Hello Gentle Reader
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Winner –
Jenny Erpenbeck has won this year’s Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, for her novel “The End of Days.” Erpenbeck is the first living German writer, to win the award – though other German language writers like Sebald, and Gert Hofmann, had won the award posthumously. Erpenbeck’s novel is a bleak meditation on the numerous possibilities, of the fate of the protagonist, who is born into the Austro-Hungarian Empire at the beginning of the twentieth century; and each of the possibilities is filled with the consequences of history, that overshadows the twentieth century. Despite the bleak subject matter, and the at times hopeless despair that is bled into its pages, the judges, retain that the novel is a compelling read, and offers continual re-readings, to see the consequential choices, that affect one individuals life, ripping throughout the eternity of time.
The Best Translated Book Award Winners For Fiction & Poetry –
This year’s Best Translated Book Award for Fiction goes to the Chinese writer, and true Chinese Kafka Can Xue, for her novel “The Last Lover.” The novel was cited as being uncompromising, yet rewarding, as it pushes the novel form into new territory; and is as bewildering strange, and horrifying, in its dreamscape like world reminiscent of Kafka’s “Amerika.” As the “Three Percent Review,” writes: if the proposed idea of what is an Eastern or Oriental society exists only in the imaginations of Westerns, then Can Xue’s novel, is the shadow side of an Oriental dreamed Western society.
This year’s Best Translated Book Award for Poetry goes to the Mexican poet Rocío Cerón, for her collection “Diorama.”
The Neustadt International Prize for Literature 2016 Finalists –
The Neustadt International Prize for Literature has been awarded to numerous writers, of international prestige; from the previous winner Mia Couto, to Francois Pogne, and Nobel Laureates, Tomas Transtromer and Czesław Miłosz. The Finalists for the Neustadt International Prize for Literature, are as follows.
Can Xue – China
Caryl Churchill – England
Aminatta Forna – Scotland and Sierra Leone
Guadalupe Nettel – Mexico
Dubravka Ugresic, Croatia and The Netherlands
Ghassan Zaqtan – Palestine
Don Paterson – Scotland
Ann-Marie MacDonald – Canada
Carolyn Forché - United States
More information of the authors and biographies can be found on the following link:
http://neustadtprize.org/finalists-announced-for-the-24th-neustadt-international-prize-for-literature/#.VWdkS9JViko
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, 28 May 2015
Wednesday, 27 May 2015
The Beauty of History
Hello Gentle Reader
In “The Guadian,” Sofi Oksanen, the renowned and acclaimed Finnish writer, who has so far documented Estonia’s forgotten past; discussed her new novel “When The Doves Disappeared,” which will be/has been published in the United Kingdom in May (though its North American release, happened back in February). In the article, Oksanen discussed the present crisis of Putin’s imperialistic endeavors concerning Ukraine, and its subsequent partial occupation and consequential resistance, of anti-fighters, fighting alien occupancy. It should come to no surprise, that the entire ordeal has many Eastern European countries concerned for their own sovereignty and futures as: Free States.
Yet for many, they look at the situation, as spectators looking upon a bully, with his victim. It’s on ‘his,’ side of the school yard; and better yet in a twisted sense of fate, and good grace: it is not ‘I,’ who is the receiver of ‘his,’ abuse, insults, and tormenting invective nature. For now ‘I,’ am free to build a sand castle without fear of having it stomped before my eyes; or worst, rub the sand from my eyes. If ‘I,’ so pleased it is not possible to create a house of leaves, without it being demolished with swift kicks. Life is good – for it is not ‘me,’ on the other end of the fist, or standing with my back turned, with words fired into it. Fear is all but a kernel of the possibility that ‘now,’ is simply: ‘for now,’ and tomorrow could be ‘my,’ day or: ‘my,’ turn.
Oksanen points out, that in her Finnish school years: Finland’s neighbor, linguistic cousin, and Oksanen’s other homeland: Estonia; was not included on any of the maps. Rather it was most likely consumed with the name United Soviet Socialist Republic. Oksanen decries and criticizes this model of Finland’s foreign policy – or rather its attempt at the time to negate Estonia’s existence, in its own interest, as to not create waves, or upset the then Soviet government. Sofi Oksanen however is not without her criticism from the left and communist supporters or sympathizers, much like Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller, who has also received criticism and accusations of working with or for the CIA; because of her own criticism of Putin, and the Ukraine incident. Yet this unrest goes beyond simply fighting. It goes beyond snarling barking dogs, rolling tanks, jets flying over head, bombs dropping, and bullets whizzing. The incident has also gone back into a dirty war: a war of propaganda. This is a dirty campaign of language and of psychology. Estonia itself has felt the nettle sting of, such political distortion of reality and contortion of historical facts. Back in two-thousand and seven, Estonia received a cyber terrorist assault. Putin before hand had been critical of the Estonian government’s relocation of a monument, commemorating the Red Army. Putin had called Estonian’s “Nazis and Fascists.” The moment these words were fired, and received in the ear canals of Estonians, instinctively they understood Soviet era propaganda, being used. Referring to them as “Nazi’s and Fascist,” comes from Estonia’s dual occupation of both the Red Army, and then Nazi Germany, before the Soviet Union solidified its grasp on Estonia once again, and the dream of an independent Estonia was lost, and forbidden. The old era propaganda that is currently being used, does not bring back nostalgic memories, or shimmer with the beauty of history. It is a nightmare returning. A nightmare, which had engulfed the land, and even vaulted the sky. Viivi Luik in her novel “The Beauty of History,” quickly captures the oppression of the Soviet occupation, as a suffocating regime and system, in her novel “The Beauty of History.”
“Toward waning, the sky rises higher and take on its true form. It becomes a dome and a vault. With strange and threatening self-evidence it encompasses military district headquarters, militia stations and pass port offices. Those who are trapped beneath this vault cannot escape.”
The sky maybe the same; stretched across the globe, but it for the Soviet states, it was never a free sky. The sky was a reminder, of their flights of fantasy and fancy, at dreaming of a free sky, under a free earth; away from the drab grey of Eastern Europe and the red communist ideals. The author quickly points out that the ideology, like the sky far exceeds just Estonia but travels:
“Down in the mountains are Dracula’s castle and Ceausescu’s kingdom.”
Vivii Luik is one of Estonia’s most renowned poets and writers, along with the late Jaan Kross. Vivii Luik herself had emerged onto the Estonian literary scene, as a literary prodigy, at the age of eighteen. Her debut collection of poetry “A Holiday of Clouds,” had been taken note by critics. The following collections captivated readers, with the musicality and fragility of language; but also with the perception of the world, and nature as a reflection of mystical changing feelings and perceptions of the world. Luik has, often been compared to a canary in a coal mine; sensing even the most miniscule change in the air, and documenting it in her poetry; and was quick to sense the changing political landscape of the collapse of the Soviet Union. Vivii Luik is also an accomplished novelist. Her first novel “The Seventh Spring of Peace,” was written in a child’s view point, depicting country life (I presume on a kolkhoz – or collected farm) in post-war Soviet Estonia. The novel depicts the communal misery of the time, the frightening stories and propaganda of the forest brothers, and their dreams of liberation, the absurdity of life in the regime, and the sensitive political subjects, that are sure to arise. All of which is filtered through the clear eyes of a child. The novel broke the day dream or forced perception or memory of the “Happy Soviet Childhood.” What was, described was the harsh stinging realities of the brutalism of the Soviet system, and the political uncertainty of Estonia for many years. The novel struck her audience with her highly refined poetized language, and novelty subject matter. It is one of the most outstanding novels of Estonian literature, of recent memory (published originally in nineteen-eighty five), with its interesting representation of language, to depict unsightly perpetuated horrors of history and forced political ideologies, by the reigning empire. The next novel Luik would write would be in nineteen-ninety one, titled “The Beauty of History.”
“The Beauty of History,” is a love story, framed by history. Specifically speaking, the novel is framed by the year nineteen-sixty eight, the year of The Prague Spring. The Prague Spring was the first crack in the Soviet foundation. Upon being elected the First Secretary of the Communist Party (of then) Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubček the reformist, set about enacting reformations of the country. Dubček attempted to offer more, freedoms to the citizens of Czechoslovakia especially in the areas of freedom of media, speech and travel; as well as decentralize the economy away from Moscow (Soviet Russia), and instill democratization. This all eventually ended in the invasion of Czechoslovakia and the crushing of the Prague Spring by the Soviet Union and other members of Warsaw Pact. Luik states in “The Beauty of History,”
“A Czech boy pouring petrol over himself and then lighting a match does not really go with the carpets in the living-room of Europe, so the television is switched off.”
The statement readily shows Europe’s apathy or inability to understand or show interest in the workings of Eastern Europe, and the everyday extraordinary tragedies that would continue to happen there.
“The Beauty of History,” however is not an overtly political novel. It is far more lyrical in its treatment of the political situations, and is narrated by a politically unaware unnamed Estonian young woman, who falls into the world of a Latvian sculpture who is far more politically aware then she is, and goes by the name Lion (pronounced Leon). The world of both these two lovers becomes entangled in history. For the young woman, the political shivering of the Iron Curtain, have emotional consaquences, which send her world out of alignment. While the Latvian sculpture, already sensing the changing political environment, takes practical note and is working on evading military service, by dissenting to the West. Language becomes the key part of this novel. Neither one of these two lovers, can speak the native language of the other. When Lion, offers German as a common language, she can only muster phrases that do not communicate or bode well for any serious dialogue. Both then are forced to speak the least popular of the reigning languages: Russian, in order to communicate with each other. Yet because of the prevailing ideology and the suffocating atmosphere of the times, another language must be created. A language that takes ordinary conversations, and gives them shadow meanings, in order to communicate more hidden intentions, that discuss in secret whispers and wheezes, the topics that would be considered taboo or not of the norm. Yet this becomes confusing in its’ own right, for the young woman, as she:
“Can never understand whether the talk is simply of buying butter and cream or of the arrival of fateful news.”
