my understanding of how some professions, and some trades were morally ambiguous – or in fact amoral period; but were justified in long winded reports, and oratory inquiries in which the shadows in which these people operated, was that: the curtains and the faded world beneath our feet, and behind our walls, in which daily existence was threatened. They had to be as ambiguous and as obscure in ‘moral justifications,’ as were the people, they were working towards stopping. Still, it was the glitz and the glamour. The diamonds, the money, the gentlemen like air and appearance – yet beneath that posh exterior, their existed an individual lost in a world of shifting shades, and dimming light. It was a world of midnight dashes; after hour meetings, and a perpetual game of cat and mouse, and always running and looking behind oneself. Their glamour soon faded. Martinis ran out. No friends to call. No associates to contact. That poor figure would find himself, standing in the rain, beneath a street light, looking for that flicker in a shadow to go back to that place, which has now become home.
The only other underworld escapade that I could even envision then, and still half believe today with those romantic inclinations – is that of the paradoxical ‘gentleman thief.’ Those dashing gentlemen, with their charisma and charm, took what they wanted. These were thieves who could not be bothered with the mundane and the monotonous. They were not bank robbers, like Bonnie and Clyde, with a Thompson submachine gun in hand, taking cash by force and threat. No these men were dressed in suits and ties; they articulated their speech to an art form of eloquence. They knew when to speak; and when to observe. These were devilish men; but in a welcoming way. They made everyone feel that they were on top of the world in some manner or another. A falsified belief; perpetrated by such a con man. And yet in some way, it is still an admirable quality. That ability to let anyone think that at that moment, they are the only one in that world, and at that moment, and that moment alone, that they have finally come to realize their own moment of grandeur. If only in the end to realize it was a charade, and a lie. An act in which, the individual who had guided them and led them to that understanding, had merely done so, only in the best interest themselves: that charming con man. Yet how quickly they change from welcomed dinner party guest to; to thief is a bewildering one. The suit is abandoned for black slacks and black turtlenecks – an, attire that I associate with artists and jewel thief’s or art heists. These men were far more attracted to the terms priceless or jewel or art. They were not petty enough to waste time with money and paper – false commodities that offer illusions of wealth. They were after status and culture. Yet even these men, lock themselves into a world of paranoia. Their walls adorned by art, their safes sparkling with jewels. And yet a void exists. It skirts around the walls; peeking through windows – it’s a romantic life of charm and status; but filled with the emptiness of alienation deprived of social connections on any level of actual depth or intimacy.
Such is the world that the, two-thousand and fourteen Nobel Laureate in Literature, Patrick Modiano writes about. The world of Modiano is coloured in sepia tones, as well as black and white. The streets of Paris in his works are not over crowded; but are abandoned and deserted. It is because of the absence of people that the streets of Paris in Modian’s books become intimate in their own way. Yet this is a Paris that is lost, to the modern day city of love and lights. Modiano’s Paris is haunted by the occupation; by cowardice, and is inhabited by turn coats, and traitors. It is this Paris that Modiano writes of: a Paris of curfews, of foreign men in its city with power; and foreign laws discriminating against the locals of Paris itself, and France as an entire nation. Patrick Modiano’s life has been haunted by the occupation; a dark time in the history of not only the city but also France; and has been quickly jotted down in the history books, and left in such a state of memory. It is best to leave it on plaques and in text books, and chapters in books, as not to dwell on it.
Yet for Modiano it is a time in history that lurks in the streets of modern day Paris. It lies beneath the streets like the catacombs. Each and every day the streets are walked upon, and not once do those same streets insinuate the recent past. Yet those that lived in the city at that time know full well of the dangers that those streets possessed, and had watched as those dangers befell those unfortunate enough to have found it released upon them. These people casually watched from their balconies, and their windows, as people are detained, questioned and humiliated by the occupying forces. Some of these people may have even participated in the black market dealings of the time. For at the time they had though that it was the right move at the right time; only to have found themselves answering for those crimes at later dates. These crimes would be answered for. The criminals purged. The era reconciled. And so some would say begins the healing process.
This is what Modiano’s work is all about. It is the continual remembrance of a time now past; yet a time that has scarred many individuals, and weights heavily on their minds. The narrators of these three novella’s are often at times outside looking into, the memories of others, via happenstance and circumstances. It starts with chance encounters. Those small insignificant moments of chance and fate. Such as meeting a photographer in a café, who casually takes a picture, and from there a friendship in the loosest of terms is formed. From there small fragments are shared of one’s life to another. The details are however myopic. They are small and do not implicate the greater or larger part of the memory being shared; or how such a small memory has any connection to the greater chain of memories that forms a human beings life. Yet in the case of Francis Jansen from “Afterimage,” it is easy to see how that chain has its choke hold on his life, and slowly has tightened over the years. Yet Modiano’s narrators continually search for answers, which are often evaded. The individuals holding such answers often abruptly leave, without saying a word. Those that have implicated their departure; often state they will send a postcard. But one would always wait in vain; as such a final gift that rekindles their presence, in a world of their absence; never arrives.
Patrick Modiano’s books have been cited as: acquired tastes. His style is bare bones and bleached – but not by any means simplistic. Characterization is not heavily introduced into his works of fiction. The settings are there; but spoken of as if they are known and are intimately set with passing glimpses and references. It is not necessarily his characters, or his depicted landscapes that make Modiano’s writing so fascinating; it is the atmosphere that in a few words, and after a few short pages, he is able to capture and release onto the written page. Patrick Modiano takes the guise of crime fiction for his novels, but never follows the rules of the genre itself. Rather Modiano uses the form and genre slightly to create, a sense of menace, from what is left unspoken and the abrupt departures, and presences of people entering and exiting ones lives.
It is easy to see why many readers, advise emerging acquaintances to Patrick Modiano’s novels, to read more than just one of his books – but rather read many of his works. Modiano is the kind of author who rehashes and reuses many similar parts of his books; but offers changes to keep them interesting and not to give the understanding that he is recycling his work over and over again. He has turned the Occupation of France – and Paris, into that lingering ghost of many people’s lives, where the horrors of the world, had not only invaded their lives, but occupied it. It is these characters – detached, dejected and evasive; are often the subject of curiosity by the narrators who are removed from these characters, and yet seek to understand, without receiving any real answers. There is a sense with these three novella’s that makeup and engross “Suspended Sentences,” that they are part memoir and autobiography; but also part exorcism and investigation at the same time.
The three novellas’s presented here, are elegiac and discuss how compliance can become criminal and as illicit as perpetrating the crimes themselves. The novellas discuss another time; another world; a place quickly placed into history and left there. Yet for Modiano it is a well – or a spring; that continually is a reminder of the traumas of a period not yet bleached from history; but often overlooked – and so Modiano in his writings does not forget, and through turning writing in to the ‘art of memory,’ he continually grapples with a past that grows less tangible, the more time marches forward. Modiano does not bare witness to history in this case; but evaluates it and analyses it as if it were patient that has walked into his office, ready to divulge its crimes and its secrets. Yet in the case of Modiano’s work it is not openly revealed. Many doors are open; but none are closed; and those that are open only walls can be found. No answers are ever given; but questions linger and haunt afterwards.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
When I was younger, crime was both abhorrent and repugnant as it was to a degree romantic. Bank robberies and homicide were disgusting acts. Atrocities beyond my childhood capabilities of comprehension – and yet they were soon out done, by far more extraordinary acts of nihilistic human cruelty. The capacity it seems at times to do horrible acts of violence, against one another, would almost lead anyone to believe that human beings are inherently evil. Yet human beings are not inherent in any moral direction – be it altruistic or evil. The age old perspectives – and the black and white theory, that human beings sway on a pendulum, in the divided moral world; is out dated and archaic. It’s not relevant nor is it revelatory. The archaic term ‘sin,’ and everyone being tempted to ‘sin,’ or by ‘sin,’ is also in dire need of being filed in the waste bin. For that concept is merely rubbish. Human beings are not ripped from the womb, with any predetermined concept of their inherent nature, in regards to morality or immorality. Human beings are inherently amoral. They lack morals, in the beginning. Children are naïve and ignorant. Why else would they require guidance and lessons on being polite and doing ‘the right things,’? There is no child born who decides from that first breath to their last, that they will be a murderer, that they will be a bank robber, or a tyrant. These predilections are developed over time; through environment, through development and upbringing.
