Hello Gentle Reader
Jim Grace, the author of “Harvest,” has won this year’s IMPAC Literary Dublin Award. With taking the one hundred thousand dollar paycheque of prize money that comes with the award, Jim Grace has mentioned that he will be retiring; and will be treating writing more as a hobby. Jim Grace was shortlisted for the Booker Prize with his novel “Harvest,” back in two-thousand and thirteen, but lost to the New Zealander Eleanor Catton and her novel “The Luminaries.” The short novel was considered utterly compelling, and showcases Grace’s enjoyment for historical fiction, and showing how one age slips into another. “Harvest,” does just that, as a quaint feudal era village and all its medieval charms. However paranoia and the brutal winds of change always make a muck of everything, and soon even the village is forced to move forward as well. A compelling allegory of the present, Grace’s last novel before his retirement, speaks of our own shifting time; as the modern age begins to move towards a data saturated and infused Information Age.
Congratulations to Jim Grace!
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, 17 June 2015
Friday, 12 June 2015
Dreams and Stones
Hello Gentle Reader
In a world of glass, people would shield themselves from stones; compulsively clean the finger prints and hand marks; and there would be no privacy from the onslaught of scouring scrupulous eyes, always on the search for indecency. If the world were made solely of bricks, there would be no light, and sights. One would think they were the last person on earth. In order for the world to exist one must have both glass and brick; the brick offers privacy and protection; while glass offers a window to look out upon the world. Glass (windows) connects; brick (walls) protects. Such is the world of Magdalena Tulli. A world of defined, and planned perfection, always left up to the caprice of fate and the anarchy of chance; and the human folly which is a mistake on its own grounds and merits. Magdalena Tulli creates and plans worlds. A narrator from one of her works: “Moving Parts,” (a book which I am currently coveting and searching for) openly admits how easy it is to conjure worlds: “The creation of worlds! Nothing could be simpler.” They can be shaken out of one’s sleeve, blown like bubbles, bought at dollar stores, stored in Rubbermaid containers. They are confectionary delights, which are to be consumed with gluttony and greed. Tulli never disappoints with the worlds in which she creates. Yet they are more than just sugar and carbohydrates. Tulli’s sentences becomes roads and tram lines. Her paragraphs become city blocks. Pages become skyscrapers. Yet the populace of her world is not clearly defined. Tulli may bake her worlds; but her characters are dressed by tailors and dress makers. They are blushing brides, stoic grooms; duty bound police officers, vagrants who rake their sleeping quarters from their hair; hoodlums in hoods who watch their art slink away on trains; people of an older world who smell of moth balls – each of them is quickly dressed by their suited deity of cloth. Once their garments have been removed from the wooden hangers, they are done. Their dressed like dolls or actors; and their clothing speaks more of them as characters, then any inherent or developed personality. With the last zipper zipped, and the final button buttoned – they are developed and created. Their dress becomes uniform and dictates their personality. Such is how creation works. Such is how the worlds of Tulli’s are populated.
Magdalena Tulli is one such writer that has, had the pleasure of having the majority of her oeuvre available in English. Yet she is a far cry from being considered a household name. Magdalena Tulli’s works have been either: over looked; or: read, reviewed and shelved – and left in such a state. Part of this is to do with Tulli, being an author that shuns traditional concepts of a novel. So long are the plot tropes of boy meets girl; lover’s quarrels and new expeditions into the human heart; gone are adventure stories and their magnificent flights of fancy; be done with those stories of domestic details; goodbye for now, to all the works which had developed characters and created situations in which they can act accordingly. With Tulli her work becomes far more self-reflective, often discussing the concepts and boundaries of fiction. Such postmodernist ground could be considered: oh so seventies; and yet Magdalena Tulli enters the canon of such a world, with forefather and forebears of such names like: Franz Kafka, Bruno Schulz, Fernando Pessoa and Italo Calvino; but also includes an extended family of: Jose Saramago, Petr Král, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Samuel Beckett, and Herta Müller. This is not the world of American postmodernism, of conspiracy theories, clandestine organizations, and drug fuelled romps. Rather Tulli has created a world which laughs with baffling irony, at all attempts of giving logic to a surreal world; yet takes serious consideration, to the worlds she has created.