In between all of this, past and future collide with each other at random, in a poetic language that at times comes in a whirlwind, which will shake up the narrator. The novel also has its own references to Estonia’s past and ideological subjugation, which is always at risk of being lost on readers who are not familiar with the history of the country or the time. However the novel is a beautiful poetic intensely written piece of work. It has moments of Kafkaesque surrealism, which will unhinge an already held perspective, for a new upstart to reality. The novel is short, but not simple or sweet; nor is it a coherent tale, of historical fiction, that explicitly details a specific time period. It is a collage of impressions, thoughts, emotions, and attempts at understandings, in a collaboration of text that spins and usurps the novel, while maintaining it to be an engrossing read. However, despite the beautiful pristine crystallized language used in the novel, the language can become overtly lyrical at moments, in its dense baroque like ambiguity. Despite this, it is still a novel which is a pleasure to read, and was published right at the time of Estonia’s new emergence to the world, as the Iron Curtain had been pulled back, and revealed. It is truly a canary’s song, which rather than crying out in desperation to warn of a dangerous gas, instead celebrates fresh new air, and reverberates in the sun.
On a personal note: I’d love to see the other two novels by Viivi Luik published into English: “The Seventh Spring of Peace,” and “Shadow Theatre,” as well as her essays to find publication into English as well. However I am aware of the issues of this, because Estonian language is incredibly difficult with its only linguistic relatives being Finnish and Hungarian. Despite this though, one can hope that the works of Viivi Luik, Doris Kareva, and Tõnu Õnnepalu, will someday make it into the English language.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
In “The Guadian,” Sofi Oksanen, the renowned and acclaimed Finnish writer, who has so far documented Estonia’s forgotten past; discussed her new novel “When The Doves Disappeared,” which will be/has been published in the United Kingdom in May (though its North American release, happened back in February). In the article, Oksanen discussed the present crisis of Putin’s imperialistic endeavors concerning Ukraine, and its subsequent partial occupation and consequential resistance, of anti-fighters, fighting alien occupancy. It should come to no surprise, that the entire ordeal has many Eastern European countries concerned for their own sovereignty and futures as: Free States.
Yet for many, they look at the situation, as spectators looking upon a bully, with his victim. It’s on ‘his,’ side of the school yard; and better yet in a twisted sense of fate, and good grace: it is not ‘I,’ who is the receiver of ‘his,’ abuse, insults, and tormenting invective nature. For now ‘I,’ am free to build a sand castle without fear of having it stomped before my eyes; or worst, rub the sand from my eyes. If ‘I,’ so pleased it is not possible to create a house of leaves, without it being demolished with swift kicks. Life is good – for it is not ‘me,’ on the other end of the fist, or standing with my back turned, with words fired into it. Fear is all but a kernel of the possibility that ‘now,’ is simply: ‘for now,’ and tomorrow could be ‘my,’ day or: ‘my,’ turn.
Oksanen points out, that in her Finnish school years: Finland’s neighbor, linguistic cousin, and Oksanen’s other homeland: Estonia; was not included on any of the maps. Rather it was most likely consumed with the name United Soviet Socialist Republic. Oksanen decries and criticizes this model of Finland’s foreign policy – or rather its attempt at the time to negate Estonia’s existence, in its own interest, as to not create waves, or upset the then Soviet government. Sofi Oksanen however is not without her criticism from the left and communist supporters or sympathizers, much like Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller, who has also received criticism and accusations of working with or for the CIA; because of her own criticism of Putin, and the Ukraine incident. Yet this unrest goes beyond simply fighting. It goes beyond snarling barking dogs, rolling tanks, jets flying over head, bombs dropping, and bullets whizzing. The incident has also gone back into a dirty war: a war of propaganda. This is a dirty campaign of language and of psychology. Estonia itself has felt the nettle sting of, such political distortion of reality and contortion of historical facts. Back in two-thousand and seven, Estonia received a cyber terrorist assault. Putin before hand had been critical of the Estonian government’s relocation of a monument, commemorating the Red Army. Putin had called Estonian’s “Nazis and Fascists.” The moment these words were fired, and received in the ear canals of Estonians, instinctively they understood Soviet era propaganda, being used. Referring to them as “Nazi’s and Fascist,” comes from Estonia’s dual occupation of both the Red Army, and then Nazi Germany, before the Soviet Union solidified its grasp on Estonia once again, and the dream of an independent Estonia was lost, and forbidden. The old era propaganda that is currently being used, does not bring back nostalgic memories, or shimmer with the beauty of history. It is a nightmare returning. A nightmare, which had engulfed the land, and even vaulted the sky. Viivi Luik in her novel “The Beauty of History,” quickly captures the oppression of the Soviet occupation, as a suffocating regime and system, in her novel “The Beauty of History.”
“Toward waning, the sky rises higher and take on its true form. It becomes a dome and a vault. With strange and threatening self-evidence it encompasses military district headquarters, militia stations and pass port offices. Those who are trapped beneath this vault cannot escape.”
The sky maybe the same; stretched across the globe, but it for the Soviet states, it was never a free sky. The sky was a reminder, of their flights of fantasy and fancy, at dreaming of a free sky, under a free earth; away from the drab grey of Eastern Europe and the red communist ideals. The author quickly points out that the ideology, like the sky far exceeds just Estonia but travels:
“Down in the mountains are Dracula’s castle and Ceausescu’s kingdom.”
Vivii Luik is one of Estonia’s most renowned poets and writers, along with the late Jaan Kross. Vivii Luik herself had emerged onto the Estonian literary scene, as a literary prodigy, at the age of eighteen. Her debut collection of poetry “A Holiday of Clouds,” had been taken note by critics. The following collections captivated readers, with the musicality and fragility of language; but also with the perception of the world, and nature as a reflection of mystical changing feelings and perceptions of the world. Luik has, often been compared to a canary in a coal mine; sensing even the most miniscule change in the air, and documenting it in her poetry; and was quick to sense the changing political landscape of the collapse of the Soviet Union. Vivii Luik is also an accomplished novelist. Her first novel “The Seventh Spring of Peace,” was written in a child’s view point, depicting country life (I presume on a kolkhoz – or collected farm) in post-war Soviet Estonia. The novel depicts the communal misery of the time, the frightening stories and propaganda of the forest brothers, and their dreams of liberation, the absurdity of life in the regime, and the sensitive political subjects, that are sure to arise. All of which is filtered through the clear eyes of a child. The novel broke the day dream or forced perception or memory of the “Happy Soviet Childhood.” What was, described was the harsh stinging realities of the brutalism of the Soviet system, and the political uncertainty of Estonia for many years. The novel struck her audience with her highly refined poetized language, and novelty subject matter. It is one of the most outstanding novels of Estonian literature, of recent memory (published originally in nineteen-eighty five), with its interesting representation of language, to depict unsightly perpetuated horrors of history and forced political ideologies, by the reigning empire. The next novel Luik would write would be in nineteen-ninety one, titled “The Beauty of History.”
“The Beauty of History,” is a love story, framed by history. Specifically speaking, the novel is framed by the year nineteen-sixty eight, the year of The Prague Spring. The Prague Spring was the first crack in the Soviet foundation. Upon being elected the First Secretary of the Communist Party (of then) Czechoslovakia, Alexander Dubček the reformist, set about enacting reformations of the country. Dubček attempted to offer more, freedoms to the citizens of Czechoslovakia especially in the areas of freedom of media, speech and travel; as well as decentralize the economy away from Moscow (Soviet Russia), and instill democratization. This all eventually ended in the invasion of Czechoslovakia and the crushing of the Prague Spring by the Soviet Union and other members of Warsaw Pact. Luik states in “The Beauty of History,”
“A Czech boy pouring petrol over himself and then lighting a match does not really go with the carpets in the living-room of Europe, so the television is switched off.”
The statement readily shows Europe’s apathy or inability to understand or show interest in the workings of Eastern Europe, and the everyday extraordinary tragedies that would continue to happen there.
“The Beauty of History,” however is not an overtly political novel. It is far more lyrical in its treatment of the political situations, and is narrated by a politically unaware unnamed Estonian young woman, who falls into the world of a Latvian sculpture who is far more politically aware then she is, and goes by the name Lion (pronounced Leon). The world of both these two lovers becomes entangled in history. For the young woman, the political shivering of the Iron Curtain, have emotional consaquences, which send her world out of alignment. While the Latvian sculpture, already sensing the changing political environment, takes practical note and is working on evading military service, by dissenting to the West. Language becomes the key part of this novel. Neither one of these two lovers, can speak the native language of the other. When Lion, offers German as a common language, she can only muster phrases that do not communicate or bode well for any serious dialogue. Both then are forced to speak the least popular of the reigning languages: Russian, in order to communicate with each other. Yet because of the prevailing ideology and the suffocating atmosphere of the times, another language must be created. A language that takes ordinary conversations, and gives them shadow meanings, in order to communicate more hidden intentions, that discuss in secret whispers and wheezes, the topics that would be considered taboo or not of the norm. Yet this becomes confusing in its’ own right, for the young woman, as she:
“Can never understand whether the talk is simply of buying butter and cream or of the arrival of fateful news.”
