Hello Gentle Reader
The nights are young. Therefore they are designed for the young. Yet it always appears that the nights are adulterated by the old. Such poor souls: aimless and wandering through the streets, in search of sleep and dreams; only to never find them. They can look under street lights, wall lights, porch lights. They peer around building walls; and into dark windows. Where could the sands of sleep be hidden? The same could be said for exhausting attempts at exhumation and excavation, of the past – especially a past wrapped in gauze or gossamer like fog. There are many pearls of wisdom, that are strung around the necks of scholars and sages, that reference the poetics of life; those simplistic guarantees. One: life (or the landscape of it) are guaranteed to change; Two: life goes on, with our without you. It is starting to understand and comprehend, that such simplistic terms and concepts, cause such large impacts. Personally I find myself blindsided, by emergences of the past. Coming across people from the past – acquaintances and friends, is at times a challenging experience. Where there was once common ground, has grown frail and weak with time. The slaying of imaginary dragons is a young man’s game; and certainly not up to either one of us, to participate in our dress shoes or heels; nor would it be considered appropriate to: ‘get down and dirty,’ in our slacks or skirts. Conversations are now, filled with discussions of: ‘where we are now?’ Polite conversations or small talk. All of which ends with the departing remark: ‘it was good to see you again.’ There is no denying, that our eyes betray us. More specifically our gazes do. They are absent and glossed over; as if we are fulfilling some duty bound obligation, to register each other’s existence. That is, if by chance, one of the two parties approach the other; and approaching the second party often, results in a slow timid saunter, wrapped in uncertainty and the smallest sense of guilt. Guilt with preconceived apologetic remarks: ‘sorry for not keeping in touch,’ ‘sorry it’s been so long,’ ‘sorry I haven’t contacted you lately.’ – Yet despite the admittance of ones guilt and the amends attempted, there are always rationalizations: ‘I’ve been busy,’ ‘You know me, living out of a suitcase, always traveling,’ ‘There just is never enough time in the day,’ or the best: ‘I was just thinking of you.’ Presumptuously I find my solution to be the best. It is best not to saunter over, or approach the corresponding party – even if they have noticed you. Do not linger too long, in such a shared presence; and it is high recommended to depart before recognition takes hold or immediately after. Still the hardest aspect about moving forward is the changing landscape. Where childhood hide ways are torn down or ripped out. Family homes sold. These are the most wistful and melancholic realizations that one’s own past, is slowly being erased, by time and age. This all becomes quite prickly and problematic, when one searches their own past; for hints and inclinations of their character, or who they are. Vantage points are removed. Decrepit landmarks torn down. Former allies of a shared past, departed and never heard from again. The names of residencies change. Suddenly the familiar becomes foreign.
Patrick Modiano, who became the two-thousand and fourteen Nobel Laureate in Literature, has been hailed, as an archival cartographer of faded memories, destroyed histories, and the continual search for identity in a world inadvertently afflicted with amnesia. It would seem that only from the past, do we begin to understand our present situations. As Proustian as this may sound, and as foreboding as it may appear; Modiano is not a writer of complicated sentence structures. Patrick Modiano is quite the opposite (despite ironically the compassions to Proust), Modiano’s prose is lucid and deceptively simple. His work is matter of fact, clipped of poetics, has no remnants of postmodernism to his work. Modiano’s work is not interested in literary gimmicks and word play for the sake of word play; as it is far more concerned with its genuine preoccupations with the past, and the personal sense of identity loss and crisis. However, one should not mistake Patrick Modiano, as a writer of simple drug store novels. One should never confuse lucid, with formulated simplicity; or length with complexities or lack thereof. Patrick Modiano’s work is complex in the minimal. His novels are short, elusive and ethereal. The authors novels, are wrapped in a gossamer like gauze, narrated by narrators, who begin their searches into a past, that has all but faded, or been neglected into depletion and decrepit disrepair; or by outsider narrators, who try to understand the pasts of others, who they meet by chance meetings. Such characters exclaim or evade, attempts at inquiring in their pasts; as if somehow they never had a past, and they had always existed in a perpetual purgatory of the present; despite the haunting inclinations of the past, of abrupt departures and unanswered questions. The novels themselves are autumnal in the present – vague attempts at remembering the fleeting instant scents of spring, in a world presently on fire around them, with the oblivion seeping in through the cracks of fraying leaves. Modiano himself has stated that he appears to continue to write the same book over and over again – or to go a step further in many critical claims: each new novel is a new chapter, in a larger novel as a whole.