“Dreams and Stones,” is a creation story. Like all to most creation stories Magdalena Tulli’s creation story starts off with the tree. A tree like the Norse Yggdrasil; an immense construct and the sole divine architecture which supported the nine worlds of Norse mythic cosmology. So is the world of Magdalena Tulli – an immense tree stands, and must follow the cycle of the seasons. After its hibernation it awakens to bud and bloom. Those same blooms rust and fall away, and in their stead, fruit are bared. In the fruit of this tree lie cities. The city is ripened and now it begins to decay. However with the engineers who have taken up residence, the threat of over ripening and decay is not optional. The city begins to move away from the seasonal chronology, and soon progress is set to take control over that department. With these germs of life, construction has begun. Bricklayers lay brick, and mix lime. Homes need dishes, tables, and silverware. The wind needs laundry to blow through. Offices are required, for departments and corporations which do not exist yet. And so from tree to machine – branches to streets; leaves to windows; roots to sewers – the cog wheels keep on turning, at their own cycle, no longer under the supervision of the seasons. Flowing rivers turn the water wheels; and the winds spin the turbines. Such is the growing city that Magdalena Tulli has created. Yet despite its easy creation, there is demand now for more services; homes required to be built, schools are needed, the ringing of telephones is sought after, and so much more needs to be done. Yet it starts with the first bricklayers; who shall be immortalized in statues, who become perches for pigeons and their droppings.
“Dreams and Stones,” is classified as a novel. Yet it does away with the certainties of plot, action, characters. Upon its first publication critics and the reading public were baffled by its, lack of plot and characters, and wondered what kind of book, “Dreams and Stones,” was – when looking towards Tulli, the author insists that the book itself is a novel. With no elucidation from the author, about how to define the book, the novel “Dreams and Stones,” became known as a “not non-fiction,” piece of work. A novel that defies classification. It is not a prose poem, despite its poetic fine writing, and meditative appearance; it is not the paradoxical conundrum anti-prose, because of its lush sequence of writing, and being grammatically correct. It is something that stands in its own category, and succeeds at being a groundbreaking novel, and an important novel from Poland.
Personally “Dreams and Stones,” reads like a meditation. A very lyrical well wrought, composed meditation; and yet drifts beyond such a concept, because the work itself is fantastical, in its immediate construct. The tree of life bears fruit. The fruit bears a city, and in the decay and softening of that city, it plants a new city within its seed. The city is created and destroyed. Even when the city turns to more mechanization processes and procedures, it too is pushed and pulled – repairing itself endlessly after a new mechanical failure has arisen. And so Tulli utilizes the growing metamorphosis of a city, to describe human society and collective memory. All attempts at perfection, will always lead to one cog slipping out of line; a blade on a turbine is bound to break; a brick is bound to come out of place. Somewhere, there is malfunction, and in that malfunction repairs are required. Despite the beauty of the design the reality is: the string has been woven, measured and eventually cut. Fate and chance play a large part in the comings and goings of the city, more so then the people themselves. This book is rich in its imagery, which often leads an overload of both beautiful constructed sentences and words, but also an overload of the images that are being presented. This is made all that more complicated, by the lack of clear defined snapshot being placed on the page. Nothing is given any specific attention for long. Different concepts, and new working orders, are soon coming into play – and it is frustrating for anyone wishing to enjoy the tour; but it grabs the sense of urban memory in which the book attempts to capture in such moments.
“Objects and buildings circulate randomly and mingle with one another. Memory must constantly untangle them since permanent order is not possible there. The city can neither be described nor drawn; the reality of the city blocks is resistant to orthogonal projection.”
What becomes a shift in reality and perspective is when Tulli adds other cities to this city, to offer mirror representation to them. From Paris to St. Petersburg; it soon parts the curtains of the fantastical city in which she writes about, and soon what was once a universal creation story about a city, leads one to wonder is this Warsaw that is being detailed? Is this Warsaw after World War II, being rebuilt after the destruction and demolition of the war?
At times Tulli can become too descriptive and over abundant in her imagery, when clean metaphors, will often do the work:
“With time the buildings took on the same shade of gray as the cloudy sky and in this manner disappeared.”
At the end of the day, Magdalena Tulli has captured a war weary city, on the verge of reincarnation. It is forced to rebuild itself, to rejuvenate. The bombs have stopped falling. The shelling has ceased. Guns have gone quiet. Now schools are to be rebuilt – drawing a class room in the sidewalk with chalk, can only work for children. Boys still dream of flying aeroplanes and their hooks are decorated with aviation caps. Bricklayers once again set about work, and laying the foundations for the city.