In between all of this, past and future collide with each other at random, in a poetic language that at times comes in a whirlwind, which will shake up the narrator. The novel also has its own references to Estonia’s past and ideological subjugation, which is always at risk of being lost on readers who are not familiar with the history of the country or the time. However the novel is a beautiful poetic intensely written piece of work. It has moments of Kafkaesque surrealism, which will unhinge an already held perspective, for a new upstart to reality. The novel is short, but not simple or sweet; nor is it a coherent tale, of historical fiction, that explicitly details a specific time period. It is a collage of impressions, thoughts, emotions, and attempts at understandings, in a collaboration of text that spins and usurps the novel, while maintaining it to be an engrossing read. However, despite the beautiful pristine crystallized language used in the novel, the language can become overtly lyrical at moments, in its dense baroque like ambiguity. Despite this, it is still a novel which is a pleasure to read, and was published right at the time of Estonia’s new emergence to the world, as the Iron Curtain had been pulled back, and revealed. It is truly a canary’s song, which rather than crying out in desperation to warn of a dangerous gas, instead celebrates fresh new air, and reverberates in the sun.
On a personal note: I’d love to see the other two novels by Viivi Luik published into English: “The Seventh Spring of Peace,” and “Shadow Theatre,” as well as her essays to find publication into English as well. However I am aware of the issues of this, because Estonian language is incredibly difficult with its only linguistic relatives being Finnish and Hungarian. Despite this though, one can hope that the works of Viivi Luik, Doris Kareva, and Tõnu Õnnepalu, will someday make it into the English language.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 26 May 2015
The Ins & Outs
Hello Gentle Reader
The literary world; in the loosest sense of the term; does have similar characteristics to the fashion world. They both have their trends, and their seasonal ins; which eventually fall into the outs, of a succeeding seasonal in, only to become in once more years later. Recently the literary trends, of what is a hot publishing item, have become more noticeable over the decades, for trend watchers, to view what is a literary hot cake; and what is not. Who could forget J.K. Rowling and her “Harry Potter,” series of fantasy novels, about the boy wizard, and his fabulous adventures in the magical school of Hogwarts? The series later, revamped and changed the concept of Young Adult fiction, making Young Adult fiction, a new form of children’s literature, aimed at young adult audiences. Spawning from the “Harry Potter,” series of book came the film series; and soon books to film became a more sophisticated and eloquent affair (as films began to create a balance between action and glitzy glamour of special effects, as well as compelling storyline), that just happened to be monetarily prosperous as well. Then again such is the peculiar pecuniary of the world of ‘art,’ (again in the loosest of terms). From the success of the “Harry Potter,” franchise came; other subsequent novels and series that attempted to duplicate, and cash in on the success. Such as the “Twilight Saga,” this was a miserable failure, of a teenage angst love story, with a heavy mixture of vampires and werewolves; and other such concepts of love versus sexual gratification. However, the book to film franchise did not stop; as “Fifty Shades of Grey,” soon followed after “Twilight,” and is also a miserable failure; with its sexual fantasies and sadomasochistic erotica blend.
However other novel series like: “A Song of Fire and Ice,” which is what the television series “Game of Thrones,” is based on, has become incredibly successful; but has also shown a peculiar proclivity as of late; to another growing tend within the publishing industry: The Mega Novel. “The Luminaries,” by Eleanor Catton became the longest novel to win the Man Booker Prize at a stunning and off-putting eight-hundred and thirty-two pages long. Other such novels, like Donna Tarth’s “The Goldfinch,” have taken similar literary prizes, and have equally as long pages; “The Goldfinch,” is eight-hundred and eighty one pages long. Yet the mega novel craze has yet not stopped: “Death and Mr. Pickwick,” by Stephen Jarvis, is at a startling eight-hundred and sixteen pages long, and has already been speculated as a Booker Prize contender for two-thousand and fifteen. Jonathan Franzem’s new multi-generational American family novel, “Purity,” is at a smaller page count of five-hundred and seventy-six pages long. The last mega novel(s), that I can distinctly remember reading, and being exhausted from, was/were Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook,” a feminist brick on its own, discussing gender gaps and politics; and Mark Z Danielewski’s “House of Leaves,” a horror story like novel, about a house is larger on the inside then it is on the outside; both of which were outstanding works in their own right. Even now I am working my way through Mircea Cărtărescu’s novel “Blinding,” and despite enjoying the novel, and its supple and delightful prose and language, at four-hundred and sixty-four pages long, I am still finding myself exhausted, and dragging my leaden feet towards an ending. It seems to me, that a author like Patrick Modiano or Herta Müller are able to capture more in their much more manageable and digestible books, then authors who are hell bound on writing these mega novels. I suppose I prefer poetic brevity and gentle lyricism, then verbose over wrought pieces of fiction. Whatever happened to the idea that less is more?
Yet this season, has taken another change of direction. This year’s literary scene is split between the mega-novel; which has its supporters and detractors; as well as nature writing, which has also begun to be treated with similar suspicion now. I enjoy the idea that nature writing is in (at least for now), though it should be appreciated for what it is intended for: the writing about the beauty of nature, and our own place within it, as well as the appreciation of it; it is in fact a act of observing the natural world, appreciating it, and translating the language of the natural world into text, and an engaging book. What has become a peculiar problem is the iterations of others. The books should not be about, the personal self-discovery with a good dash of nature and writing about the beauty of nature. Nature writing, in today’s world should not be coercing anyone into buying a farm, and begin farming and using the book, as a manual on how to farm, and discover one’s self. Rather the book, should take one away from the fast paced, material monetary world in which we find ourselves in, and to relax and think about the subtle beauty that truly is out there, in which we can enjoy. Then again I am a sucker for a writer, who can evoke a landscape with such tender lyricism – though not eight hundred (or even five hundred) pages of it!
It were to appear, that the literary world has moved away from the erotic fantasies of whips, chains, leather, and ball gags; and has found itself compelled to humor writers with their dreams of writing mega novels (when harsh editing is strongly advised if not required) to the simple pleasures of enjoying nature. To sum it up nicely: one should become a nemophilist, and stroll through the woods, and use a mega novel as implement to spank their significant in other – eroticism mixed with nature, in the form of a giant overwritten novel.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The literary world; in the loosest sense of the term; does have similar characteristics to the fashion world. They both have their trends, and their seasonal ins; which eventually fall into the outs, of a succeeding seasonal in, only to become in once more years later. Recently the literary trends, of what is a hot publishing item, have become more noticeable over the decades, for trend watchers, to view what is a literary hot cake; and what is not. Who could forget J.K. Rowling and her “Harry Potter,” series of fantasy novels, about the boy wizard, and his fabulous adventures in the magical school of Hogwarts? The series later, revamped and changed the concept of Young Adult fiction, making Young Adult fiction, a new form of children’s literature, aimed at young adult audiences. Spawning from the “Harry Potter,” series of book came the film series; and soon books to film became a more sophisticated and eloquent affair (as films began to create a balance between action and glitzy glamour of special effects, as well as compelling storyline), that just happened to be monetarily prosperous as well. Then again such is the peculiar pecuniary of the world of ‘art,’ (again in the loosest of terms). From the success of the “Harry Potter,” franchise came; other subsequent novels and series that attempted to duplicate, and cash in on the success. Such as the “Twilight Saga,” this was a miserable failure, of a teenage angst love story, with a heavy mixture of vampires and werewolves; and other such concepts of love versus sexual gratification. However, the book to film franchise did not stop; as “Fifty Shades of Grey,” soon followed after “Twilight,” and is also a miserable failure; with its sexual fantasies and sadomasochistic erotica blend.
However other novel series like: “A Song of Fire and Ice,” which is what the television series “Game of Thrones,” is based on, has become incredibly successful; but has also shown a peculiar proclivity as of late; to another growing tend within the publishing industry: The Mega Novel. “The Luminaries,” by Eleanor Catton became the longest novel to win the Man Booker Prize at a stunning and off-putting eight-hundred and thirty-two pages long. Other such novels, like Donna Tarth’s “The Goldfinch,” have taken similar literary prizes, and have equally as long pages; “The Goldfinch,” is eight-hundred and eighty one pages long. Yet the mega novel craze has yet not stopped: “Death and Mr. Pickwick,” by Stephen Jarvis, is at a startling eight-hundred and sixteen pages long, and has already been speculated as a Booker Prize contender for two-thousand and fifteen. Jonathan Franzem’s new multi-generational American family novel, “Purity,” is at a smaller page count of five-hundred and seventy-six pages long. The last mega novel(s), that I can distinctly remember reading, and being exhausted from, was/were Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook,” a feminist brick on its own, discussing gender gaps and politics; and Mark Z Danielewski’s “House of Leaves,” a horror story like novel, about a house is larger on the inside then it is on the outside; both of which were outstanding works in their own right. Even now I am working my way through Mircea Cărtărescu’s novel “Blinding,” and despite enjoying the novel, and its supple and delightful prose and language, at four-hundred and sixty-four pages long, I am still finding myself exhausted, and dragging my leaden feet towards an ending. It seems to me, that a author like Patrick Modiano or Herta Müller are able to capture more in their much more manageable and digestible books, then authors who are hell bound on writing these mega novels. I suppose I prefer poetic brevity and gentle lyricism, then verbose over wrought pieces of fiction. Whatever happened to the idea that less is more?