To my younger self though – some crimes were slightly romantic. What young man did not dream of being an international spy like James Bond? Martini’s shaken and not stirred. Licenses to kill. A life of luxury and opulence; with the dangers and adventures associated with espionage. This was the beginning of my understanding of how some professions, and some trades were morally ambiguous – or in fact amoral period; but were justified in long winded reports, and oratory inquiries in which the shadows in which these people operated, was that: the curtains and the faded world beneath our feet, and behind our walls, in which daily existence was threatened. They had to be as ambiguous and as obscure in ‘moral justifications,’ as were the people, they were working towards stopping. Still, it was the glitz and the glamour. The diamonds, the money, the gentlemen like air and appearance – yet beneath that posh exterior, their existed an individual lost in a world of shifting shades, and dimming light. It was a world of midnight dashes; after hour meetings, and a perpetual game of cat and mouse, and always running and looking behind oneself. Their glamour soon faded. Martinis ran out. No friends to call. No associates to contact. That poor figure would find himself, standing in the rain, beneath a street light, looking for that flicker in a shadow to go back to that place, which has now become home.
The only other underworld escapade that I could even envision then, and still half believe today with those romantic inclinations – is that of the paradoxical ‘gentleman thief.’ Those dashing gentlemen, with their charisma and charm, took what they wanted. These were thieves who could not be bothered with the mundane and the monotonous. They were not bank robbers, like Bonnie and Clyde, with a Thompson submachine gun in hand, taking cash by force and threat. No these men were dressed in suits and ties; they articulated their speech to an art form of eloquence. They knew when to speak; and when to observe. These were devilish men; but in a welcoming way. They made everyone feel that they were on top of the world in some manner or another. A falsified belief; perpetrated by such a con man. And yet in some way, it is still an admirable quality. That ability to let anyone think that at that moment, they are the only one in that world, and at that moment, and that moment alone, that they have finally come to realize their own moment of grandeur. If only in the end to realize it was a charade, and a lie. An act in which, the individual who had guided them and led them to that understanding, had merely done so, only in the best interest themselves: that charming con man. Yet how quickly they change from welcomed dinner party guest to; to thief is a bewildering one. The suit is abandoned for black slacks and black turtlenecks – an, attire that I associate with artists and jewel thief’s or art heists. These men were far more attracted to the terms priceless or jewel or art. They were not petty enough to waste time with money and paper – false commodities that offer illusions of wealth. They were after status and culture. Yet even these men, lock themselves into a world of paranoia. Their walls adorned by art, their safes sparkling with jewels. And yet a void exists. It skirts around the walls; peeking through windows – it’s a romantic life of charm and status; but filled with the emptiness of alienation deprived of social connections on any level of actual depth or intimacy.
Such is the world that the, two-thousand and fourteen Nobel Laureate in Literature, Patrick Modiano writes about. The world of Modiano is coloured in sepia tones, as well as black and white. The streets of Paris in his works are not over crowded; but are abandoned and deserted. It is because of the absence of people that the streets of Paris in Modian’s books become intimate in their own way. Yet this is a Paris that is lost, to the modern day city of love and lights. Modiano’s Paris is haunted by the occupation; by cowardice, and is inhabited by turn coats, and traitors. It is this Paris that Modiano writes of: a Paris of curfews, of foreign men in its city with power; and foreign laws discriminating against the locals of Paris itself, and France as an entire nation. Patrick Modiano’s life has been haunted by the occupation; a dark time in the history of not only the city but also France; and has been quickly jotted down in the history books, and left in such a state of memory. It is best to leave it on plaques and in text books, and chapters in books, as not to dwell on it.
Yet for Modiano it is a time in history that lurks in the streets of modern day Paris. It lies beneath the streets like the catacombs. Each and every day the streets are walked upon, and not once do those same streets insinuate the recent past. Yet those that lived in the city at that time know full well of the dangers that those streets possessed, and had watched as those dangers befell those unfortunate enough to have found it released upon them. These people casually watched from their balconies, and their windows, as people are detained, questioned and humiliated by the occupying forces. Some of these people may have even participated in the black market dealings of the time. For at the time they had though that it was the right move at the right time; only to have found themselves answering for those crimes at later dates. These crimes would be answered for. The criminals purged. The era reconciled. And so some would say begins the healing process.
This is what Modiano’s work is all about. It is the continual remembrance of a time now past; yet a time that has scarred many individuals, and weights heavily on their minds. The narrators of these three novella’s are often at times outside looking into, the memories of others, via happenstance and circumstances. It starts with chance encounters. Those small insignificant moments of chance and fate. Such as meeting a photographer in a café, who casually takes a picture, and from there a friendship in the loosest of terms is formed. From there small fragments are shared of one’s life to another. The details are however myopic. They are small and do not implicate the greater or larger part of the memory being shared; or how such a small memory has any connection to the greater chain of memories that forms a human beings life. Yet in the case of Francis Jansen from “Afterimage,” it is easy to see how that chain has its choke hold on his life, and slowly has tightened over the years. Yet Modiano’s narrators continually search for answers, which are often evaded. The individuals holding such answers often abruptly leave, without saying a word. Those that have implicated their departure; often state they will send a postcard. But one would always wait in vain; as such a final gift that rekindles their presence, in a world of their absence; never arrives.
Patrick Modiano’s books have been cited as: acquired tastes. His style is bare bones and bleached – but not by any means simplistic. Characterization is not heavily introduced into his works of fiction. The settings are there; but spoken of as if they are known and are intimately set with passing glimpses and references. It is not necessarily his characters, or his depicted landscapes that make Modiano’s writing so fascinating; it is the atmosphere that in a few words, and after a few short pages, he is able to capture and release onto the written page. Patrick Modiano takes the guise of crime fiction for his novels, but never follows the rules of the genre itself. Rather Modiano uses the form and genre slightly to create, a sense of menace, from what is left unspoken and the abrupt departures, and presences of people entering and exiting ones lives.
It is easy to see why many readers, advise emerging acquaintances to Patrick Modiano’s novels, to read more than just one of his books – but rather read many of his works. Modiano is the kind of author who rehashes and reuses many similar parts of his books; but offers changes to keep them interesting and not to give the understanding that he is recycling his work over and over again. He has turned the Occupation of France – and Paris, into that lingering ghost of many people’s lives, where the horrors of the world, had not only invaded their lives, but occupied it. It is these characters – detached, dejected and evasive; are often the subject of curiosity by the narrators who are removed from these characters, and yet seek to understand, without receiving any real answers. There is a sense with these three novella’s that makeup and engross “Suspended Sentences,” that they are part memoir and autobiography; but also part exorcism and investigation at the same time.
The three novellas’s presented here, are elegiac and discuss how compliance can become criminal and as illicit as perpetrating the crimes themselves. The novellas discuss another time; another world; a place quickly placed into history and left there. Yet for Modiano it is a well – or a spring; that continually is a reminder of the traumas of a period not yet bleached from history; but often overlooked – and so Modiano in his writings does not forget, and through turning writing in to the ‘art of memory,’ he continually grapples with a past that grows less tangible, the more time marches forward. Modiano does not bare witness to history in this case; but evaluates it and analyses it as if it were patient that has walked into his office, ready to divulge its crimes and its secrets. Yet in the case of Modiano’s work it is not openly revealed. Many doors are open; but none are closed; and those that are open only walls can be found. No answers are ever given; but questions linger and haunt afterwards.
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
Sunday, 8 February 2015
I am Told The World Goes On
Hello Gentle Reader
I am told the world goes on. I am told life goes on. With or without me. With or without you. With or without anyone. The world keeps spinning. The road is continually traveled – though a destination is still not agreed upon. The world will unfortunately continue without two authors now. Algerian novelist and often cited as a preeminent Nobel contender Assia Djebar, has passed away February Sixth, at the age of seventy eight, in a hospital in Paris. Djebar was an adamant feminist for Muslim women, and the fight for their emancipation from male guardians, husbands and other patriarchal dominant forces. Dejebar had published more than fifteen novels in French, and they have been published into twenty-three languages. Djebar divided her time between France and the United States where she taught graduate studies, at the New York University. Assia Djebar was a woman of firsts. At the age of eighteen she was the first Muslim woman to be admitted to the prestigious French University: the Ecole Normale Superieure. In two-thousand and five Assia Djebar was appointed to the prominent Académie française, and once again was the first intellectual to take a seat from the Maghreb (the North West division of the African continent). Assia Djebar was known for her novels, her political activism for women’s rights, in her native lands; but also as an intellectual a film-maker and a student of history. French language literature has lost one of its greatest speakers, as has the region of Maghreb and Algeria.
Andre Brink was an Afrikaans writer, who actively spoke out against Apartheid, in his native South Africa. He is best known for his novel “A Dry White Season,” and its subsequent film which had Marlon Brando make an appearance out of retirment. Brink belonged to the literary group: Die Sestigers, which included the poet Ingrid Jonker and Breyten Breytenbach. Because of Brinks disapproval and open opposition of the apartheid and the subsequent government; Brinks works often banned, but was unique for using the Afrikaan’s language to make his opinions known. Before his untimely death Brink was a university professor at the University of Cape Town. He fell ill on a flight coming back from Belgium, after receiving a honorary doctorate from Université catholique de Louvain. Brink’s work protested and opposed political repression fueled by racism in his native South Africa, during apartheid. Much like Nobel Laureate Nadine Gordimer, he was a politically and socially aware writer, and could not tolerate let alone accept political disgraceful behavior.