“Out of The Dark,” is what one might call a typical Modano-esque novel. It is written in the moody dream like inconsequential prose of the author. The plot concerns a couple of drifters in their youth, and their own flotsam or jetsam attitude towards life; they come in with the tide, and depart with the wave; and the short affair that sprouted, in the intermission between the chance arrival and the abrupt departures. The novel is narrated by a man (a writer), who searches the past, for an inclination or a spark that may have existed; or may simply reside in a space, in which we choose that it does. This is the shadow play of memory; and Modiano’s work: the shadow space of the past, of what is remembered and what had happened. This leads to the dream like quality of the prose.
The plot of “Out of the Dark,” is created by a chance encounter. A young man aimless, living on off of the money he can earn by selling off his art books, to bookstores. Then by chance he meets a couple, in a cafe playing pinball, and their worlds intertwine with one another. The young couple’s lives are equally unstable, as they make a living off of gambling; more specifically roulette. Yet the world of this couple, and the world the narrator finds himself equally invested in, is a world of dreams and far flung thoughts – and no plan on how to achieve it. Jacqueline the woman, is aloof, cold and distant (much like the ether in a blue bottle) – dreams along with her ‘boyfriend,’ Gerard, to move to Majorca where an American writer friend resides. However the plan on how to get there, and foresight into such a venture, is left in the ambiguous gambles of chance, luck, and fate. Yet the narrator finds himself, more embezzled in the dream of the youthful sense of word: Drapetomania – what exactly has caused the urge, the inclination – to seek greener fields and pastures, it never elucidated upon any further. Yet when the plan is set in motion, complications arise, by the Modiano departure; an understated abrupt closing of the door. A door that is never re-opened, nor located – though attempts to locate, unlock and walk through, to find the answers create the entire novel. Such are the existential-noirs of Patrick Modiano.
When the Swedish Academy Awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature to Patrick Modiano, they had introduced or rather re-introduced a great writer, to the world. Patrick Modiano is an accessible writer, but beyond the lucidity of his prose, there is no luminous quality to the secrets, they attempt to uncover. Modiano is an approachable writer, and is a writer that can be read and enjoyed. But is by no means a beach read. Modiano is a writer, who is best saved for rainy days, when they chores can be procrastinated for another day; his work is equally grey and blue as the sky and the rain. From the point of the forgotten or what has been forgotten, Modiano has revisited, and cast light upon, a world that at times lacks qualities other than the time that it was in.
“We had no real qualities, except the one that youth gives to everyone for a very brief time, like a vague promise that will never be kept.”
That is perhaps the greatest summary of youth in its entirety, and subsequently the novel.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 23 July 2015
Friday, 10 July 2015
Happy Birthday Alice Munro
Hello Gentle Reader
Alice Munro has just turned eighty four. It may have gone unnoticed, if it were not for the news. Canada Post announced that it would be issuing, a postage stamp commemorating the Nobel Laureate and master of the short story. A beautiful gift to go along with her silver mint coin, issued last march, by the Canadian mint.
Happy Birthday Alice Munro! May it be a wonderful one, filled with champagne and cake; which, you can not only have but eat too!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Reader
M. Mary
Alice Munro has just turned eighty four. It may have gone unnoticed, if it were not for the news. Canada Post announced that it would be issuing, a postage stamp commemorating the Nobel Laureate and master of the short story. A beautiful gift to go along with her silver mint coin, issued last march, by the Canadian mint.
Happy Birthday Alice Munro! May it be a wonderful one, filled with champagne and cake; which, you can not only have but eat too!