“The city was built at the meeting point of three elements in a place where they mingled with one another. It was constructed on the clay of memories, on the sands of dreams, and on the groundwater of oblivion, cold and bleak, whose flow never ceases for a moment, washing away the foundations day after day.”
It’s a poetic construct. It’s filled with beautiful sentences and words, which are fresh from the dictionary and laid into place like bricks. Yet it is not a book that can be consumed quickly or with haste. Yet to read it to slow, one will get bored. “Dreams and Stones,” is best read when one has the time, but also when one is capable of concentrating for long periods of moments, to truly grasp the meditation on the creation of such a world, but also on dreams, memory, and the oblivion of the world around us. It starts with a tree, turns to a machine; but nothing can last forever; though it has a proclivity of rebuilding itself.
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 a world of glass, people would shield themselves from stones; compulsively clean the finger prints and hand marks; and there would be no privacy from the onslaught of scouring scrupulous eyes, always on the search for indecency. If the world were made solely of bricks, there would be no light, and sights. One would think they were the last person on earth. In order for the world to exist one must have both glass and brick; the brick offers privacy and protection; while glass offers a window to look out upon the world. Glass (windows) connects; brick (walls) protects. Such is the world of Magdalena Tulli. A world of defined, and planned perfection, always left up to the caprice of fate and the anarchy of chance; and the human folly which is a mistake on its own grounds and merits. Magdalena Tulli creates and plans worlds. A narrator from one of her works: “Moving Parts,” (a book which I am currently coveting and searching for) openly admits how easy it is to conjure worlds: “The creation of worlds! Nothing could be simpler.” They can be shaken out of one’s sleeve, blown like bubbles, bought at dollar stores, stored in Rubbermaid containers. They are confectionary delights, which are to be consumed with gluttony and greed. Tulli never disappoints with the worlds in which she creates. Yet they are more than just sugar and carbohydrates. Tulli’s sentences becomes roads and tram lines. Her paragraphs become city blocks. Pages become skyscrapers. Yet the populace of her world is not clearly defined. Tulli may bake her worlds; but her characters are dressed by tailors and dress makers. They are blushing brides, stoic grooms; duty bound police officers, vagrants who rake their sleeping quarters from their hair; hoodlums in hoods who watch their art slink away on trains; people of an older world who smell of moth balls – each of them is quickly dressed by their suited deity of cloth. Once their garments have been removed from the wooden hangers, they are done. Their dressed like dolls or actors; and their clothing speaks more of them as characters, then any inherent or developed personality. With the last zipper zipped, and the final button buttoned – they are developed and created. Their dress becomes uniform and dictates their personality. Such is how creation works. Such is how the worlds of Tulli’s are populated.
Magdalena Tulli is one such writer that has, had the pleasure of having the majority of her oeuvre available in English. Yet she is a far cry from being considered a household name. Magdalena Tulli’s works have been either: over looked; or: read, reviewed and shelved – and left in such a state. Part of this is to do with Tulli, being an author that shuns traditional concepts of a novel. So long are the plot tropes of boy meets girl; lover’s quarrels and new expeditions into the human heart; gone are adventure stories and their magnificent flights of fancy; be done with those stories of domestic details; goodbye for now, to all the works which had developed characters and created situations in which they can act accordingly. With Tulli her work becomes far more self-reflective, often discussing the concepts and boundaries of fiction. Such postmodernist ground could be considered: oh so seventies; and yet Magdalena Tulli enters the canon of such a world, with forefather and forebears of such names like: Franz Kafka, Bruno Schulz, Fernando Pessoa and Italo Calvino; but also includes an extended family of: Jose Saramago, Petr Král, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Samuel Beckett, and Herta Müller. This is not the world of American postmodernism, of conspiracy theories, clandestine organizations, and drug fuelled romps. Rather Tulli has created a world which laughs with baffling irony, at all attempts of giving logic to a surreal world; yet takes serious consideration, to the worlds she has created.