Rest In Peace to both Assia Djebar and Andre Brink.
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 am told the world goes on. I am told life goes on. With or without me. With or without you. With or without anyone. The world keeps spinning. The road is continually traveled – though a destination is still not agreed upon. The world will unfortunately continue without two authors now. Algerian novelist and often cited as a preeminent Nobel contender Assia Djebar, has passed away February Sixth, at the age of seventy eight, in a hospital in Paris. Djebar was an adamant feminist for Muslim women, and the fight for their emancipation from male guardians, husbands and other patriarchal dominant forces. Dejebar had published more than fifteen novels in French, and they have been published into twenty-three languages. Djebar divided her time between France and the United States where she taught graduate studies, at the New York University. Assia Djebar was a woman of firsts. At the age of eighteen she was the first Muslim woman to be admitted to the prestigious French University: the Ecole Normale Superieure. In two-thousand and five Assia Djebar was appointed to the prominent Académie française, and once again was the first intellectual to take a seat from the Maghreb (the North West division of the African continent). Assia Djebar was known for her novels, her political activism for women’s rights, in her native lands; but also as an intellectual a film-maker and a student of history. French language literature has lost one of its greatest speakers, as has the region of Maghreb and Algeria.
Andre Brink was an Afrikaans writer, who actively spoke out against Apartheid, in his native South Africa. He is best known for his novel “A Dry White Season,” and its subsequent film which had Marlon Brando make an appearance out of retirment. Brink belonged to the literary group: Die Sestigers, which included the poet Ingrid Jonker and Breyten Breytenbach. Because of Brinks disapproval and open opposition of the apartheid and the subsequent government; Brinks works often banned, but was unique for using the Afrikaan’s language to make his opinions known. Before his untimely death Brink was a university professor at the University of Cape Town. He fell ill on a flight coming back from Belgium, after receiving a honorary doctorate from Université catholique de Louvain. Brink’s work protested and opposed political repression fueled by racism in his native South Africa, during apartheid. Much like Nobel Laureate Nadine Gordimer, he was a politically and socially aware writer, and could not tolerate let alone accept political disgraceful behavior.
Rest In Peace to both Assia Djebar and Andre Brink.
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 February 2015
A Point to Be Made
Hello Gentle Reader
On Translation -
Karen Emmerich a translator of Greek literature laments the state of lacking translation. Though translated literature has made headway over the years, it is still lacking in comparative to other books being published in the English language. Karen Emmerich points out in her article for the “Huffington Post,” that, literature from other countries goes beyond the media representation in which people are spoon fed via their television screens or the computers. Literature offers the human heart to the story; it goes beyond the blue glow of the screens, and beyond the demonization or the depictions that are being quickly totted around, in a few second slots, before breaking for the weather or local news. Emmerich argues, that the lack of commentary from the individuals (Greeks in this case) in these situations, lets the stories be tossed aside as nothing more than snippets and vignettes, in regards to the larger story that is taking place. Greece itself has just gone to the polls back in January, and Europe itself held its breath waiting for the outcome, that may push Greece further into debt or, perhaps allow for stability (financial and civil) to come over the troubled country. Yet Emmerich argues that without Literature (journalism included) being translated from these countries, the human representation of such times goes by without truly being understood. I concur with Emmerich. Greece and its government is often shown as being financially irresponsible; petulant in dealing with the realization that its bail outs are credits and must be paid back; and the people have been misrepresented, as being slothful lazy and lacking ambition to get the country out of debt; and yet cry out that someone else must get them out of debt, rather than them, themselves. Emmerich salutes, the writers nominated for this year’s Greek State Book Prize. Many of the nominated authors have thought past the current crisis and show the resilience of Greeks past and present, and offer that glimmer of hope that once again they will overcome even this obstacle. The final point Emmerich makes, after lamenting the state of lack of translation, is perhaps the strongest argument for translation:
“If we want to understand the history we are living right now, the unfolding history of the present, we need to see more translation of media and genres of all sorts.”
As history doesn’t just happen here at homes – it doesn’t just happen in some far off other place; it happens everywhere, everyday all around us.
Children’s Literature Evolves –
I make no secret about sharing my often acerbic and vitriolic views of young adult fiction; which I find gloriously disappointing and a complete lack of anything intelligent worth stating. Though many argue my points are pompous, and do not take into consideration the reading habits of others compared to my own, and continue to state that some people like to read a good story, with no hassle in regards to literary merit, artistic integrity or linguistic ingenuity – perhaps not in so many words though. The greatest argument that people have made, in regards to young adult fiction – which is classified as a form of children’s literature; is it offers some of the most insightful social criticism, and observations that can be observed. The setting maybe a high school, the book maybe written in a primarily ‘young person’s,’ language, with colloquial dialogue on the verge of vernacular diarrhea – and the small melodramatic romantic notions are enough to make a harlequin romance look intriguing; they do showcase aspects of societies demands on the youth, and the media’s representation of what youth is, and what it should be, and how it should act – sixteen and pregnant anyone? This leads to a depiction of a ‘culture,’ that is at times dark, alienated, brooding and in some cases violent. “When Everything Feels Like the Movies,” the debut novel by Raziel Reid, has been criticized by many for dealing with sensitive issues, in a ‘inappropriate manner.’ A petition has urged that Reid have the Governor Generals Award for English Language Children’s Literature revoked. An appeal that has been denied. Raziel Reid shows a nihilistic teenage world, that has been taken over by a cyber world, where everything is instant gratification with no sense of intimacy, no human warmth of contact; where a click of a mouse: makes and breaks. Everything in this novel depicts the emptiness and alienation of the current teenage world, which has become increasingly connected via a cyber world, but disconnected from the real world. Raziel Reid depicts a ever evolving and changing social world. The language of the novel maybe considered violent, rude, crude and inappropriate, but it would appear to be a comprehensive representation of a world that has changed, and the social structured that has evolved with this ever connected. For this observation that shows itself to being very socially aware, I would support the decision to give the award to Raziel Reid, for his novel. It deals with very sensitive subject matter, in an honest depiction; this is what it means to be a socially aware writer.
Wanted: Biographer for Doris Lessing –
The Literary executors of Doris Lessing are in search of a biographer. The biographer will have access to all of Lessing’s archives including her journals, dairies and literary papers. Lessing originally wanted Michael Holroyd to write the biography, but the author has since declined as he is one of the literary executors for Lessing and has also admitted that the sheer size of her archives, and their displacement throughout the globe, would make the task a long process, requiring ten years (at least) of proper research. Doris Lessing’s diaries have been barred from her family to read, on suspected grounds of ‘sensitivity.’ As Holroyd points out – people write things in anger and generally at the moment on the spot. Lessing’s literary executors have offers coming from academic and non-academics – male and female; to write the extraordinary authors biography. It will be a daunting task, but hopefully insightful as well. The executor’s plan on having someone in place by spring.
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
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-emmerich/greek-journalism-and-literature_b_6565218.html
http://ottawacitizen.com/news/local-news/critics-of-vulgar-book-for-young-adults-want-governor-generals-award-rescinded
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/feb/04/doris-lessing-literary-estate-to-appoint-biographer
On Translation -
Karen Emmerich a translator of Greek literature laments the state of lacking translation. Though translated literature has made headway over the years, it is still lacking in comparative to other books being published in the English language. Karen Emmerich points out in her article for the “Huffington Post,” that, literature from other countries goes beyond the media representation in which people are spoon fed via their television screens or the computers. Literature offers the human heart to the story; it goes beyond the blue glow of the screens, and beyond the demonization or the depictions that are being quickly totted around, in a few second slots, before breaking for the weather or local news. Emmerich argues, that the lack of commentary from the individuals (Greeks in this case) in these situations, lets the stories be tossed aside as nothing more than snippets and vignettes, in regards to the larger story that is taking place. Greece itself has just gone to the polls back in January, and Europe itself held its breath waiting for the outcome, that may push Greece further into debt or, perhaps allow for stability (financial and civil) to come over the troubled country. Yet Emmerich argues that without Literature (journalism included) being translated from these countries, the human representation of such times goes by without truly being understood. I concur with Emmerich. Greece and its government is often shown as being financially irresponsible; petulant in dealing with the realization that its bail outs are credits and must be paid back; and the people have been misrepresented, as being slothful lazy and lacking ambition to get the country out of debt; and yet cry out that someone else must get them out of debt, rather than them, themselves. Emmerich salutes, the writers nominated for this year’s Greek State Book Prize. Many of the nominated authors have thought past the current crisis and show the resilience of Greeks past and present, and offer that glimmer of hope that once again they will overcome even this obstacle. The final point Emmerich makes, after lamenting the state of lack of translation, is perhaps the strongest argument for translation:
“If we want to understand the history we are living right now, the unfolding history of the present, we need to see more translation of media and genres of all sorts.”