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Reader
M. Mary
Thursday, 9 July 2015
Man Booker and Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Merge
Hello Gentle Reader
Whether one likes it or not, the “Man Booker International,” Prize and the “Independent Foreign Fiction Prize,” have reconfigured and merged. The two awards have merged, under the current “Man Booker International Award,” name. However instead of the award being awarded, biannually, it will not be awarded, on an annual basis to a work of translated literary fiction. As Jonathan Taylor the chair of Man Booker Foundation stated, the “Man Booker International,” prize had lost momentum over the years, it was not awarded (as the award was a biannual award); but also that it was a bit confusing, that it was awarded to a life time body of work. However the “Man Booker International Prize,” was less fascinating and less international, than one would suspect. All of the winners were well known figures in its short ten year history. The first winner was the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare, followed by the Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe; two-thousand and thirteen Nobel Laureate and Canadian Alice Munro, then two American writers Philip Roth and Lydia Davis, and ending with László Krasznahorkai. Only three of the authors, where from countries not of English dominance (Albania, Nigeria and Hungary); while the other four, are considered giants in the English language. Anything of an international appeal was severely lacking. The “Man Booker International,” Prize was an in a sense an attempt at rivaling the Nobel Prize for Literature. However, this dream was not achieved. Personally, I think it considerably lacked any imagination and creativity in looking beyond the reigning globalized language frontier. This led to the award going to more popular and well known writers, and painfully going to two American writers in a period of four years. It became apparent, that the award lacked an international flare and feel.
On the flipside the “Independent Foreign Fiction,” prize promoted translated literature in English. There was no dominance of country or language for the award. Recipients of the award included but not limited to: Orhan Pamuk, Jose Saramago (both future Nobel Laureates) Gerbrand Bakker, W.G. Sebald and Jenny Erpenbeck. The award acknowledged both writers, and translators – as writer and translator, would share the prize money.
Now the two awards have merged together. This will hopefully create a strong award that seeks to promote translations of foreign works of fiction into English. As it stands only three percent of books published in the English language are of another language. Jonathan Taylor himself has stated:
“[. . .] We very much hope that this reconfiguration of the prize will encourage a greater interest and investment in translation.”
For more information onto the reconfigured award, please follow the link below:
http://www.thebookseller.com/news/man-booker-306625
Personally Gentle Reader, I hope this new reconfiguration will help translated fiction become more apparent in publishing in the English language, and that prominent international names, will share the stage with writers of more obscurity, and yet with great talent.
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
Whether one likes it or not, the “Man Booker International,” Prize and the “Independent Foreign Fiction Prize,” have reconfigured and merged. The two awards have merged, under the current “Man Booker International Award,” name. However instead of the award being awarded, biannually, it will not be awarded, on an annual basis to a work of translated literary fiction. As Jonathan Taylor the chair of Man Booker Foundation stated, the “Man Booker International,” prize had lost momentum over the years, it was not awarded (as the award was a biannual award); but also that it was a bit confusing, that it was awarded to a life time body of work. However the “Man Booker International Prize,” was less fascinating and less international, than one would suspect. All of the winners were well known figures in its short ten year history. The first winner was the Albanian writer Ismail Kadare, followed by the Nigerian writer Chinua Achebe; two-thousand and thirteen Nobel Laureate and Canadian Alice Munro, then two American writers Philip Roth and Lydia Davis, and ending with László Krasznahorkai. Only three of the authors, where from countries not of English dominance (Albania, Nigeria and Hungary); while the other four, are considered giants in the English language. Anything of an international appeal was severely lacking. The “Man Booker International,” Prize was an in a sense an attempt at rivaling the Nobel Prize for Literature. However, this dream was not achieved. Personally, I think it considerably lacked any imagination and creativity in looking beyond the reigning globalized language frontier. This led to the award going to more popular and well known writers, and painfully going to two American writers in a period of four years. It became apparent, that the award lacked an international flare and feel.