Yet this season, has taken another change of direction. This year’s literary scene is split between the mega-novel; which has its supporters and detractors; as well as nature writing, which has also begun to be treated with similar suspicion now. I enjoy the idea that nature writing is in (at least for now), though it should be appreciated for what it is intended for: the writing about the beauty of nature, and our own place within it, as well as the appreciation of it; it is in fact a act of observing the natural world, appreciating it, and translating the language of the natural world into text, and an engaging book. What has become a peculiar problem is the iterations of others. The books should not be about, the personal self-discovery with a good dash of nature and writing about the beauty of nature. Nature writing, in today’s world should not be coercing anyone into buying a farm, and begin farming and using the book, as a manual on how to farm, and discover one’s self. Rather the book, should take one away from the fast paced, material monetary world in which we find ourselves in, and to relax and think about the subtle beauty that truly is out there, in which we can enjoy. Then again I am a sucker for a writer, who can evoke a landscape with such tender lyricism – though not eight hundred (or even five hundred) pages of it!
It were to appear, that the literary world has moved away from the erotic fantasies of whips, chains, leather, and ball gags; and has found itself compelled to humor writers with their dreams of writing mega novels (when harsh editing is strongly advised if not required) to the simple pleasures of enjoying nature. To sum it up nicely: one should become a nemophilist, and stroll through the woods, and use a mega novel as implement to spank their significant in other – eroticism mixed with nature, in the form of a giant overwritten novel.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
The Man Booker International Prize Winner
Hello Gentle Reader
The Man Booker International Prize has announced this year’s winner. Joining the ranks of Ismail Kadare, Alice Munro and the late Chinua Achebe – László Krasznahorkai the Hungarian master of the apocalypse; and a Kafkaesque like prophet. The judges of this year’s award, compared to the works of Krasznahorkai of Kafka and Beckett, citing his works, as a step in the tradition of the absurd human condition, and the comedy of such trials. The judges have praised the writers, intensity and visionary scope of his work; especially his long winded and winding sentences, which eventually put one out of breath – or take it away. Yet Krasznahorkai is not a writer, who is unknown to awards – he won the Best Translated Book Award, twice in a row, and has gone on to achieve numerous awards and accolades – though each one is deserved.
Congratulations to László Krasznahorkai!
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 Man Booker International Prize has announced this year’s winner. Joining the ranks of Ismail Kadare, Alice Munro and the late Chinua Achebe – László Krasznahorkai the Hungarian master of the apocalypse; and a Kafkaesque like prophet. The judges of this year’s award, compared to the works of Krasznahorkai of Kafka and Beckett, citing his works, as a step in the tradition of the absurd human condition, and the comedy of such trials. The judges have praised the writers, intensity and visionary scope of his work; especially his long winded and winding sentences, which eventually put one out of breath – or take it away. Yet Krasznahorkai is not a writer, who is unknown to awards – he won the Best Translated Book Award, twice in a row, and has gone on to achieve numerous awards and accolades – though each one is deserved.
Congratulations to László Krasznahorkai!
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, 14 May 2015
Time Ages in a Hurry
Hello Gentle Reader
What is it that keeps one up at night? Maybe it is the mundane stresses. The slow melancholy of day to day living. The workplace politics perhaps. The overdue credit card and the slow accumulation of interest. Perhaps it’s the bills, or the rent requiring to be paid. In another vain, maybe it is the paper due, or an exam coming up. Mothers worrying about their children. Fathers concerned about the future of their jobs. These concerns grow, in the warm beneath the blankets. They are rotated like a pillow. When one rolls to the other side, or onto their back, these palpitations of life, shift their perspective as well. No amount of breathing changes them. No music evicts them from ones skull. Yet these squatters remain through it all. Though as Anton Chekhov himself had stated:
“Any idiot can face a crisis – its day to day living that wears you out.”
Insult or compliment? Neither really. Chekhov simply gave his diagnosis in regards to life: it wears you out. Whether one likes it or not, it wears you out. Eventually even the happiest person on the planet will be worn out by life. Those who can sleep well at night are the ones who are envied. Yet sleepless nights visit all, at some point or another. Yet, be it compassion or consideration, each of us ask: “how did you sleep last night?” or remark upon the weary appearance of another. Yet upon offering a remark – an attempt at communication or connection, each one, opens themselves up to hear the story of another; or to be told a lie. What keeps me up at night? Memories, it seems as of late.
Memories: Sanctuary and hell. Their inability to be coherent, or stay coherent, is a continual frustration. They meld and melt into each other. Past reminiscences of years past, lurk in present thoughts. Guilt and grief are continual seeds that grow in these corners of the mind. Insomnia itself does not grow in the sun. It grows in the blue light of the television; snow filling the screen; or just beneath a forty watt bulb; it is fertilized by the white noise of dead televisions; or the seconds of a clock marked by the insistent ticks. Yet despite ones memories, swirling about like bats, always keeping sleep at bay; there is no greater surprise than a memory surfacing in the brain, when a particular scent passes one by, and a fleeting emotion swells up inside. The clearest brightest memories are perhaps tinted with imagination – and they maybe false in some details are always welcomed. Without ones memories, one is nothing more than a husk. No more than a ghost.
Before his untimely death in two-thousand and twelve, Antonio Tabucchi was considered one of Italy’s most renowned writers. For many, Tabucchi had picked up the mantle that Italo Calvino had left behind, upon his own passing. Yet Tabucchi had Calvino, are two different writers, who view the world in different aspects. Tabucchi’s work became greatly influenced by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, even becoming his Italian translator. Upon his death, Tabucchi referred to himself, more as a scholar of Pessoa, and academic than a writer. Yet despite his own insistence, of being an academic over a writer, Tabucchi is still regarded as one of those great writers, to have entered the English language, and is still one of my favorite writers. When a new novel or collection of stories, is due to be released by Tabucchi, it is a celebratory event, by such a cosmopolitan writer. When I had learned that archipelago books had planned on publishing two more books by Tabucchi, after their previous publications by the writer: “Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,” and “The Woman of Porto Pim,” – I was ecstatic! Though at the time, Archipelago Books could not verify a date when the works would receive publication, the dream, of adding more Tabucchi books to my collection, was a dream that would indefinitely be made a reality. When publication dates were finalized, I set out pre-ordering “Time Ages in a Hurry,” and upon receiving the book, set about reading it immediately.
Reading a Tabucchi story is akin to unwrapping a small gift, or a long lost candy from another time. There is both a sweetness, and a misplaced melancholy from another time. Such as the story: “Yo me enamoré del aire.”
The title of the story comes from a traditional Sephardic Jewish folk song; about falling in love. From the book, the two translated stanzas:
“I was in love with the air/with the air of a woman/ Because the woman was air/ I was left with a handful of air/ Air that carries off the air/ Air that carries off/ Because she went so quickly/ I couldn’t talk with her/ As if she were lifting a skirt/the air swayed her.”
“Yo me enamoré del aire,” is the shortest story of this collection, and my favorite. The story is ambiguous and opaque, but is not dense, and made overtly complicated. The story is shrouded in ambience. It is an investigation into a world that has been lost. A rather personalized world. Though the surface states, the man is looking for the botanical gardens, he is in search of a home, dated with the art nouveau architecture. The significance of the home is never stated, or elucidated upon any further. Yet the home, the song, and the women singing, each cause turbulence in the world of the man.
This is the world in which Tabucchi depicts. It is a world of ambiguities, uncertainties, and rambling memories, which are treated with distrust; and yet each character, each narrator in one manner or another, confronts these memories, and their lost worlds. They challenge their deeply personal or political burdens; they share their stories, yet question their own soliloquies. Yet the short story collection goes beyond anonymous narrators attempting to understand the passage of time, the nature of memory, and all other theories that surround each other, and how it reflects and impacts their lives. The short stories themselves vary locations: from Bucharest, to Tel Aviv, to Crete, and Berlin. Despite the varying locations, the political and the personal upheavals, the pains of the past, the calmness of the present, and the desolate futures; these stories are each acutely connected by the acute theme, which runs throughout the entire collection – the process of remembering and the passage of time. Yet as Tabucchi makes quite clear, memories can only be told, experiences can only be shared; neither one can be transmitted or transfused. They are a personal ordeal: both sanctuary and hell.
Whenever there is a new novel or (even better at times) a short story collection, by Antonio Tabucchi, going to see a debut English language release, I am overcome with joy and excitement! Antonio Tabucchi was one of those writers, that I had the fortunate fate of stumbling upon (thanks to him for being a perennial Nobel contender) and when I had given him a chance, I was not disappointed with what I had discovered; and soon Tabucchi rose to be one of my favorite writers. Antonio Tabucchi is a master of the short story, and the short novel or novella. His preoccupations vary from the political, to the past, to memories, passages of time, to identity. Yet it is all wrapped up in Tabucchi’s fitting prose that moves between frontiers; and shows the influence of both of his languages and cultures, that had come to influence him; but also his skepticism of how art is supposed to console our lives; but appears to fail at changing the realities themselves.
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
What is it that keeps one up at night? Maybe it is the mundane stresses. The slow melancholy of day to day living. The workplace politics perhaps. The overdue credit card and the slow accumulation of interest. Perhaps it’s the bills, or the rent requiring to be paid. In another vain, maybe it is the paper due, or an exam coming up. Mothers worrying about their children. Fathers concerned about the future of their jobs. These concerns grow, in the warm beneath the blankets. They are rotated like a pillow. When one rolls to the other side, or onto their back, these palpitations of life, shift their perspective as well. No amount of breathing changes them. No music evicts them from ones skull. Yet these squatters remain through it all. Though as Anton Chekhov himself had stated:
“Any idiot can face a crisis – its day to day living that wears you out.”