“Dreams and Stones,” is a creation story. Like all to most creation stories Magdalena Tulli’s creation story starts off with the tree. A tree like the Norse Yggdrasil; an immense construct and the sole divine architecture which supported the nine worlds of Norse mythic cosmology. So is the world of Magdalena Tulli – an immense tree stands, and must follow the cycle of the seasons. After its hibernation it awakens to bud and bloom. Those same blooms rust and fall away, and in their stead, fruit are bared. In the fruit of this tree lie cities. The city is ripened and now it begins to decay. However with the engineers who have taken up residence, the threat of over ripening and decay is not optional. The city begins to move away from the seasonal chronology, and soon progress is set to take control over that department. With these germs of life, construction has begun. Bricklayers lay brick, and mix lime. Homes need dishes, tables, and silverware. The wind needs laundry to blow through. Offices are required, for departments and corporations which do not exist yet. And so from tree to machine – branches to streets; leaves to windows; roots to sewers – the cog wheels keep on turning, at their own cycle, no longer under the supervision of the seasons. Flowing rivers turn the water wheels; and the winds spin the turbines. Such is the growing city that Magdalena Tulli has created. Yet despite its easy creation, there is demand now for more services; homes required to be built, schools are needed, the ringing of telephones is sought after, and so much more needs to be done. Yet it starts with the first bricklayers; who shall be immortalized in statues, who become perches for pigeons and their droppings.
“Dreams and Stones,” is classified as a novel. Yet it does away with the certainties of plot, action, characters. Upon its first publication critics and the reading public were baffled by its, lack of plot and characters, and wondered what kind of book, “Dreams and Stones,” was – when looking towards Tulli, the author insists that the book itself is a novel. With no elucidation from the author, about how to define the book, the novel “Dreams and Stones,” became known as a “not non-fiction,” piece of work. A novel that defies classification. It is not a prose poem, despite its poetic fine writing, and meditative appearance; it is not the paradoxical conundrum anti-prose, because of its lush sequence of writing, and being grammatically correct. It is something that stands in its own category, and succeeds at being a groundbreaking novel, and an important novel from Poland.
Personally “Dreams and Stones,” reads like a meditation. A very lyrical well wrought, composed meditation; and yet drifts beyond such a concept, because the work itself is fantastical, in its immediate construct. The tree of life bears fruit. The fruit bears a city, and in the decay and softening of that city, it plants a new city within its seed. The city is created and destroyed. Even when the city turns to more mechanization processes and procedures, it too is pushed and pulled – repairing itself endlessly after a new mechanical failure has arisen. And so Tulli utilizes the growing metamorphosis of a city, to describe human society and collective memory. All attempts at perfection, will always lead to one cog slipping out of line; a blade on a turbine is bound to break; a brick is bound to come out of place. Somewhere, there is malfunction, and in that malfunction repairs are required. Despite the beauty of the design the reality is: the string has been woven, measured and eventually cut. Fate and chance play a large part in the comings and goings of the city, more so then the people themselves. This book is rich in its imagery, which often leads an overload of both beautiful constructed sentences and words, but also an overload of the images that are being presented. This is made all that more complicated, by the lack of clear defined snapshot being placed on the page. Nothing is given any specific attention for long. Different concepts, and new working orders, are soon coming into play – and it is frustrating for anyone wishing to enjoy the tour; but it grabs the sense of urban memory in which the book attempts to capture in such moments.
“Objects and buildings circulate randomly and mingle with one another. Memory must constantly untangle them since permanent order is not possible there. The city can neither be described nor drawn; the reality of the city blocks is resistant to orthogonal projection.”
What becomes a shift in reality and perspective is when Tulli adds other cities to this city, to offer mirror representation to them. From Paris to St. Petersburg; it soon parts the curtains of the fantastical city in which she writes about, and soon what was once a universal creation story about a city, leads one to wonder is this Warsaw that is being detailed? Is this Warsaw after World War II, being rebuilt after the destruction and demolition of the war?
At times Tulli can become too descriptive and over abundant in her imagery, when clean metaphors, will often do the work:
“With time the buildings took on the same shade of gray as the cloudy sky and in this manner disappeared.”
At the end of the day, Magdalena Tulli has captured a war weary city, on the verge of reincarnation. It is forced to rebuild itself, to rejuvenate. The bombs have stopped falling. The shelling has ceased. Guns have gone quiet. Now schools are to be rebuilt – drawing a class room in the sidewalk with chalk, can only work for children. Boys still dream of flying aeroplanes and their hooks are decorated with aviation caps. Bricklayers once again set about work, and laying the foundations for the city.