As history doesn’t just happen here at homes – it doesn’t just happen in some far off other place; it happens everywhere, everyday all around us.
Children’s Literature Evolves –
I make no secret about sharing my often acerbic and vitriolic views of young adult fiction; which I find gloriously disappointing and a complete lack of anything intelligent worth stating. Though many argue my points are pompous, and do not take into consideration the reading habits of others compared to my own, and continue to state that some people like to read a good story, with no hassle in regards to literary merit, artistic integrity or linguistic ingenuity – perhaps not in so many words though. The greatest argument that people have made, in regards to young adult fiction – which is classified as a form of children’s literature; is it offers some of the most insightful social criticism, and observations that can be observed. The setting maybe a high school, the book maybe written in a primarily ‘young person’s,’ language, with colloquial dialogue on the verge of vernacular diarrhea – and the small melodramatic romantic notions are enough to make a harlequin romance look intriguing; they do showcase aspects of societies demands on the youth, and the media’s representation of what youth is, and what it should be, and how it should act – sixteen and pregnant anyone? This leads to a depiction of a ‘culture,’ that is at times dark, alienated, brooding and in some cases violent. “When Everything Feels Like the Movies,” the debut novel by Raziel Reid, has been criticized by many for dealing with sensitive issues, in a ‘inappropriate manner.’ A petition has urged that Reid have the Governor Generals Award for English Language Children’s Literature revoked. An appeal that has been denied. Raziel Reid shows a nihilistic teenage world, that has been taken over by a cyber world, where everything is instant gratification with no sense of intimacy, no human warmth of contact; where a click of a mouse: makes and breaks. Everything in this novel depicts the emptiness and alienation of the current teenage world, which has become increasingly connected via a cyber world, but disconnected from the real world. Raziel Reid depicts a ever evolving and changing social world. The language of the novel maybe considered violent, rude, crude and inappropriate, but it would appear to be a comprehensive representation of a world that has changed, and the social structured that has evolved with this ever connected. For this observation that shows itself to being very socially aware, I would support the decision to give the award to Raziel Reid, for his novel. It deals with very sensitive subject matter, in an honest depiction; this is what it means to be a socially aware writer.
Wanted: Biographer for Doris Lessing –
The Literary executors of Doris Lessing are in search of a biographer. The biographer will have access to all of Lessing’s archives including her journals, dairies and literary papers. Lessing originally wanted Michael Holroyd to write the biography, but the author has since declined as he is one of the literary executors for Lessing and has also admitted that the sheer size of her archives, and their displacement throughout the globe, would make the task a long process, requiring ten years (at least) of proper research. Doris Lessing’s diaries have been barred from her family to read, on suspected grounds of ‘sensitivity.’ As Holroyd points out – people write things in anger and generally at the moment on the spot. Lessing’s literary executors have offers coming from academic and non-academics – male and female; to write the extraordinary authors biography. It will be a daunting task, but hopefully insightful as well. The executor’s plan on having someone in place by spring.
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
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/karen-emmerich/greek-journalism-and-literature_b_6565218.html
http://ottawacitizen.com/news/local-news/critics-of-vulgar-book-for-young-adults-want-governor-generals-award-rescinded
http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/feb/04/doris-lessing-literary-estate-to-appoint-biographer
Thursday, 29 January 2015
Miruna, A Tale
Hello Gentle Reader
“Who we are.” This is what “Miruna, A Tale,” is conceived about and around. It is a question, which finds its explanations and answers in the stories of the grandfather Niculae; states and reiterates as they have been told before him. They are the stories of how a home was formed. How a family came to be. They are personal legends, fairytales and an intimate mythology. It certainly must be easier for individuals in the ‘old,’ country to have an understanding knowledge of “who they are,” and where they came from. They are a generation that has lived there – as the generations before them have. In the ‘new,’ country it is far more difficult to have a comprehensive understanding of one’s roots, when they have been uprooted. Here one must rely on memory of the older generations – those who still exist. What becomes troubling though is that with memory, fact and imagination blur around the edges. With my own family, it is highly understood that the name and the origins are strictly French and came from France. The consensus then agrees: that during the political turmoil of the enlightenment age, and subsequent French Revolution, the family had left the turmoil, and headed west for the ‘new,’ world. Beyond these hazy generalized concepts, the details are lost. It is believed the family ‘came,’ from noble origins and were autocrats who participated in the courts. Though what family does not wish have to believe they came from a life of grandiose, and gentle poverty; rather than the alternative: poverty and peasantry. It is easier to swallow the pill, where one comes from the illusion of greatness and have fallen into the day to day humdrum, then it is to swallow the sack of nails where one came from nothing, and may not acquire that prestige which people in a sense feel a sense of entitlement too. Sometimes the past exists because it is easier to have a sense of nostalgia for such shallow dreams of autocracy and noble air, and living in a castle, then it is to suffer the present in a job, which one works to maintain their life as it stands. Yet they are shallow dreams which do not change the present; they offer the solace of a dream, but have no input or ideas of how to shape the future. Perhaps it is best that one does not always know or even understand or have the resources to answer the question: “who we are,” simply because it allows the future to be molded, and the present to be dealt with, without being distracted by former glory – if it even existed.
“Miruna, A Tale,” is told by the narrator Trajan – who at the time of the story was a boy listening to the stories of his grandfather Niculae, about who they were and how they came to be; Trajan now reiterates the stories of his grandfather, as if he were telling them to his children or grandchildren or nieces of nephews born from his sister Miruna. The stories in this novel make up a larger whole. The entire novel, explores the idea of “who we are,” and “how we came to be,” but intersecting each story are the characters that have shaped the story of the narrators family – the Berca family. Trajan and his sister Miruna, devour the stories readily. Yet it is Miruna who collects them, with the most avid vigor – as she is soon alleged to posse the gift of ‘second sight,’ where Trajan could not see, let alone ready anything – beyond the simplistic realities that the world itself openly reveals.
Bogdan Suceavă has written a novel that is short but beyond simplistic or superficial. Suceavă himself has written a miniaturized version of “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” for lack of a better comparison. The entire novel is written in the form as if it were reiterating the oral traditions of folk tales, and personalized stories or fables. Suceavă himself could be considered a fabulist in the tradition of Italo Calvino or Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Fantasy and reality, become blurred. The events of “Miruna, A Tale,” take place in the real world – and are surrounded by historical events, but reality is infused with a mystical wonder. The location of Romania – the Făgăraş Mountain landscape to be more exact; works to Suceavă’s advantage as a writer of the fabulous in the real world. Romania is still that dark horse of Europe. It is still a place, spoken in hushed tones, which is tinted with superstitions and where spells are still recited to ward off the unwanted and unwelcome. It is a place of a tortured brutal history; and made all that more famous by the gothic novel “Dracula.” Romania is still a land seasoned with legends of historical rulers who impaled their prisoners, their enemies. A place shrouded in a draconian history, and a still recovery present from the thaw of communism and the fall of the iron curtain. Suceavă succeeds however, in showcasing how the old world of the fictional village Evil Vale, had resisted modernity, and how it became its own universe.
The novel is written in the form of an oral tale, and the entire novel despite the salt and pepper of violence that is sprinkled throughout the novel – it has the air of being nostalgic. Niculae Berca tells his grandchildren the story of their great-grandfather Constantine Berca and his volunteer service, into the army to fight the Ottoman Empire, in the Russo-Turkish, and help Romania receive its independence. Though it is a dark beginning it is made light by the regional dark and morbid preoccupied sense of humour. A good example would be the colonel:
“The colonel who drank so much vodka before a battle that his guts caught fire when the Turks shot him,”
Still for Constantine Berca’s service he was granted a portion of land outside of Evil Vale; and so “who we are,” began to take form with “where we had come from.” Yet upon Constantine’s arrival to Evil Vale suspicious eyes have already begun to take note of him. Gossip starts and rumors spread through small hamlets, like fire on the wind. Upon arrival in Evil Vale Constantine had brought with him modern practices and even equipment – a Swiss engineered clock being one of them. A device that was foreign to such a place where: “time was infinite and haste was relatively unknown.” Berca’s reputation only grows. Rather than casting spells, to ward off the wolves or push back the forest which imposes its own laws upon the inhabitants of its land; Berca shoots the wolves with his rifle. He becomes known as a madman, and is quickly feared. Still Berca comes to understand the customs and traditions of the land, and quickly adapts at enchanting the land with his own set understanding of spells. Despite his own will imposed upon the landscape, it in itself had imposed its own way upon Constantine Berca. Still the great-grandfather of the story pushes on, and turns what would be considered a barren and unworkable piece of land into something, that can be managed and produced and be called a home. He digs a well – despite the well digger’s dowsing rods, proclaiming that no water existed. He is toyed with by the Fayes; and fights off the bandit Aman.