On the flipside the “Independent Foreign Fiction,” prize promoted translated literature in English. There was no dominance of country or language for the award. Recipients of the award included but not limited to: Orhan Pamuk, Jose Saramago (both future Nobel Laureates) Gerbrand Bakker, W.G. Sebald and Jenny Erpenbeck. The award acknowledged both writers, and translators – as writer and translator, would share the prize money.
Now the two awards have merged together. This will hopefully create a strong award that seeks to promote translations of foreign works of fiction into English. As it stands only three percent of books published in the English language are of another language. Jonathan Taylor himself has stated:
“[. . .] We very much hope that this reconfiguration of the prize will encourage a greater interest and investment in translation.”
For more information onto the reconfigured award, please follow the link below:
http://www.thebookseller.com/news/man-booker-306625
Personally Gentle Reader, I hope this new reconfiguration will help translated fiction become more apparent in publishing in the English language, and that prominent international names, will share the stage with writers of more obscurity, and yet with great talent.
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, 2 July 2015
Rain Over Madrid
Hello Gentle Reader
It was thanks to “Three Percent Review,” and their comprehensive translation database, where new translated books that are appearing in English in that corresponding year are listed and documented; that I had discovered Andrés Barba, and his collection of four novella’s that comprise the book “Rain Over Madrid.” I’ve always loved the novella as a literary form; it has the conciseness of the short story; but the length of a short novel. However the novella is not entirely segregated into some literary ghetto based on the judgment of length. Where short stories, balance between poetry and prose at times; the novella must dance between the lines of being referred to as a short story – more specifically a long short story; or that of a want to be novel – more concisely an underdeveloped novel. Novella’s at times are mistakenly referred to as practice literary forms – like the short story; they are considered one of those unfortunate stepping stones, in which novice writers are to experiment with and develop in preparation of their: ‘great novel.’ However, in my experience many short stories and novellas have surpassed their counterparts; which have a tendency to become over wrought, and have filled the medium with a bombardment of information and or useless facts, that at one point intrigues the reader, but slowly make the pages become a mountain of tedious words, in which the reader must climb in order to (hopefully) reach some resolution, or revelation. Slim in literary forms does not mean, ambiguous or obscure – nor does it mean minimalist. It is true however, that most slim literary genres do insinuate, and implicate information, without directly stating it; and their works become snap shots almost – but the lengths have proven to be deceptive in their ability to deal with the concept of passage of time – back and forth again – or forward and onwards; the form has proven it has the ability to play with the concept of time and memory, that was once reserved for only novels. If the novella or short story is to teach their gluttonous and esteemed cousin a lesson in literary quality it would be: sometimes less is more.
Andrés Barba has been hailed as one of the greatest young Spanish writers, emerging in Spain today. Though the literary power and market for Spanish literature has shifted away from the Spanish epicenter of the European country, to its former colonies in South America; Spain is still known for producing some great writers – among them the contemporaries Javier Marias and Enrique Vila-Matas – both considered Nobel laureate contenders in Literature. Andrés Barba is a rising star in Spanish literature. At the age of only thirty five years old, Barba has produced a steady portfolio, of literary works which includes novels, short stories, children’s books, and a book of essays. Barba is also known for his photographic endeavors. To boot this jack of all trades writer he is also a journalist. Recently (and by that I mean two-thousand and ten) Andrés Barba had been named one of Granta’s best young writers in the Spanish language.
In “Rain Over Madrid,” Andrés Barba deals with relationships and the complexities and dynamics of each relationship, that as human beings we form with our fellow human beings. They are maternal relationships; sexual relationships; romantic relationships, and sibling relationships. Each one has its own set code of conduct, in some unwritten book, which details the actions and appropriate way to hold oneself in such circumstances. For Barba’s characters however, relationships become both a longing desire and an eventual prison. Yet his characters are introverted and in a sense alone or drifting in the world, seek out the warmth of another human being, and the desire for human contact; and at times are repulsed by the sudden jolt or burn that they acquire from having finally obtained that connection. Barba’s style is casual, cool and calm. His prose is laconic to a degree, with moments that strike the reader, as a fine tuned sentence. Yet for the most part, Barba tosses aside overt verbose language and pomposity, to ensure his work is welcoming for readers, but also rewarding.