Insult or compliment? Neither really. Chekhov simply gave his diagnosis in regards to life: it wears you out. Whether one likes it or not, it wears you out. Eventually even the happiest person on the planet will be worn out by life. Those who can sleep well at night are the ones who are envied. Yet sleepless nights visit all, at some point or another. Yet, be it compassion or consideration, each of us ask: “how did you sleep last night?” or remark upon the weary appearance of another. Yet upon offering a remark – an attempt at communication or connection, each one, opens themselves up to hear the story of another; or to be told a lie. What keeps me up at night? Memories, it seems as of late.
Memories: Sanctuary and hell. Their inability to be coherent, or stay coherent, is a continual frustration. They meld and melt into each other. Past reminiscences of years past, lurk in present thoughts. Guilt and grief are continual seeds that grow in these corners of the mind. Insomnia itself does not grow in the sun. It grows in the blue light of the television; snow filling the screen; or just beneath a forty watt bulb; it is fertilized by the white noise of dead televisions; or the seconds of a clock marked by the insistent ticks. Yet despite ones memories, swirling about like bats, always keeping sleep at bay; there is no greater surprise than a memory surfacing in the brain, when a particular scent passes one by, and a fleeting emotion swells up inside. The clearest brightest memories are perhaps tinted with imagination – and they maybe false in some details are always welcomed. Without ones memories, one is nothing more than a husk. No more than a ghost.
Before his untimely death in two-thousand and twelve, Antonio Tabucchi was considered one of Italy’s most renowned writers. For many, Tabucchi had picked up the mantle that Italo Calvino had left behind, upon his own passing. Yet Tabucchi had Calvino, are two different writers, who view the world in different aspects. Tabucchi’s work became greatly influenced by the Portuguese poet Fernando Pessoa, even becoming his Italian translator. Upon his death, Tabucchi referred to himself, more as a scholar of Pessoa, and academic than a writer. Yet despite his own insistence, of being an academic over a writer, Tabucchi is still regarded as one of those great writers, to have entered the English language, and is still one of my favorite writers. When a new novel or collection of stories, is due to be released by Tabucchi, it is a celebratory event, by such a cosmopolitan writer. When I had learned that archipelago books had planned on publishing two more books by Tabucchi, after their previous publications by the writer: “Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,” and “The Woman of Porto Pim,” – I was ecstatic! Though at the time, Archipelago Books could not verify a date when the works would receive publication, the dream, of adding more Tabucchi books to my collection, was a dream that would indefinitely be made a reality. When publication dates were finalized, I set out pre-ordering “Time Ages in a Hurry,” and upon receiving the book, set about reading it immediately.
Reading a Tabucchi story is akin to unwrapping a small gift, or a long lost candy from another time. There is both a sweetness, and a misplaced melancholy from another time. Such as the story: “Yo me enamoré del aire.”
The title of the story comes from a traditional Sephardic Jewish folk song; about falling in love. From the book, the two translated stanzas:
“I was in love with the air/with the air of a woman/ Because the woman was air/ I was left with a handful of air/ Air that carries off the air/ Air that carries off/ Because she went so quickly/ I couldn’t talk with her/ As if she were lifting a skirt/the air swayed her.”
“Yo me enamoré del aire,” is the shortest story of this collection, and my favorite. The story is ambiguous and opaque, but is not dense, and made overtly complicated. The story is shrouded in ambience. It is an investigation into a world that has been lost. A rather personalized world. Though the surface states, the man is looking for the botanical gardens, he is in search of a home, dated with the art nouveau architecture. The significance of the home is never stated, or elucidated upon any further. Yet the home, the song, and the women singing, each cause turbulence in the world of the man.
This is the world in which Tabucchi depicts. It is a world of ambiguities, uncertainties, and rambling memories, which are treated with distrust; and yet each character, each narrator in one manner or another, confronts these memories, and their lost worlds. They challenge their deeply personal or political burdens; they share their stories, yet question their own soliloquies. Yet the short story collection goes beyond anonymous narrators attempting to understand the passage of time, the nature of memory, and all other theories that surround each other, and how it reflects and impacts their lives. The short stories themselves vary locations: from Bucharest, to Tel Aviv, to Crete, and Berlin. Despite the varying locations, the political and the personal upheavals, the pains of the past, the calmness of the present, and the desolate futures; these stories are each acutely connected by the acute theme, which runs throughout the entire collection – the process of remembering and the passage of time. Yet as Tabucchi makes quite clear, memories can only be told, experiences can only be shared; neither one can be transmitted or transfused. They are a personal ordeal: both sanctuary and hell.
Whenever there is a new novel or (even better at times) a short story collection, by Antonio Tabucchi, going to see a debut English language release, I am overcome with joy and excitement! Antonio Tabucchi was one of those writers, that I had the fortunate fate of stumbling upon (thanks to him for being a perennial Nobel contender) and when I had given him a chance, I was not disappointed with what I had discovered; and soon Tabucchi rose to be one of my favorite writers. Antonio Tabucchi is a master of the short story, and the short novel or novella. His preoccupations vary from the political, to the past, to memories, passages of time, to identity. Yet it is all wrapped up in Tabucchi’s fitting prose that moves between frontiers; and shows the influence of both of his languages and cultures, that had come to influence him; but also his skepticism of how art is supposed to console our lives; but appears to fail at changing the realities themselves.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
Best Translated Book Award – Fiction & Poetry Shortlist
Hello Gentle Readers
The shortlist is in for the Best Translated Book Award – both the fiction and the poetry. Both lists appear strong, after quite an interesting longlist, with one author having two shortlisted books. Yet despite that, the award appears to keep an objective air. For the most part, I am impressed with the shortlist.
Fiction –
“Things Look Different in the Light,” by Medardo Fraile (Spain)
“Harlequin’s Millions,” by Bohumil Hrabal (Czech Republic)
“The Woman Who Borrowed Memories,” by Tove Jansson (Finland)
“Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay,” by Elena Ferrante (Italy)
“Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires,” by Julio Cortázar (Argentina)
“The Author and Me,” by Éric Chevillard (France)
“Pushkin Hills,” by Sergei Dovlatov (Russia)
“La Grande,” by Juan José Saer (Argentina)
“Faces in the Crowd,” by Valeria Luiselli (Mexico)
“The Last Lover,” by Can Xue (China)
Poetry –
“Where Are the Trees Going?,” by Venus Khoury-Ghata (Lebanon)
“Lazy Suzie,” by Suzanne Doppel (France)
“Diorama,” by Rocío Cerón (Mexico)
“Diana’s Tree,” by Alejandra Pizarnik (Argentina)
“End of the City Map,” by Farhad Showgh (Germany)
“Compleat Catalogue of Comedic Novelties,” Lev Rubinstein (Russia)
There you have it Gentle Reader, the shortlist for the award. Ten works of fiction, and six collections of poetry; from varying languages, different countries, and across the globe. It is disappointing slightly not to see Kim Hyesoon make it to the shortlist however; and was curious to see if “Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” by Pierre Michon, was going to make it.
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 shortlist is in for the Best Translated Book Award – both the fiction and the poetry. Both lists appear strong, after quite an interesting longlist, with one author having two shortlisted books. Yet despite that, the award appears to keep an objective air. For the most part, I am impressed with the shortlist.
Fiction –
“Things Look Different in the Light,” by Medardo Fraile (Spain)
“Harlequin’s Millions,” by Bohumil Hrabal (Czech Republic)
“The Woman Who Borrowed Memories,” by Tove Jansson (Finland)
“Those Who Leave and Those Who Stay,” by Elena Ferrante (Italy)
“Fantomas Versus the Multinational Vampires,” by Julio Cortázar (Argentina)
“The Author and Me,” by Éric Chevillard (France)
“Pushkin Hills,” by Sergei Dovlatov (Russia)
“La Grande,” by Juan José Saer (Argentina)
“Faces in the Crowd,” by Valeria Luiselli (Mexico)
“The Last Lover,” by Can Xue (China)
Poetry –
“Where Are the Trees Going?,” by Venus Khoury-Ghata (Lebanon)
“Lazy Suzie,” by Suzanne Doppel (France)
“Diorama,” by Rocío Cerón (Mexico)
“Diana’s Tree,” by Alejandra Pizarnik (Argentina)
“End of the City Map,” by Farhad Showgh (Germany)
“Compleat Catalogue of Comedic Novelties,” Lev Rubinstein (Russia)
There you have it Gentle Reader, the shortlist for the award. Ten works of fiction, and six collections of poetry; from varying languages, different countries, and across the globe. It is disappointing slightly not to see Kim Hyesoon make it to the shortlist however; and was curious to see if “Winter Mythologies & Abbots,” by Pierre Michon, was going to make it.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 30 April 2015
To The Spring By Night
Hello Gentle Reader
Reading books from different countries, continents, border states, parts of the world; is akin to me, the experiencing of traveling. The difference being is one is not physically there, at these unknown locations, or noted or even well known locations. The trips are not all inclusive. There are no resorts, or spa days. No real sightseeing. What there is however, is one begins to see parts of the world that are lost or have been forgotten. One experiences events, not through their own; but through the writer and the fictional means in which they disclose the experience they are writing about. Some writers are great landscape depicters. They know just how to form a landscape just from ink and paper, and words. These writers describe the lesser known parts of their cities, or their part of the world. They show the realities behind the window dressing. The small apartments or the daily shared family meals. They describe, how the rain can be heard gushing out old down spouts, or how it seeps into the brick. How the roof leaks and the ping and the pang, become lullabies at night. They tell of secret childhood getaways. Places where there first kisses were shared. Where friends were made, and games were played. It is amazing, to see how the experiences can at times be so similar, despite the sense and perspective of being worlds apart, from one another. This is however the writers specialty, be it poetry or prose. The writer writes of the shared experience of all human beings. The loves that are experienced; the unforeseeable break ups, and the love that is renewed time and time again. From childhood to adulthood, to memory and age; the world is filled with different experiences. Their landscapes and their scenery maybe different, but it is general human experiences of longing, of lusting, or desiring, repentance, and the penance each of us confesses to ourselves. “To The Spring By Night,” by a Kurdish poet turned prose writer, is one such novel that takes a foreign landscape, and showcases how experience – in the form of childhood; transcends language and countries. Despite its setting and location, the different customs and hardships that are experienced, the experiences of growing up, the wonder and the awe of the world, that is both known and unknown.