“The city was built at the meeting point of three elements in a place where they mingled with one another. It was constructed on the clay of memories, on the sands of dreams, and on the groundwater of oblivion, cold and bleak, whose flow never ceases for a moment, washing away the foundations day after day.”
It’s a poetic construct. It’s filled with beautiful sentences and words, which are fresh from the dictionary and laid into place like bricks. Yet it is not a book that can be consumed quickly or with haste. Yet to read it to slow, one will get bored. “Dreams and Stones,” is best read when one has the time, but also when one is capable of concentrating for long periods of moments, to truly grasp the meditation on the creation of such a world, but also on dreams, memory, and the oblivion of the world around us. It starts with a tree, turns to a machine; but nothing can last forever; though it has a proclivity of rebuilding itself.
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, 2 June 2015
Farwell: Books from Finland
Hello Gentle Reader
The internet has connected the entire world. It has moved beyond the constraints of both physical borders, as well as language boundaries. Numerous nations of smaller or lesser known, languages have websites and institutions that are set up to promote the translations of their languages writers – both classical and contemporary into other languages – primarily English. “Books from Finland,” has been one such format, which has encouraged, a deeper look at Finland’s literature, and its unique literary characteristics, born of such a difficult language to learn, and translate from. Since nineteen-sixty seven, “Books from Finland,” has been introducing Finland’s literature, to the English language via its print publications and eventual its virtual publications. However, for almost half a century, “Books from Finland,” has introduced newer writers, and more Finnish literature to English readers. However, as of July 1st: “Books from Finland,” will cease any future publications, as it will focus on digitalizing archival material. The reasons for the ceasing in publication are economic:
“The reasons for ceasing publication of Books from Finland are also economic. Government aid to the Finnish literature information centre FILI, which has functioned as the journal’s home, has been cut by ten per cent.”
The state of literary affairs, as of late are quiet economical in general. The Folio Prize is looking for a new sponsor, for its award. The Impac Literary Dublin Award has also recently exhausted the trust money, which has supported the award, is also seeking a sponsor – as the award is running on public funded money. It is a shame however to hear that “Books from Finland,” will cease its publications. “Books from Finland,” has made numerous wonderful writers, known to me as a reader, completely new to Finnish literature. It was thanks to “Books from Finland,” that I have had the pleasure of reading examples, fragments and snippets of such great writers like:
Petri Tamminen, whose samples from his books “The Land of the Hider,” became an enjoyable read (though I have not read the entire book) became almost a handbook on how to hide away from a anxious filled world.
Kaarina Valoaalto, who has yet to be published into English and known at all within any English speaking group, has impressed me with her prose poem works, which are not foreboding or difficult, but warm and welcoming.
Helvi Juvonen a poet, whose poetry is elliptical and yet filled with a fairy tale like imagery, that is populated with animals, goblins and other such anarchic creatures, that are born from childhood.
It was at “Books from Finland,” that I was able to enjoy the works of Leena Krohn as well as the prose of Bo Careplan. For forty-eight years, “Books from Finland,” has introduced an array of wonderful, talented, and creative Finnish writers to English readers. As we speak I plan on reading a short story by Eeva Tikka from her collection of short stories titled: “A Slow Passion.”
Farwell Books From Finland; but I certainly enjoyed reading your new posts, and discovering new Finnish writers, that the publication had introduced. Now I look forward to going through the archive further, and reading writers, that I missed before, and re-discovering writers, already read, and enjoying them once again.
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 internet has connected the entire world. It has moved beyond the constraints of both physical borders, as well as language boundaries. Numerous nations of smaller or lesser known, languages have websites and institutions that are set up to promote the translations of their languages writers – both classical and contemporary into other languages – primarily English. “Books from Finland,” has been one such format, which has encouraged, a deeper look at Finland’s literature, and its unique literary characteristics, born of such a difficult language to learn, and translate from. Since nineteen-sixty seven, “Books from Finland,” has been introducing Finland’s literature, to the English language via its print publications and eventual its virtual publications. However, for almost half a century, “Books from Finland,” has introduced newer writers, and more Finnish literature to English readers. However, as of July 1st: “Books from Finland,” will cease any future publications, as it will focus on digitalizing archival material. The reasons for the ceasing in publication are economic:
“The reasons for ceasing publication of Books from Finland are also economic. Government aid to the Finnish literature information centre FILI, which has functioned as the journal’s home, has been cut by ten per cent.”