The novellas of “Rain Over Madrid,” take on an almost seasonal change with each new novella. The first novella “Fatherhood,” has the appearance of being racked in the green light of spring; and the drifting white orbs of pollen, that dance in the sunlight of the street. The story itself concerns a semi-successful musician, and his eventual impregnation of a young woman. Who turns out to come from a very wealthy family. The story focuses on the new fathers attempt at breaking past the barriers set up by the mother of their child, and to form some kind of connection with his estranged young son. Early on, there are obvious traces and insulations that the main character – the father; suffers a difficult and complicated relationship with his, own mother, which stems from her own attempt to reach a social standing or wealthy status, by exploiting him as a child in advertisement for television. Could this explain the characters views of sex being simple sexual conquest – an almost symbolic revenge upon his own mother; an exertion if one were to be so bold; of control over another being simply through the sexual act, and emotional devastation, of any sexual relationship to be purely meaningless and physical. The act itself is rendered to mere capitulation of another human being to whims of another, simply by physical attraction, devoid of any romantic interest – and if any are there, they are quickly abandoned for the abrupt realities. When the tables are soon turned, it becomes fascinating that the father is unable to deal with the loss of his own control; and that when his son his born, his attempts at bonding come under strict regulations and procedures dictated by politeness. The situation is not in his control. He must play by the rules of another; in a game where sex is no longer the sole tool for conquest.
The same formula is used in the novella ‘Fidelity,” which is brimming to the pages ends, with sexual depictions. Sex here is rendered down to mechanical copulation; where Marina is able to use it as both a tool of primal pleasure – something which has been hardwired into her instinctually; but also as a cruel game of control to the point where sex is both release of frustrations and rage; but also an act that deviates on voyeuristic perversion – as if a willingness to be caught in the act that is both natural, and yet somehow shameful. What changes for Marina is catching her father, with another woman; and her own realization, that much like her own secret sex life – or rather her budding one; her father has fallen into his own instinctually hardwired primal urges, and seeks his own releases via other alternatives. Her summer gets a fresh sour reality, realizing that her father partakes in the same cardinal activity that she does. Where hers comes into being a form of rebellion; an act of aggression against her own established order, she becomes complacent in her own fathers fidelity, by not speaking of the matter, but comes to understand the tension between both her mother and her father; and even showcase empathy for the girl that her father abruptly shatters with his end of the affair.
“Guile,” and “Shopping,” details two women and their complicated relationships with their mothers. The first novella “Guile,” shows how the unpopular daughter, takes the time, to assist her ailing mother in finding once again a new live in caregiver. A task which has fallen into routine, with acerbic remarks made; vitriolic observations being duly noted, and sarcastic accusations thrown about. This novella shows how convenient obligations becomes, a breeding ground for resentment, bitterness and general malaise and misery. Yet their comes hope in the form of a young caretaker from Colombia and her own uprooted life, becomes the breath of fresh air in a room stale with old age, and words that have been used as weapons. This new young and exotic caregiver becomes part of the daily humdrum and routine but also offers that much needed human contact – a foreign kind of human connection for the character of this novella. The caregiver become a buffer between mother and daughter, and offers a distance between the two physically, despite the chasm that has grown between the two over the years. The sentence “You never really new me,” lingers still in my mind – an accusation that is filled with criticism that does not cut the skin; but rather sinks and festers deep inside; like a cherry pit in the earth, trying to sprout.
As the seasons change, the season of winter arrives on Madrid, and so ends the collection with the novella “Shopping.”