Seyhmus Dagtekin is a Kurdish poet, who has written eight collections of poetry; and is renowned for his poetry. He writes in Kurdish, Turkish and French. He is a leading figure in revitalizing French poetry. “To The Spring By Night,” is a, homage to Dagtekin’s roots and his home in his village, located in eastern Turkey. Despite the lack of a defined homeland for the Kurdish people, their roots and their identity is strong where they have settled and continue to inhabit. Seyhmus Dagtekin writes of the alienation and isolation of the Kurdish people in his home village. He discusses their severance from the rest of the world, which is filtered through the tales of smugglers and the men who have done their military service. The world beyond the mountains that surround, the village shield it from the unknown world beyond their borders; but it also ensures that the villages stays stagnant, and is left to its own beliefs, folk tales and oral traditions to understand the world around them. As time passes through the rest of the world, this small pocket appears to have been left untouched.
“I was small. And my village was small; I came to know that in time. But when I was small it was big for me, so big that when I had to cross it from one end to the other, I was afraid.”
It’s funny, that no matter how small the village, the town or the hamlet – I grew up in a hamlet of barely six hundred people; that when you are smaller then it, it appears big and foreboding. I remember how afraid I was the first time I walked home on a sunny winter day, all by myself. The trip itself had been done, a hundred times or more, with my mother, taking me to preschool. But now it was my turn to do it by myself. The familiar had become unfamiliar. Everything was safer before, hand in hand when we crossed the road, or casually walked down the sidewalk. But without that other presence, fear lurked in my mind. Apprehension was a pit in my stomach, and yet I had to make the journey myself. It only took five minutes, and when I entered our home, I was happy and relieved. My mother was proud of my first journey home by myself. I was proud too; but more thankful to have made it home. When I had read that first passage, in this book, I realized that despite the foreign lands in which both of us had grown up, and had become accustomed too, that this was a book that would resonate with experiences already felt and still lingering in the back of my mind, waiting to evoked and excavated.
“To The Spring By Night,” is a lyrical novel. It is a novel made up of experiences both personal and shared. The inclusiveness of the pronouns “us,” and “we,” is used often throughout this spare novel. The experiences of our narrator – a young boy; is often interlaid with the shared experiences of others. Each one is fascinated by the world that surrounds them. Every star and stone has a name and a story with it. Yet what truly keeps the novel going, is its tales that are within it, wrapping up each experience with a tale already told; tales of sorrow, stories of remorse; legends that inspire wonder, and fear; anecdotes that reveal the nature of things, and their purposes both divine, and earthly. The oral stories that are recounted along with personal experience make up this book. They discuss fear, hope, love, and the hardships of life. They fill the natural world, both known and unknown with hope and trepidation:
“Like the spring that were spread around the village in three directions, encircling it and becoming the lairs of djinns, dragons and monsters thanks to the grownups’ tales, these rocks and caverns surrounded our village and became, depending on the circumstances, hideaways where our hopes could prosper, or fountainheads for our fear.”
The world of “To The Spring By Night,” is its own world. It is a world where animism is still, quite clear in the personification and legends of objects, and natural wonders. Where the people of the citadel (I presume the dead of the ‘infidels,’) could capture the moon, and cut it into smaller shards and fragments, to disperse into the night sky, to form new stars. This was a place where a rock, became a reminder and symbol of bloodshed, slaughter, of raids and invading armies. It is a land of tortoises who lived for ages upon ages, because of their slower pace, and proximity to the earth. Yet despite their lives being a steady flame, in comparison to the dwindling match spark of a humans life; they were murdered and disposed of. More often than not blamed for vandalism to a grape crop. In this land the seasons would come and they would go. Yet their passing’s brought greenery and life; heat and work; orange and harvest; and white and hunger.
Seyhmus Dagtekin is not a magical realist. He is just a writer of magical talent. “To The Spring By Night,” is a novel that is interwoven with years upon years of oral traditions of storytelling. Superstitions still reign supreme. Suras and prayers become incantations; in a world of personified objects. This is not a novel about ghosts inhabit homes. It is not a place where demons are seen firsthand; but rather only heard of. Yet it is also a place where the hardships of lives, take their own. This is a world that still suffers from the broken heart, and changing hearts; it is a world that is human even if it is protected from the outside world. Places of tragedy are both foreboding and fascinating and at the same time, completely incomprehensible in a child’s eyes:
“From the two sides, east and west, the village and our house opened on to the unknown world of the trees and the earth. The world of the people and the village, the stream once crossed, was for the children, and there was the obscure world of the hangings and their swaying one way, and then another.”
It is a lyrical novel. What is lacking in a unified traditional story, of plot, rising action, falling action and conclusion, survives on the lyrical prose, and the experiences and the stories within the experiences that are told. Fear and hope are two sides of the same sword; and throughout the novel the sword swings both, ways, offering hope and delivering fear. The book itself sums it up best, itself with the following passage:
“Fears are a bit like fog, as are memories. On the one hand, one dreads to go forward and plunge into a future without end, and on the other, one is afraid to retreat into the past and lose oneself in a plethora of events and tales.”
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
Reading books from different countries, continents, border states, parts of the world; is akin to me, the experiencing of traveling. The difference being is one is not physically there, at these unknown locations, or noted or even well known locations. The trips are not all inclusive. There are no resorts, or spa days. No real sightseeing. What there is however, is one begins to see parts of the world that are lost or have been forgotten. One experiences events, not through their own; but through the writer and the fictional means in which they disclose the experience they are writing about. Some writers are great landscape depicters. They know just how to form a landscape just from ink and paper, and words. These writers describe the lesser known parts of their cities, or their part of the world. They show the realities behind the window dressing. The small apartments or the daily shared family meals. They describe, how the rain can be heard gushing out old down spouts, or how it seeps into the brick. How the roof leaks and the ping and the pang, become lullabies at night. They tell of secret childhood getaways. Places where there first kisses were shared. Where friends were made, and games were played. It is amazing, to see how the experiences can at times be so similar, despite the sense and perspective of being worlds apart, from one another. This is however the writers specialty, be it poetry or prose. The writer writes of the shared experience of all human beings. The loves that are experienced; the unforeseeable break ups, and the love that is renewed time and time again. From childhood to adulthood, to memory and age; the world is filled with different experiences. Their landscapes and their scenery maybe different, but it is general human experiences of longing, of lusting, or desiring, repentance, and the penance each of us confesses to ourselves. “To The Spring By Night,” by a Kurdish poet turned prose writer, is one such novel that takes a foreign landscape, and showcases how experience – in the form of childhood; transcends language and countries. Despite its setting and location, the different customs and hardships that are experienced, the experiences of growing up, the wonder and the awe of the world, that is both known and unknown.
Seyhmus Dagtekin is a Kurdish poet, who has written eight collections of poetry; and is renowned for his poetry. He writes in Kurdish, Turkish and French. He is a leading figure in revitalizing French poetry. “To The Spring By Night,” is a, homage to Dagtekin’s roots and his home in his village, located in eastern Turkey. Despite the lack of a defined homeland for the Kurdish people, their roots and their identity is strong where they have settled and continue to inhabit. Seyhmus Dagtekin writes of the alienation and isolation of the Kurdish people in his home village. He discusses their severance from the rest of the world, which is filtered through the tales of smugglers and the men who have done their military service. The world beyond the mountains that surround, the village shield it from the unknown world beyond their borders; but it also ensures that the villages stays stagnant, and is left to its own beliefs, folk tales and oral traditions to understand the world around them. As time passes through the rest of the world, this small pocket appears to have been left untouched.
“I was small. And my village was small; I came to know that in time. But when I was small it was big for me, so big that when I had to cross it from one end to the other, I was afraid.”
It’s funny, that no matter how small the village, the town or the hamlet – I grew up in a hamlet of barely six hundred people; that when you are smaller then it, it appears big and foreboding. I remember how afraid I was the first time I walked home on a sunny winter day, all by myself. The trip itself had been done, a hundred times or more, with my mother, taking me to preschool. But now it was my turn to do it by myself. The familiar had become unfamiliar. Everything was safer before, hand in hand when we crossed the road, or casually walked down the sidewalk. But without that other presence, fear lurked in my mind. Apprehension was a pit in my stomach, and yet I had to make the journey myself. It only took five minutes, and when I entered our home, I was happy and relieved. My mother was proud of my first journey home by myself. I was proud too; but more thankful to have made it home. When I had read that first passage, in this book, I realized that despite the foreign lands in which both of us had grown up, and had become accustomed too, that this was a book that would resonate with experiences already felt and still lingering in the back of my mind, waiting to evoked and excavated.