The state of literary affairs, as of late are quiet economical in general. The Folio Prize is looking for a new sponsor, for its award. The Impac Literary Dublin Award has also recently exhausted the trust money, which has supported the award, is also seeking a sponsor – as the award is running on public funded money. It is a shame however to hear that “Books from Finland,” will cease its publications. “Books from Finland,” has made numerous wonderful writers, known to me as a reader, completely new to Finnish literature. It was thanks to “Books from Finland,” that I have had the pleasure of reading examples, fragments and snippets of such great writers like:
Petri Tamminen, whose samples from his books “The Land of the Hider,” became an enjoyable read (though I have not read the entire book) became almost a handbook on how to hide away from a anxious filled world.
Kaarina Valoaalto, who has yet to be published into English and known at all within any English speaking group, has impressed me with her prose poem works, which are not foreboding or difficult, but warm and welcoming.
Helvi Juvonen a poet, whose poetry is elliptical and yet filled with a fairy tale like imagery, that is populated with animals, goblins and other such anarchic creatures, that are born from childhood.
It was at “Books from Finland,” that I was able to enjoy the works of Leena Krohn as well as the prose of Bo Careplan. For forty-eight years, “Books from Finland,” has introduced an array of wonderful, talented, and creative Finnish writers to English readers. As we speak I plan on reading a short story by Eeva Tikka from her collection of short stories titled: “A Slow Passion.”
Farwell Books From Finland; but I certainly enjoyed reading your new posts, and discovering new Finnish writers, that the publication had introduced. Now I look forward to going through the archive further, and reading writers, that I missed before, and re-discovering writers, already read, and enjoying them once again.
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
Writing For Another Century
Hello Gentle Reader
The Future Library Project is an art project, created by the Scottish born German based, visual artist Katie Paterson. The art project is composed of growing a forest of trees in which, and a hundred writers, who will deposit a manuscript to the project that will be published, one hundred years from now, on the paper that the trees will produce. It’s a compelling idea, that asks questions about the human races current trajectory and speed in which we travel to environmental disaster or dystopian future, and asks questions about the changing methods of publishing and writing in regards to an ever changing and uncertain future. Yet the greatest disappointment is that some of us will not be around to see the revealed and published works of these writers, a hundred years from now. Yet for these writers, when the question arises of whether or not they will be read in one hundred years, they most certainly win the argument.
The first writer, to place a manuscript into the literary time capsule, was none other than Canadian writer, and environmental activist Margaret Atwood. Atwood has expressed amazement, and bewilderment, in regards to her contribution to the project; and sees it as an extraordinary thought, that her voice, will once again arise from the depths of time, with her recently deposited manuscript: “Scribbler Moon.” Atwood has compared the project, to “Sleeping Beauty,” as the texts that will be handed over to the project will sleep for a hundred years, and arise after their term of slumber has ended. The next author in line to invest in the project with a manuscript is the United Kingdom’s writer David Mitchell.
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 Future Library Project is an art project, created by the Scottish born German based, visual artist Katie Paterson. The art project is composed of growing a forest of trees in which, and a hundred writers, who will deposit a manuscript to the project that will be published, one hundred years from now, on the paper that the trees will produce. It’s a compelling idea, that asks questions about the human races current trajectory and speed in which we travel to environmental disaster or dystopian future, and asks questions about the changing methods of publishing and writing in regards to an ever changing and uncertain future. Yet the greatest disappointment is that some of us will not be around to see the revealed and published works of these writers, a hundred years from now. Yet for these writers, when the question arises of whether or not they will be read in one hundred years, they most certainly win the argument.
The first writer, to place a manuscript into the literary time capsule, was none other than Canadian writer, and environmental activist Margaret Atwood. Atwood has expressed amazement, and bewilderment, in regards to her contribution to the project; and sees it as an extraordinary thought, that her voice, will once again arise from the depths of time, with her recently deposited manuscript: “Scribbler Moon.” Atwood has compared the project, to “Sleeping Beauty,” as the texts that will be handed over to the project will sleep for a hundred years, and arise after their term of slumber has ended. The next author in line to invest in the project with a manuscript is the United Kingdom’s writer David Mitchell.
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 Literary News
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
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
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
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