Despite the fairytale unraveling of the novel – it does begin to showcases its elegiac qualities. Miruna (the titular sister) may take in this entirely new world that their grandfather out lays for them; nothing remains unchanged or unnoticed for long. Though the characters of this novel had appeared to live on as if time had no material grasp on them; the last virgin spot of Europe was not immune to snuffing snout of a mechanical modern pig looking for such a truffle to unearth.
The novel despite its short length, being under one hundred and forty pages long, is filled with dense prose, which moves back and forth through time; with Tarjan and more specifically Niculae being the fulcrums in which time slides to and fro. The book is filled with eccentric and odd characters – reminiscent of “Primeval and Other Times,” by the Polish author (and neighbor) Olga Tokarczuk – Old Woman Fira, who runs the rumor mill: filling the village with latest gossip, spreading it about like chicken feed for chickens, and of course her expertise in spells and reading the future in the grains of the harvest; then there is the priest Father Dimitrie who continues to save the inhabits souls from damnation and eternal fires of hell; and the unfortunate and senile Elifterie who owns nothing – everything is given to him, even the words he uses which have been stowed away in his mind and are reiterated now and then. Yet the main character itself is the place; a place where its customs and traditions have survived and are a continual reminder of a life that was, and a time that can still be found in the habits of the old. This is one such novel that answers the question of why we tell stories. We tell stories to answer our personal questions: of where we come from; of who we are. Sometimes even the most simplistic of lives – are deceptive in the stories that exist there.
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
“Who we are.” This is what “Miruna, A Tale,” is conceived about and around. It is a question, which finds its explanations and answers in the stories of the grandfather Niculae; states and reiterates as they have been told before him. They are the stories of how a home was formed. How a family came to be. They are personal legends, fairytales and an intimate mythology. It certainly must be easier for individuals in the ‘old,’ country to have an understanding knowledge of “who they are,” and where they came from. They are a generation that has lived there – as the generations before them have. In the ‘new,’ country it is far more difficult to have a comprehensive understanding of one’s roots, when they have been uprooted. Here one must rely on memory of the older generations – those who still exist. What becomes troubling though is that with memory, fact and imagination blur around the edges. With my own family, it is highly understood that the name and the origins are strictly French and came from France. The consensus then agrees: that during the political turmoil of the enlightenment age, and subsequent French Revolution, the family had left the turmoil, and headed west for the ‘new,’ world. Beyond these hazy generalized concepts, the details are lost. It is believed the family ‘came,’ from noble origins and were autocrats who participated in the courts. Though what family does not wish have to believe they came from a life of grandiose, and gentle poverty; rather than the alternative: poverty and peasantry. It is easier to swallow the pill, where one comes from the illusion of greatness and have fallen into the day to day humdrum, then it is to swallow the sack of nails where one came from nothing, and may not acquire that prestige which people in a sense feel a sense of entitlement too. Sometimes the past exists because it is easier to have a sense of nostalgia for such shallow dreams of autocracy and noble air, and living in a castle, then it is to suffer the present in a job, which one works to maintain their life as it stands. Yet they are shallow dreams which do not change the present; they offer the solace of a dream, but have no input or ideas of how to shape the future. Perhaps it is best that one does not always know or even understand or have the resources to answer the question: “who we are,” simply because it allows the future to be molded, and the present to be dealt with, without being distracted by former glory – if it even existed.
“Miruna, A Tale,” is told by the narrator Trajan – who at the time of the story was a boy listening to the stories of his grandfather Niculae, about who they were and how they came to be; Trajan now reiterates the stories of his grandfather, as if he were telling them to his children or grandchildren or nieces of nephews born from his sister Miruna. The stories in this novel make up a larger whole. The entire novel, explores the idea of “who we are,” and “how we came to be,” but intersecting each story are the characters that have shaped the story of the narrators family – the Berca family. Trajan and his sister Miruna, devour the stories readily. Yet it is Miruna who collects them, with the most avid vigor – as she is soon alleged to posse the gift of ‘second sight,’ where Trajan could not see, let alone ready anything – beyond the simplistic realities that the world itself openly reveals.
Bogdan Suceavă has written a novel that is short but beyond simplistic or superficial. Suceavă himself has written a miniaturized version of “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” for lack of a better comparison. The entire novel is written in the form as if it were reiterating the oral traditions of folk tales, and personalized stories or fables. Suceavă himself could be considered a fabulist in the tradition of Italo Calvino or Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Fantasy and reality, become blurred. The events of “Miruna, A Tale,” take place in the real world – and are surrounded by historical events, but reality is infused with a mystical wonder. The location of Romania – the Făgăraş Mountain landscape to be more exact; works to Suceavă’s advantage as a writer of the fabulous in the real world. Romania is still that dark horse of Europe. It is still a place, spoken in hushed tones, which is tinted with superstitions and where spells are still recited to ward off the unwanted and unwelcome. It is a place of a tortured brutal history; and made all that more famous by the gothic novel “Dracula.” Romania is still a land seasoned with legends of historical rulers who impaled their prisoners, their enemies. A place shrouded in a draconian history, and a still recovery present from the thaw of communism and the fall of the iron curtain. Suceavă succeeds however, in showcasing how the old world of the fictional village Evil Vale, had resisted modernity, and how it became its own universe.
The novel is written in the form of an oral tale, and the entire novel despite the salt and pepper of violence that is sprinkled throughout the novel – it has the air of being nostalgic. Niculae Berca tells his grandchildren the story of their great-grandfather Constantine Berca and his volunteer service, into the army to fight the Ottoman Empire, in the Russo-Turkish, and help Romania receive its independence. Though it is a dark beginning it is made light by the regional dark and morbid preoccupied sense of humour. A good example would be the colonel:
“The colonel who drank so much vodka before a battle that his guts caught fire when the Turks shot him,”
Still for Constantine Berca’s service he was granted a portion of land outside of Evil Vale; and so “who we are,” began to take form with “where we had come from.” Yet upon Constantine’s arrival to Evil Vale suspicious eyes have already begun to take note of him. Gossip starts and rumors spread through small hamlets, like fire on the wind. Upon arrival in Evil Vale Constantine had brought with him modern practices and even equipment – a Swiss engineered clock being one of them. A device that was foreign to such a place where: “time was infinite and haste was relatively unknown.” Berca’s reputation only grows. Rather than casting spells, to ward off the wolves or push back the forest which imposes its own laws upon the inhabitants of its land; Berca shoots the wolves with his rifle. He becomes known as a madman, and is quickly feared. Still Berca comes to understand the customs and traditions of the land, and quickly adapts at enchanting the land with his own set understanding of spells. Despite his own will imposed upon the landscape, it in itself had imposed its own way upon Constantine Berca. Still the great-grandfather of the story pushes on, and turns what would be considered a barren and unworkable piece of land into something, that can be managed and produced and be called a home. He digs a well – despite the well digger’s dowsing rods, proclaiming that no water existed. He is toyed with by the Fayes; and fights off the bandit Aman.
Despite the fairytale unraveling of the novel – it does begin to showcases its elegiac qualities. Miruna (the titular sister) may take in this entirely new world that their grandfather out lays for them; nothing remains unchanged or unnoticed for long. Though the characters of this novel had appeared to live on as if time had no material grasp on them; the last virgin spot of Europe was not immune to snuffing snout of a mechanical modern pig looking for such a truffle to unearth.
The novel despite its short length, being under one hundred and forty pages long, is filled with dense prose, which moves back and forth through time; with Tarjan and more specifically Niculae being the fulcrums in which time slides to and fro. The book is filled with eccentric and odd characters – reminiscent of “Primeval and Other Times,” by the Polish author (and neighbor) Olga Tokarczuk – Old Woman Fira, who runs the rumor mill: filling the village with latest gossip, spreading it about like chicken feed for chickens, and of course her expertise in spells and reading the future in the grains of the harvest; then there is the priest Father Dimitrie who continues to save the inhabits souls from damnation and eternal fires of hell; and the unfortunate and senile Elifterie who owns nothing – everything is given to him, even the words he uses which have been stowed away in his mind and are reiterated now and then. Yet the main character itself is the place; a place where its customs and traditions have survived and are a continual reminder of a life that was, and a time that can still be found in the habits of the old. This is one such novel that answers the question of why we tell stories. We tell stories to answer our personal questions: of where we come from; of who we are. Sometimes even the most simplistic of lives – are deceptive in the stories that exist there.