“To The Spring By Night,” is a lyrical novel. It is a novel made up of experiences both personal and shared. The inclusiveness of the pronouns “us,” and “we,” is used often throughout this spare novel. The experiences of our narrator – a young boy; is often interlaid with the shared experiences of others. Each one is fascinated by the world that surrounds them. Every star and stone has a name and a story with it. Yet what truly keeps the novel going, is its tales that are within it, wrapping up each experience with a tale already told; tales of sorrow, stories of remorse; legends that inspire wonder, and fear; anecdotes that reveal the nature of things, and their purposes both divine, and earthly. The oral stories that are recounted along with personal experience make up this book. They discuss fear, hope, love, and the hardships of life. They fill the natural world, both known and unknown with hope and trepidation:
“Like the spring that were spread around the village in three directions, encircling it and becoming the lairs of djinns, dragons and monsters thanks to the grownups’ tales, these rocks and caverns surrounded our village and became, depending on the circumstances, hideaways where our hopes could prosper, or fountainheads for our fear.”
The world of “To The Spring By Night,” is its own world. It is a world where animism is still, quite clear in the personification and legends of objects, and natural wonders. Where the people of the citadel (I presume the dead of the ‘infidels,’) could capture the moon, and cut it into smaller shards and fragments, to disperse into the night sky, to form new stars. This was a place where a rock, became a reminder and symbol of bloodshed, slaughter, of raids and invading armies. It is a land of tortoises who lived for ages upon ages, because of their slower pace, and proximity to the earth. Yet despite their lives being a steady flame, in comparison to the dwindling match spark of a humans life; they were murdered and disposed of. More often than not blamed for vandalism to a grape crop. In this land the seasons would come and they would go. Yet their passing’s brought greenery and life; heat and work; orange and harvest; and white and hunger.
Seyhmus Dagtekin is not a magical realist. He is just a writer of magical talent. “To The Spring By Night,” is a novel that is interwoven with years upon years of oral traditions of storytelling. Superstitions still reign supreme. Suras and prayers become incantations; in a world of personified objects. This is not a novel about ghosts inhabit homes. It is not a place where demons are seen firsthand; but rather only heard of. Yet it is also a place where the hardships of lives, take their own. This is a world that still suffers from the broken heart, and changing hearts; it is a world that is human even if it is protected from the outside world. Places of tragedy are both foreboding and fascinating and at the same time, completely incomprehensible in a child’s eyes:
“From the two sides, east and west, the village and our house opened on to the unknown world of the trees and the earth. The world of the people and the village, the stream once crossed, was for the children, and there was the obscure world of the hangings and their swaying one way, and then another.”
It is a lyrical novel. What is lacking in a unified traditional story, of plot, rising action, falling action and conclusion, survives on the lyrical prose, and the experiences and the stories within the experiences that are told. Fear and hope are two sides of the same sword; and throughout the novel the sword swings both, ways, offering hope and delivering fear. The book itself sums it up best, itself with the following passage:
“Fears are a bit like fog, as are memories. On the one hand, one dreads to go forward and plunge into a future without end, and on the other, one is afraid to retreat into the past and lose oneself in a plethora of events and tales.”
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
Thursday, 16 April 2015
Things Look Differently In The Light
Hello Gentle Reader
One of the greatest aspects of the short story form is how it is a requirement that the short story – though a prose form by definition; must straddle the line between both prose and poetry. A short story does not necessarily need to be a novel in a miniaturized form. Nor does a short story need to act like a chapter in a symphony for a larger piece of work. Short stories can be very poetic and expressionistic. Despite their deceptive lengths, they can envision and display the questions that are held on the lips of sentient and conscious beings. A great writer sees the unasked questions on an individual’s lips; and understands that they have been asked; but never answered. A mediocre author arrogantly attempts to answer these questions. Where an author of some master like qualities understands that there is no such thing as complicated questions; just complicated answers. Yet will be the first to admit that some questions are beyond answers – at least for the time being. This same author will be the first to lament the eventual dwindling of excitement in the everyday; once these questions are answered – if ever. Once the most profound questions have been answered and the puzzle of life, can be loosely termed: ‘defined,’ it means no more questions will weight so heavily; and life turns to existence .Without the need to ponder these questions that have lasted so many centuries – and were engraved on human lips and minds, when the first syllable was articulated into a letter; existence falls into the mundane, which borders on apathy. Life will be rendered to its own explained realities. Reality will lose its surreal tastes and its own brand of anarchic magic. Reality becomes governed by its own natural laws; where our reality becomes governed by our laws. Yet for the time being, these questions remain unanswered. The archaic magic remains intact in the real world; and life spins on its own surreal axis. This is the world that Medardo Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely set in the everyday and the ordinary, and yet has a dash of surreal magic to it.
Medardo Fraile was one of Spain’s most eminent writers; and one of Spain’s greatest practitioners of the short story form. His first foray into writing in a professional sense was in experimental theatre. He belonged to an experimental theatre group that also included the Spanish playwrights Alfonso Sastre and Alfonso Paso. In this time period Fraile wrote a play “The Brother.” Both Sastre and Paso, had gone onto become very important dramatists; but Medardo Fraile’s interest in his chosen literary mode, had shifted away from the theatre, and into the short story format. After a few short story collections were published in Spain, Fraile became recognized as a rising writer; in a form that at the time had little value in Spain at the time. Yet with the work that Fraile had done, and the recognition that he achieved as a writer primarily of short stories, the reputation of the short story form in Spain and the Spanish language, had increased and gather more value and respect. Medardo Fraile lived in Madrid during the siege of the city during the Spanish civil war, and once Franco had come into power, and left the country and lived in Scotland for the remainder of his life. He worked as a university professor at Strathclyde; and had a fondness for Scotland. Fraile had retired from his teaching however in nineteen-eighty six, and devoted himself full time to writing. He remained in contact with Spain, by writing articles for small provincial newspapers; and was a frequent visitor to the Big Book Fair in Madrid, and often was invited to host events and seminars on short story writing.
Fraile’s short stories did not follow the fashionable social realism of the fifties and sixties. His approach to the short story form was gentle but subdued; to the point of being illusory minimalistic in its approach. His short stories are incredibly short, but cover a lot of ground in the few pages in which his work is contained. He did not use intricate plotting in order to showcase the lives of the characters. Fraile’s stories are more like Polaroid’s. They capture the moments of the characters lives in their instants. Yet Fraile’s stories were not instantly written. They were re-worked continuously like bread. He continued to polish and pull out words that did not belong in the text that he was writing, which often gives his works a deceptive simplicity.. Medardo Fraile was a writer that showcased through suggestive images; rather than outwardly explaining; and each of his characters were tenderly observed and written with gentle melancholy that was lightened by a wry sense of humour. His characters and subject matter were often vulnerable individuals, and humble folk. They were written in a practical manner; and spoke in colloquial speech, that would be found in their homes, spoken in the cafes they visited, and on the streets they walked. Yet each story gently conveys the surrealistic realities of the everyday life and occurrences. How a typist office queen falls from her grace; or how two old spinsters, collect and assemble more lights to the chandelier as an attempt to ward off old age; or how a lemon drop candy brings a man back to the world of his childhood. This is the world that Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely the same, in every which way as a reality elsewhere to some degree; but yet looks differently in the light that Fraile showcases it with.
This review is of course obscenely short, if only because when I read “Things Looks Differently in the Light,” I read it through intervals and moments of quiet time, when the act of reading as a pass time could commence. Such as riding the bus, or while having a cigarette, or waiting in a café, for a friend to have coffee. I read the collection at first, as if I were to read a novel; but then decided to pick and choose by title – much like picking a chocolate from a box of pot of gold, by the discriminating information provided, by the manufacturer. What should be said about this book is, that it is meant for such moments when the luxury of reading in the day can be afforded, by such moments like a bus ride, or a train ride, or at lunch break. It is these moments where one can quickly search through the titles, pick one and read the snapshot story that has been presented by the Spanish writer. His works detail the everyday individual and their humble circumstances, and write of their own quiet extraordinary lives; how they attempt to ward off ennui, or defy natural laws, or even defy ageing and death only to glow long after. These stories offer wry humour with the hum drum melancholy of the everyday, and make light of the absurdities and surreal nature of the everyday life of individuals in a society.
This is Medardo Fraile’s first collection short stories to be published in English, and many thanks should be given to Pushkin Press for this. Pushkin Press, also happened to make sure the book was miniaturized in size to fit into ones coat pocket and could be readily grasped for those routine bus journeys, in the grey light of winter.
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
One of the greatest aspects of the short story form is how it is a requirement that the short story – though a prose form by definition; must straddle the line between both prose and poetry. A short story does not necessarily need to be a novel in a miniaturized form. Nor does a short story need to act like a chapter in a symphony for a larger piece of work. Short stories can be very poetic and expressionistic. Despite their deceptive lengths, they can envision and display the questions that are held on the lips of sentient and conscious beings. A great writer sees the unasked questions on an individual’s lips; and understands that they have been asked; but never answered. A mediocre author arrogantly attempts to answer these questions. Where an author of some master like qualities understands that there is no such thing as complicated questions; just complicated answers. Yet will be the first to admit that some questions are beyond answers – at least for the time being. This same author will be the first to lament the eventual dwindling of excitement in the everyday; once these questions are answered – if ever. Once the most profound questions have been answered and the puzzle of life, can be loosely termed: ‘defined,’ it means no more questions will weight so heavily; and life turns to existence .Without the need to ponder these questions that have lasted so many centuries – and were engraved on human lips and minds, when the first syllable was articulated into a letter; existence falls into the mundane, which borders on apathy. Life will be rendered to its own explained realities. Reality will lose its surreal tastes and its own brand of anarchic magic. Reality becomes governed by its own natural laws; where our reality becomes governed by our laws. Yet for the time being, these questions remain unanswered. The archaic magic remains intact in the real world; and life spins on its own surreal axis. This is the world that Medardo Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely set in the everyday and the ordinary, and yet has a dash of surreal magic to it.
Medardo Fraile was one of Spain’s most eminent writers; and one of Spain’s greatest practitioners of the short story form. His first foray into writing in a professional sense was in experimental theatre. He belonged to an experimental theatre group that also included the Spanish playwrights Alfonso Sastre and Alfonso Paso. In this time period Fraile wrote a play “The Brother.” Both Sastre and Paso, had gone onto become very important dramatists; but Medardo Fraile’s interest in his chosen literary mode, had shifted away from the theatre, and into the short story format. After a few short story collections were published in Spain, Fraile became recognized as a rising writer; in a form that at the time had little value in Spain at the time. Yet with the work that Fraile had done, and the recognition that he achieved as a writer primarily of short stories, the reputation of the short story form in Spain and the Spanish language, had increased and gather more value and respect. Medardo Fraile lived in Madrid during the siege of the city during the Spanish civil war, and once Franco had come into power, and left the country and lived in Scotland for the remainder of his life. He worked as a university professor at Strathclyde; and had a fondness for Scotland. Fraile had retired from his teaching however in nineteen-eighty six, and devoted himself full time to writing. He remained in contact with Spain, by writing articles for small provincial newspapers; and was a frequent visitor to the Big Book Fair in Madrid, and often was invited to host events and seminars on short story writing.
Fraile’s short stories did not follow the fashionable social realism of the fifties and sixties. His approach to the short story form was gentle but subdued; to the point of being illusory minimalistic in its approach. His short stories are incredibly short, but cover a lot of ground in the few pages in which his work is contained. He did not use intricate plotting in order to showcase the lives of the characters. Fraile’s stories are more like Polaroid’s. They capture the moments of the characters lives in their instants. Yet Fraile’s stories were not instantly written. They were re-worked continuously like bread. He continued to polish and pull out words that did not belong in the text that he was writing, which often gives his works a deceptive simplicity.. Medardo Fraile was a writer that showcased through suggestive images; rather than outwardly explaining; and each of his characters were tenderly observed and written with gentle melancholy that was lightened by a wry sense of humour. His characters and subject matter were often vulnerable individuals, and humble folk. They were written in a practical manner; and spoke in colloquial speech, that would be found in their homes, spoken in the cafes they visited, and on the streets they walked. Yet each story gently conveys the surrealistic realities of the everyday life and occurrences. How a typist office queen falls from her grace; or how two old spinsters, collect and assemble more lights to the chandelier as an attempt to ward off old age; or how a lemon drop candy brings a man back to the world of his childhood. This is the world that Fraile writes about. A world that is entirely the same, in every which way as a reality elsewhere to some degree; but yet looks differently in the light that Fraile showcases it with.
This review is of course obscenely short, if only because when I read “Things Looks Differently in the Light,” I read it through intervals and moments of quiet time, when the act of reading as a pass time could commence. Such as riding the bus, or while having a cigarette, or waiting in a café, for a friend to have coffee. I read the collection at first, as if I were to read a novel; but then decided to pick and choose by title – much like picking a chocolate from a box of pot of gold, by the discriminating information provided, by the manufacturer. What should be said about this book is, that it is meant for such moments when the luxury of reading in the day can be afforded, by such moments like a bus ride, or a train ride, or at lunch break. It is these moments where one can quickly search through the titles, pick one and read the snapshot story that has been presented by the Spanish writer. His works detail the everyday individual and their humble circumstances, and write of their own quiet extraordinary lives; how they attempt to ward off ennui, or defy natural laws, or even defy ageing and death only to glow long after. These stories offer wry humour with the hum drum melancholy of the everyday, and make light of the absurdities and surreal nature of the everyday life of individuals in a society.
This is Medardo Fraile’s first collection short stories to be published in English, and many thanks should be given to Pushkin Press for this. Pushkin Press, also happened to make sure the book was miniaturized in size to fit into ones coat pocket and could be readily grasped for those routine bus journeys, in the grey light of winter.
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
International IMPAC Literary Dublin Award Shortlist
Hello Gentle Reader
The IMPAC Literary Dublin Award is one of the most lucrative prizes for a single novel published in English (including translations), past winners include: Herta Müller, Orhan Pamuk, and Gerbrand Bakker. The following list, is the ten shortlisted authors, in no particular order.
Colum McCann – “TransAtlantic,”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – “Americanah,”
Mahi Binebine – “Horses of God,”
Jim Grace – “Harvest,”
Richard Flanagan – “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,”
Hannah Kent – “Burial Rites,”
Bernardo Kucinski – “K,”
Andreï Makine – “Brief Loves That Live Forever,”
Alice McDermott – “Someone,”
Roxana Robinson – “Sparta,”
It is interesting to note, that the only Irish author, on this year’s shortlist is Colum McCann. Good luck to each of the authors, shortlisted for this year’s one-hundred thousand euro prize.
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 IMPAC Literary Dublin Award is one of the most lucrative prizes for a single novel published in English (including translations), past winners include: Herta Müller, Orhan Pamuk, and Gerbrand Bakker. The following list, is the ten shortlisted authors, in no particular order.
Colum McCann – “TransAtlantic,”
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – “Americanah,”
Mahi Binebine – “Horses of God,”
Jim Grace – “Harvest,”
Richard Flanagan – “The Narrow Road to the Deep North,”
Hannah Kent – “Burial Rites,”
Bernardo Kucinski – “K,”
Andreï Makine – “Brief Loves That Live Forever,”
Alice McDermott – “Someone,”
Roxana Robinson – “Sparta,”
It is interesting to note, that the only Irish author, on this year’s shortlist is Colum McCann. Good luck to each of the authors, shortlisted for this year’s one-hundred thousand euro prize.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Monday, 13 April 2015
Günter Grass Dies at the age of 87
Hello Gentle Reader
Günter Grass was one the moral compass of Europe. His best known work is “The Tin Drum,” the first in his celebrated Danzig Trilogy. The author went on to become a honoured Nobel Laureate in Literature with the citation: “whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history.” In the beginning of his career, Grass was the moral compass for Germany, encouraging the German people and politicians to accept the Nazi crimes, and forgive themselves, for such a self-induced insult on their past. However, in his later years, Grass had become a polarizing figure – especially as a writer who often made political comments. Grass however lost credibility, when he himself had revealed in his autobiography “Peeling the Onion,” that at the age of sixteen he had been conscripted by the Waffen-SS, a fact of the author’s life that had not been revealed. The public was outraged. How could someone tell them to repent and admit their own tragic and traumatic history, but not do the same themselves? Further controversy had landed on Günter Grass a few years later. With a poem titled “What Must Be Said,” Grass had criticized Germany’s military support of Israel, by the delivery of submarines to the country; which Grass had argued in his poem, could be used to attack and kill the Iranian people. The poem was quickly rejected by many, feeling that a author who had hid his own Nazi past, was in a vague manner showcasing anti-Semitic views. Fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller, criticized Grass for the poem:
“Günter Grass distorts reality. Iran is threatening Israel with annihilation, not the other way around,” and continued with the following statements, “In my opinion, he lost his moral credibility long ago, because over the course of decades he hid his affiliation with the SS.”
It were to appear that Günter Grass had become more of a political persona in his later years, than a writer; which had tarnished his reputation and many inquired about the authors integrity or lack thereof with his later in life confession of his affiliation with Germany’s Nazi past. However this does not mean that Grass’s work is not without its own literary merits, and should be judged on its own merits, not the writer who in his later years had become a political persona and a polarizing political figure. However with Grass's passing, many whom mourn the author, speak of a man who was far different then his public persona. Friends of the writer, speak of a humorous man, who thought deeply about people, and was perpetually fascinated by them.
Rest In Peace Günter Grass.
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
Günter Grass was one the moral compass of Europe. His best known work is “The Tin Drum,” the first in his celebrated Danzig Trilogy. The author went on to become a honoured Nobel Laureate in Literature with the citation: “whose frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history.” In the beginning of his career, Grass was the moral compass for Germany, encouraging the German people and politicians to accept the Nazi crimes, and forgive themselves, for such a self-induced insult on their past. However, in his later years, Grass had become a polarizing figure – especially as a writer who often made political comments. Grass however lost credibility, when he himself had revealed in his autobiography “Peeling the Onion,” that at the age of sixteen he had been conscripted by the Waffen-SS, a fact of the author’s life that had not been revealed. The public was outraged. How could someone tell them to repent and admit their own tragic and traumatic history, but not do the same themselves? Further controversy had landed on Günter Grass a few years later. With a poem titled “What Must Be Said,” Grass had criticized Germany’s military support of Israel, by the delivery of submarines to the country; which Grass had argued in his poem, could be used to attack and kill the Iranian people. The poem was quickly rejected by many, feeling that a author who had hid his own Nazi past, was in a vague manner showcasing anti-Semitic views. Fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature Herta Müller, criticized Grass for the poem:
“Günter Grass distorts reality. Iran is threatening Israel with annihilation, not the other way around,” and continued with the following statements, “In my opinion, he lost his moral credibility long ago, because over the course of decades he hid his affiliation with the SS.”
It were to appear that Günter Grass had become more of a political persona in his later years, than a writer; which had tarnished his reputation and many inquired about the authors integrity or lack thereof with his later in life confession of his affiliation with Germany’s Nazi past. However this does not mean that Grass’s work is not without its own literary merits, and should be judged on its own merits, not the writer who in his later years had become a political persona and a polarizing political figure. However with Grass's passing, many whom mourn the author, speak of a man who was far different then his public persona. Friends of the writer, speak of a humorous man, who thought deeply about people, and was perpetually fascinated by them.
Rest In Peace Günter Grass.
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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