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, 22 January 2015
Je Suis Charlie
Hello Gentle Reader
Freedom of expression is something that is ingrained in to all enlightened societies, as a human right that is essential for the democratic process to be successful. What happened in Paris earlier in January was an atrocity, which defiled human life, and one of the rights of the democratic individual, to hold an opinion – regardless of offense given or not. After the Charlie Hebdod shooting, many French citizens and people around the world, chanted in solidarity: “Je Suis Charlie,” which translates into English as: “I am Charlie.” The shootings came because the French satirical magazine published a cartoon that was considered offensive, and blasphemous towards the prophet Muhammad. Though the Quran does not explicitly state that depicting the Islamic prophet in human form is wrong or blasphemous; it is considered by many Islamic people to be incredibly disrespectful and borderline blasphemous, and punishable by death. What the disaffected and radicalized youth who perpetrated this terrorist attack do not understand – or understand and oppose; is that France as a democratic nation allows all its citizens to openly voice their opinions – without restraint of it being offensive or considered differentiating or opposing to another’s views, perspective or religion. The youth offended by the satirical cartoon, decided the best way to seek retribution for their prophet being ‘mocked,’ or ‘defaced,’ was by arbitrary bloodshed and barbaric violence. Yet what France did after the attack, was not revert to violence in itself against a larger group; but rather congregate and stand in solidarity with other citizens and chant “Je Suis Charlie,” in remembrance of the victims of this attack, and to solidify support for the freedom of expression – kudos to France.
After these attacks, I had mentioned to a friend in a coffee shop, about how the controversial French author Michel Houellebecq’s novel will be taken. His new novel “Submission,” once again rattles the cage of society; and once again rattles Muslims some more. Houellebecq has already come under fire, in previous court cases for being anti-Islamic, and utilizing ‘hate speech,’ to argue his opinions. Houellebecq however one that case on the grounds of freedom of expression. His new novel “Submission,” predicts France in the year 2022 under a Muslim majority run party. Once again Houellebecq has been forced to defend his position and his views, as many are stating that the author is encouraging intolerance towards Muslims, and inciting distrust of the Islamic religion. At the end of the day – and one can picture his apathetic way of stating it: “one has a right to write those kinds of books if one wants to.”
At the end of the day, freed of expression can never be compromised because of someone else’s feelings. It has nothing to do with respect, satire is satire – there is a reason why it is very rarely used in debates or arguments on the basis as a fact. What is factual in this case however is that people in France died because of their freedom of speech and expression; and they defended it. The French populace and those across the world have stood alongside them, and will be just as quick to defend their own freedom of speech and expression. The contemporary past shows us: that those who have the freedom to speech, voice and opinion or draw a cartoon; will never roll over and let it be taken from them. From the Fatwa called on Salmin Rusdhie over his novel “The Satanic Verses,” or “The Muhammad Cartoon Crisis,” of two-thousand and five; people will not sit back and allow their own freedoms be taken away from, simply because it hurt another ones feelings or is offensive.
If I may quote Nobel Laureate Herta Muller from her novel “The Land of Green Plums,”:
“When we don't speak, said Edgar, we become unbearable, and when we do, we make fools of ourselves.”
The truth is: we speak – even if we do make fools of ourselves; because if we don’t we do become unbearable.
Je Suis Charlie!
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
Freedom of expression is something that is ingrained in to all enlightened societies, as a human right that is essential for the democratic process to be successful. What happened in Paris earlier in January was an atrocity, which defiled human life, and one of the rights of the democratic individual, to hold an opinion – regardless of offense given or not. After the Charlie Hebdod shooting, many French citizens and people around the world, chanted in solidarity: “Je Suis Charlie,” which translates into English as: “I am Charlie.” The shootings came because the French satirical magazine published a cartoon that was considered offensive, and blasphemous towards the prophet Muhammad. Though the Quran does not explicitly state that depicting the Islamic prophet in human form is wrong or blasphemous; it is considered by many Islamic people to be incredibly disrespectful and borderline blasphemous, and punishable by death. What the disaffected and radicalized youth who perpetrated this terrorist attack do not understand – or understand and oppose; is that France as a democratic nation allows all its citizens to openly voice their opinions – without restraint of it being offensive or considered differentiating or opposing to another’s views, perspective or religion. The youth offended by the satirical cartoon, decided the best way to seek retribution for their prophet being ‘mocked,’ or ‘defaced,’ was by arbitrary bloodshed and barbaric violence. Yet what France did after the attack, was not revert to violence in itself against a larger group; but rather congregate and stand in solidarity with other citizens and chant “Je Suis Charlie,” in remembrance of the victims of this attack, and to solidify support for the freedom of expression – kudos to France.
After these attacks, I had mentioned to a friend in a coffee shop, about how the controversial French author Michel Houellebecq’s novel will be taken. His new novel “Submission,” once again rattles the cage of society; and once again rattles Muslims some more. Houellebecq has already come under fire, in previous court cases for being anti-Islamic, and utilizing ‘hate speech,’ to argue his opinions. Houellebecq however one that case on the grounds of freedom of expression. His new novel “Submission,” predicts France in the year 2022 under a Muslim majority run party. Once again Houellebecq has been forced to defend his position and his views, as many are stating that the author is encouraging intolerance towards Muslims, and inciting distrust of the Islamic religion. At the end of the day – and one can picture his apathetic way of stating it: “one has a right to write those kinds of books if one wants to.”
At the end of the day, freed of expression can never be compromised because of someone else’s feelings. It has nothing to do with respect, satire is satire – there is a reason why it is very rarely used in debates or arguments on the basis as a fact. What is factual in this case however is that people in France died because of their freedom of speech and expression; and they defended it. The French populace and those across the world have stood alongside them, and will be just as quick to defend their own freedom of speech and expression. The contemporary past shows us: that those who have the freedom to speech, voice and opinion or draw a cartoon; will never roll over and let it be taken from them. From the Fatwa called on Salmin Rusdhie over his novel “The Satanic Verses,” or “The Muhammad Cartoon Crisis,” of two-thousand and five; people will not sit back and allow their own freedoms be taken away from, simply because it hurt another ones feelings or is offensive.
If I may quote Nobel Laureate Herta Muller from her novel “The Land of Green Plums,”:
“When we don't speak, said Edgar, we become unbearable, and when we do, we make fools of ourselves.”
The truth is: we speak – even if we do make fools of ourselves; because if we don’t we do become unbearable.
Je Suis Charlie!
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, 8 January 2015
Tadeusz Konwicki Passes Away
Hello Gentle Reader
Tadeusz Konwicki one of Poland’s literary greats of the twentieth century, and wrote of the horrors of living under a totalitarian regime and its Kafkaesque bureaucracies, had passed away, very early this New Year. Konwicki is known for his novel “A Minor Apocalypse,” a satirical novel that detailed life under an oppressive authoritarian government. It had bypassed the censors and the government’s approval, because it was published via underground presses that were utilized in order for writers to write freely and openly, but also have their work distributed to the public who needed to see their realities were noticed, by others, and were not the sole constructs of mind; and the corrosive desire of the regime attempts to warp the realities into a more pleasing official state concept of reality that should be readily administered to and accepted by the general populace. However Konwicki was not always adamantly against the communist ideals perpetrated upon him and his countrymen. He fought in World War II in Poland’s resistance, and had believed in communism at first; but eventually fell out of favour with the party and the authorities as well. Konwicki was also a filmmaker and screenwriter and was well renowned for these activities. He adapted Milosz's novel “The Issa Valley,” into a film, and had captured the countryside of his youth into the film and rekindled fond memories of the part of Poland that was given to Lithuania.
Rest in Peace Tadeusz Konwicki
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
Tadeusz Konwicki one of Poland’s literary greats of the twentieth century, and wrote of the horrors of living under a totalitarian regime and its Kafkaesque bureaucracies, had passed away, very early this New Year. Konwicki is known for his novel “A Minor Apocalypse,” a satirical novel that detailed life under an oppressive authoritarian government. It had bypassed the censors and the government’s approval, because it was published via underground presses that were utilized in order for writers to write freely and openly, but also have their work distributed to the public who needed to see their realities were noticed, by others, and were not the sole constructs of mind; and the corrosive desire of the regime attempts to warp the realities into a more pleasing official state concept of reality that should be readily administered to and accepted by the general populace. However Konwicki was not always adamantly against the communist ideals perpetrated upon him and his countrymen. He fought in World War II in Poland’s resistance, and had believed in communism at first; but eventually fell out of favour with the party and the authorities as well. Konwicki was also a filmmaker and screenwriter and was well renowned for these activities. He adapted Milosz's novel “The Issa Valley,” into a film, and had captured the countryside of his youth into the film and rekindled fond memories of the part of Poland that was given to Lithuania.
Rest in Peace Tadeusz Konwicki
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
Days in the History of Silence
Hello Gentle Reader
The other day in an e-mail I had gone on a tangent in regards to discussing, the argument in literature, of the concept of: profundity. What does the argument about profound, in relation to an authors work mean? I would never call “Fifty Shades of Grey,” profound. Even a Harlequin Romance, could express more depth and sincerity, then those books. Yet when it comes to serious literature, what does the term mean. The debate, of whether ones favourite authors work is profound; or exemplifies profundity – is the quickest and most liberally used argument. I ranted to the individual about my confusion of what the word profound engrossed when discussing literature. Does a writer need to write a five hundred page novel or more; and tackle large concepts like the meaning of life, true love, terrorism, conspiracies, alien abductions, political scandal – mixed with a heavy dose of irony and postmodernism, as well as a spoonful of hippie ideals of peace and love; and of course copious amount of weed references to ensure that the novel is both hip and cool. Then there is the six hundred plus page novel that begins as a historical novel or analysis of historical events. It eventually engrosses both past and present, and shifts its perspectives to showcase the consequences of the past, ripping through time, influencing and touching the lives of others in small ways – both positive and devastating. Then there are shorter novels. They’re views are more focused and concentrated. There is no globetrotting or an overabundance of characters; no conspiracy theories, no postmodern tricks or any references laced with drug innuendos. Their language varies from the intensely poetic and lyrical, to the more sober and straightforward. Their works are more refined and concentrated on a single subject. But does their sober language that verges on somber mean they are profound? Do their lyrical and poetic surrealism in prose, mean they are profound? The same goes with poets. A poet who writes with grace and simplicity about the everyday is far more preferred by me, then one who is archaic and pretentious in their verbose desire to showcase their own cleverness. Does gentle wisdom and sly wit; become more profound then intellectual pomposity? The truth is, the word profound is used profusely without any explanation or elucidation. It is exponentially used in arguments, to debase an author’s writings, or enhance an author’s reputation. In the end the term profound as an argument, is not an argument, but a quick remark that is slithers out of any contestation; because the word profound is vague when discussing literature. If profound means that one needs to write in a Joycean fashion, then to me profound authors are not writers to look forward to for reading. Their works are contrived, and often difficult to the point of unapproachable. Profound to me is akin to the writings of Wisława Szymborska: a distilling of life, laced with grace and earthly wisdom that is formed from experience; but is impish in its humour.
Merethe Lindstrøm’s novel “Days in the History of Silence,” is of novel of pleasurable reading length. The prose is reminiscent of the stereotypical concept of Norwegian weather. The language is sober, that transitions to somber with ease, and is sparse unsentimental language, helps give the book its weight and depth. The novel is built upon silence and what is not spoken. It is reserved, and quiet in its introspective contemplation, of how the past haunts, and how secrets keeps us close, but also distances and shuns the warmth of human contact and social interaction. Lindstrøm’s prose details the mundane monotony of her characters lives; but laces it with dread and suspense. As if beneath the thin ice over the lake of her characters lives, there is a threat of everything just cracking or breaking loose. It is, as if the quietness that Eva and Simon have built up to offer a sense of normalcy is continually threatened, and constantly on the brink of shattering. Throughout the novel Merethe Lindstrøm delves into the abyss of both characters lives; and from their personal experience showcases how silence and secrets are an act of fraternity with others in a solemn attempt to slowdown our own decent into the abyss of the past.
The novel is narrated by Eva, a retired school teacher who is married to a retired physician by the name of Simon. Their lives are on the surface comfortable and normal. They have raised three children – all girls; who have gone on to make set course for their own lives. Yet what holds Eva and Simon together are the acts of solidarity that stem from the solemn secrets in which both keep. The past for Eva and Simon is the connecting bond, that holds them together, and the secrets each of them keep, from their friends and even their daughters. It becomes clear in their old age, that Eva and Simon are showing signs of their own reserved pasts. There is guilt and grief, taking hold of both. Simon who may or may not be experiencing signs of Dementia; has become uncommunicative and withdrawn into himself. His silence engulfs the house. For Eva this becomes frustrating and difficult to comprehend. Her children advise her to put Simon into a home. Something Eva can neither, entertain or consider. Taking Simon to the day home itself, showcases the onslaught of time, and one’s own ambivalent relationship with the process of aging:
“Several times I have remained standing in the parking lot, like a mythological figure filled with doubt, this is the border between the underworld and our own world…I need to tell this to someone, how it feels, how it is so difficult to lie with someone who has suddenly become silent. It is not simply the feeling that he is no longer there. It is the feeling that you are not, either.”
Merethe Lindstrøm’s writes with cool precisions that details the quiet and uneventful lives of individuals. It continually understates the tense atmosphere of day to day living. The tensions brought on by Simon’s withdrawn behaviour; the urging of the daughters to put him in a home; as well as memories and recollections of past events, and the mystery of why the Latvian home help Marija. The memories of Eva and her own misdeeds, and rationalization behind them; as well as Simon’s own tragic history; and the eventual realized transgression of Marija that lead to her own dismissal – showcases the distance that comes from our own secrets, or hidden pasts, and our own inability to admit our grief and guilt. The lack of openness and communication in its actual structured sense, is shown to alienate people. As Eva comes to realize throughout the novel, Marija had become less an employee; and more of a helpful friend through her tenure in their lives and home. However in the end, its time had expired, and is looked back on with regret and the melancholic wistful nostalgia of one’s wish for it to be the way it was before.
From past to present the novel showcases the characters personal tragedies, crimes and incidents that have shaped them to what they have become. The past is a continually nuisance that tugs at ones arm. For Eva it is something to scour and contemplate and inspect, as if searching for the solution for the presents problems. For Simon it had become an engulfing sea that had slowly taken him in. Merethe Lindstrøm’s characters search the past, are haunted by it and are pursued by it. In the end however, none of them escape the past; it offers no solution, no answers. It has no conclusion within its pages. Pain, sadness, tragedy and our own guilt, transcends the confines of time. For Lindstrøm’s characters retribution cannot come in a swift swing of justice. Forgiveness is not offered from strangers. Justice, forgiveness, retribution – they can only be offered from ourselves first, before it can be available from others – and even that is not entirely plausible. Secrets, silence, the past – they are the abyss that threatens to swallow us whole. There are those who find a way into our intimate private lives. Trusted confidants who eventually learn of our hidden transgressions. From revealing our personal contraventions, we hope they accept us still for it; and from this act of recognition of our indiscretions and maintaining that friendship, we learn to offer this same mercy upon ourselves.
In the end, the novel is understated with prose that begins sober, and moves somber. It is filled with tensions, and unanswered questions that continually provoke reading, and a desire to move forward with the novel. The monotonous and mundane become anxious with apprehension of the unknown. Memories showcase how casual cruelty can be; how tragic circumstances become; and how the past echoes through and individual like a voice through rooms. It is not a novel of neat conclusions though. It is however a novel introspection and contemplation on the nature of silence and secrets as the acts solidarity that hold us together, and eventually drive us apart.
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 other day in an e-mail I had gone on a tangent in regards to discussing, the argument in literature, of the concept of: profundity. What does the argument about profound, in relation to an authors work mean? I would never call “Fifty Shades of Grey,” profound. Even a Harlequin Romance, could express more depth and sincerity, then those books. Yet when it comes to serious literature, what does the term mean. The debate, of whether ones favourite authors work is profound; or exemplifies profundity – is the quickest and most liberally used argument. I ranted to the individual about my confusion of what the word profound engrossed when discussing literature. Does a writer need to write a five hundred page novel or more; and tackle large concepts like the meaning of life, true love, terrorism, conspiracies, alien abductions, political scandal – mixed with a heavy dose of irony and postmodernism, as well as a spoonful of hippie ideals of peace and love; and of course copious amount of weed references to ensure that the novel is both hip and cool. Then there is the six hundred plus page novel that begins as a historical novel or analysis of historical events. It eventually engrosses both past and present, and shifts its perspectives to showcase the consequences of the past, ripping through time, influencing and touching the lives of others in small ways – both positive and devastating. Then there are shorter novels. They’re views are more focused and concentrated. There is no globetrotting or an overabundance of characters; no conspiracy theories, no postmodern tricks or any references laced with drug innuendos. Their language varies from the intensely poetic and lyrical, to the more sober and straightforward. Their works are more refined and concentrated on a single subject. But does their sober language that verges on somber mean they are profound? Do their lyrical and poetic surrealism in prose, mean they are profound? The same goes with poets. A poet who writes with grace and simplicity about the everyday is far more preferred by me, then one who is archaic and pretentious in their verbose desire to showcase their own cleverness. Does gentle wisdom and sly wit; become more profound then intellectual pomposity? The truth is, the word profound is used profusely without any explanation or elucidation. It is exponentially used in arguments, to debase an author’s writings, or enhance an author’s reputation. In the end the term profound as an argument, is not an argument, but a quick remark that is slithers out of any contestation; because the word profound is vague when discussing literature. If profound means that one needs to write in a Joycean fashion, then to me profound authors are not writers to look forward to for reading. Their works are contrived, and often difficult to the point of unapproachable. Profound to me is akin to the writings of Wisława Szymborska: a distilling of life, laced with grace and earthly wisdom that is formed from experience; but is impish in its humour.
Merethe Lindstrøm’s novel “Days in the History of Silence,” is of novel of pleasurable reading length. The prose is reminiscent of the stereotypical concept of Norwegian weather. The language is sober, that transitions to somber with ease, and is sparse unsentimental language, helps give the book its weight and depth. The novel is built upon silence and what is not spoken. It is reserved, and quiet in its introspective contemplation, of how the past haunts, and how secrets keeps us close, but also distances and shuns the warmth of human contact and social interaction. Lindstrøm’s prose details the mundane monotony of her characters lives; but laces it with dread and suspense. As if beneath the thin ice over the lake of her characters lives, there is a threat of everything just cracking or breaking loose. It is, as if the quietness that Eva and Simon have built up to offer a sense of normalcy is continually threatened, and constantly on the brink of shattering. Throughout the novel Merethe Lindstrøm delves into the abyss of both characters lives; and from their personal experience showcases how silence and secrets are an act of fraternity with others in a solemn attempt to slowdown our own decent into the abyss of the past.
The novel is narrated by Eva, a retired school teacher who is married to a retired physician by the name of Simon. Their lives are on the surface comfortable and normal. They have raised three children – all girls; who have gone on to make set course for their own lives. Yet what holds Eva and Simon together are the acts of solidarity that stem from the solemn secrets in which both keep. The past for Eva and Simon is the connecting bond, that holds them together, and the secrets each of them keep, from their friends and even their daughters. It becomes clear in their old age, that Eva and Simon are showing signs of their own reserved pasts. There is guilt and grief, taking hold of both. Simon who may or may not be experiencing signs of Dementia; has become uncommunicative and withdrawn into himself. His silence engulfs the house. For Eva this becomes frustrating and difficult to comprehend. Her children advise her to put Simon into a home. Something Eva can neither, entertain or consider. Taking Simon to the day home itself, showcases the onslaught of time, and one’s own ambivalent relationship with the process of aging:
“Several times I have remained standing in the parking lot, like a mythological figure filled with doubt, this is the border between the underworld and our own world…I need to tell this to someone, how it feels, how it is so difficult to lie with someone who has suddenly become silent. It is not simply the feeling that he is no longer there. It is the feeling that you are not, either.”
Merethe Lindstrøm’s writes with cool precisions that details the quiet and uneventful lives of individuals. It continually understates the tense atmosphere of day to day living. The tensions brought on by Simon’s withdrawn behaviour; the urging of the daughters to put him in a home; as well as memories and recollections of past events, and the mystery of why the Latvian home help Marija. The memories of Eva and her own misdeeds, and rationalization behind them; as well as Simon’s own tragic history; and the eventual realized transgression of Marija that lead to her own dismissal – showcases the distance that comes from our own secrets, or hidden pasts, and our own inability to admit our grief and guilt. The lack of openness and communication in its actual structured sense, is shown to alienate people. As Eva comes to realize throughout the novel, Marija had become less an employee; and more of a helpful friend through her tenure in their lives and home. However in the end, its time had expired, and is looked back on with regret and the melancholic wistful nostalgia of one’s wish for it to be the way it was before.
From past to present the novel showcases the characters personal tragedies, crimes and incidents that have shaped them to what they have become. The past is a continually nuisance that tugs at ones arm. For Eva it is something to scour and contemplate and inspect, as if searching for the solution for the presents problems. For Simon it had become an engulfing sea that had slowly taken him in. Merethe Lindstrøm’s characters search the past, are haunted by it and are pursued by it. In the end however, none of them escape the past; it offers no solution, no answers. It has no conclusion within its pages. Pain, sadness, tragedy and our own guilt, transcends the confines of time. For Lindstrøm’s characters retribution cannot come in a swift swing of justice. Forgiveness is not offered from strangers. Justice, forgiveness, retribution – they can only be offered from ourselves first, before it can be available from others – and even that is not entirely plausible. Secrets, silence, the past – they are the abyss that threatens to swallow us whole. There are those who find a way into our intimate private lives. Trusted confidants who eventually learn of our hidden transgressions. From revealing our personal contraventions, we hope they accept us still for it; and from this act of recognition of our indiscretions and maintaining that friendship, we learn to offer this same mercy upon ourselves.
In the end, the novel is understated with prose that begins sober, and moves somber. It is filled with tensions, and unanswered questions that continually provoke reading, and a desire to move forward with the novel. The monotonous and mundane become anxious with apprehension of the unknown. Memories showcase how casual cruelty can be; how tragic circumstances become; and how the past echoes through and individual like a voice through rooms. It is not a novel of neat conclusions though. It is however a novel introspection and contemplation on the nature of silence and secrets as the acts solidarity that hold us together, and eventually drive us apart.
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, 1 January 2015
Some News from the Swedish Academy
Hello Gentle Reader
Upon waking this morning, after a uneventful and quiet New Years Eve celebration – or the lack of such a celebration, which had been spent reading, watching a movie, and a eventual observation at the clock; and announcing to house, the shadows, the dust bunnies, and the books a: Happy New Year; I realized that on my post last night, I had forgotten to mention some news, from the Swedish Academy that will become more apparent in the later part of this fresh new year. The Permanente Secretary of the Swedish Academy Peter Englund who had first announced that Herta Müller had been honoured with the Nobel Prize for Literature, back in two-thousand and nine; and since then had subsequently announced other honoured writers like the master of the short story Alice Munro, as well as the Swedish haiku nature poet Tomas Transtromer; has now announced his resignation from his post as the Permanent Secretary; though his post will not officially be handed over to his predecessor Sara Danius until June first of two-thousand and fifteen. Peter Englund will continue his work as a historian, and researcher; but also devoting time to his family of five children. Sara Danius is the first woman to become the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy; and there is already speculation of how gender may play a role, in the decision for the future writers to be honoured with the Nobel. However from what I can gather about Sara Danius is that she is a culture writer, a professor, and a literary reader with exceptionally refined and eclectic tastes, and the choices will hopefully be well deserved, shocking and always enjoyable to here, and encourage continual translations and dialogues of literature beyond languages. In other news from the Swedish Academy, Klas Östergren has now officially filled seat no. 11, after the former member Ulf Linde had passed away. , Klas Östergren is one of Sweden’s most beloved writers, and has a strong reading base after his breakthrough novel “Gentlemen.” His election to the Swedish Academy will be another new asset to the academy and will hopefully open up the Academy to new resources, and contacts, in order to help honour future Nobel Laureates.
Congratulations to Sara Danius and Klas Östergren! Two-thousand and fourteen ended with great news, and new beginnings. May two-thousand and fifteen be one of the greatest years, that these two individuals experience.
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
Upon waking this morning, after a uneventful and quiet New Years Eve celebration – or the lack of such a celebration, which had been spent reading, watching a movie, and a eventual observation at the clock; and announcing to house, the shadows, the dust bunnies, and the books a: Happy New Year; I realized that on my post last night, I had forgotten to mention some news, from the Swedish Academy that will become more apparent in the later part of this fresh new year. The Permanente Secretary of the Swedish Academy Peter Englund who had first announced that Herta Müller had been honoured with the Nobel Prize for Literature, back in two-thousand and nine; and since then had subsequently announced other honoured writers like the master of the short story Alice Munro, as well as the Swedish haiku nature poet Tomas Transtromer; has now announced his resignation from his post as the Permanent Secretary; though his post will not officially be handed over to his predecessor Sara Danius until June first of two-thousand and fifteen. Peter Englund will continue his work as a historian, and researcher; but also devoting time to his family of five children. Sara Danius is the first woman to become the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy; and there is already speculation of how gender may play a role, in the decision for the future writers to be honoured with the Nobel. However from what I can gather about Sara Danius is that she is a culture writer, a professor, and a literary reader with exceptionally refined and eclectic tastes, and the choices will hopefully be well deserved, shocking and always enjoyable to here, and encourage continual translations and dialogues of literature beyond languages. In other news from the Swedish Academy, Klas Östergren has now officially filled seat no. 11, after the former member Ulf Linde had passed away. , Klas Östergren is one of Sweden’s most beloved writers, and has a strong reading base after his breakthrough novel “Gentlemen.” His election to the Swedish Academy will be another new asset to the academy and will hopefully open up the Academy to new resources, and contacts, in order to help honour future Nobel Laureates.
Congratulations to Sara Danius and Klas Östergren! Two-thousand and fourteen ended with great news, and new beginnings. May two-thousand and fifteen be one of the greatest years, that these two individuals experience.
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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