“Shopping,” once again showcases the complicated relationship between mother and daughter, in a different light. This time the main character is left in the shadow of her mother, and the devastation in which her air of luxury, vanity, and selfishness has sowed throughout her life, and which Nelly; the mother, is all but completely oblivious too. If one were to bring the magnificent Nelly to task, on the destruction left in her wake, she would flip the accusation on to the prosecutor and skirt the fact, that she had anything to do with the shattered remains which trail behind her. The character does her best to become comfortable in her own body, but the prospect of meeting Nelly always once again shatters her own self-confidence, and her own comfort within her own skin. Yet the cracks of Nelly’s superficiality are quickly noted in the banal moment of Nelly buying a dress. This simple transaction becomes a moment of tension, between tyrannical mother who demands and expects praise; and the emotionally stunted daughter who feels obligated to offer praise. A simple dress, which in Nelly’s eyes becomes desire – and the realities contradict this desire; showcases her own selfishness. In the act that she buys the dress knowing full well that she won’t wear it. This frustration becomes a point of contention for Nelly who will not listen to the praise and demands her daughter wait outside for her. In this sense Nelly truly is natural in the cacophonous ways of a typhoon. When the two women, witness the apprehension of a shoplifter by a retail clerk, an empathetic connection is formed between the character and the perpetrator of the act of stealing. The prosecution she witnesses and the attempt at fleeing, mimic her own relationship with her own mother: a mixture of masochistic adoration, and attempts at flawed rebellion.
“She is thirty years old and she’s done nothing with her life—study business, spend two years living in Paris, take care of Papá, adore Nelly, spurn Nelly, try to live as though Nelly didn’t exist, forget about her, even. The secrets, frustrations, and accomplishments of a poor little rich girl, a spoiled child.”
Andrés Barba’s collection of novellas, are existential and showcase the complexities of human relationships. Barba’s characters are alienated and troubled by memories, by tyrannical relationships, by secrets and knowledge. Repression and guilt run through these novellas, as the motifs that keep the characters stuck in their limbo. They are haunted, they are stunned, they are in able to communicate, and break the boundaries that separate them. Barba’s writing style in these novellas is calm, collective and easy for most readers to become rather acquainted with. The day to day living becomes a crisis of the soul and the mind. Daily transactions become existential catastrophes. Yet the novella shows how the characters, come to comprehend or at least recognize and be aware of the lives of others; no matter how unconnected or different from another, there is to a degree an understanding that everyone is equally as aimless and confused about how to live or what is life – some just know how to bluff by better.
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
It was thanks to “Three Percent Review,” and their comprehensive translation database, where new translated books that are appearing in English in that corresponding year are listed and documented; that I had discovered Andrés Barba, and his collection of four novella’s that comprise the book “Rain Over Madrid.” I’ve always loved the novella as a literary form; it has the conciseness of the short story; but the length of a short novel. However the novella is not entirely segregated into some literary ghetto based on the judgment of length. Where short stories, balance between poetry and prose at times; the novella must dance between the lines of being referred to as a short story – more specifically a long short story; or that of a want to be novel – more concisely an underdeveloped novel. Novella’s at times are mistakenly referred to as practice literary forms – like the short story; they are considered one of those unfortunate stepping stones, in which novice writers are to experiment with and develop in preparation of their: ‘great novel.’ However, in my experience many short stories and novellas have surpassed their counterparts; which have a tendency to become over wrought, and have filled the medium with a bombardment of information and or useless facts, that at one point intrigues the reader, but slowly make the pages become a mountain of tedious words, in which the reader must climb in order to (hopefully) reach some resolution, or revelation. Slim in literary forms does not mean, ambiguous or obscure – nor does it mean minimalist. It is true however, that most slim literary genres do insinuate, and implicate information, without directly stating it; and their works become snap shots almost – but the lengths have proven to be deceptive in their ability to deal with the concept of passage of time – back and forth again – or forward and onwards; the form has proven it has the ability to play with the concept of time and memory, that was once reserved for only novels. If the novella or short story is to teach their gluttonous and esteemed cousin a lesson in literary quality it would be: sometimes less is more.
Andrés Barba has been hailed as one of the greatest young Spanish writers, emerging in Spain today. Though the literary power and market for Spanish literature has shifted away from the Spanish epicenter of the European country, to its former colonies in South America; Spain is still known for producing some great writers – among them the contemporaries Javier Marias and Enrique Vila-Matas – both considered Nobel laureate contenders in Literature. Andrés Barba is a rising star in Spanish literature. At the age of only thirty five years old, Barba has produced a steady portfolio, of literary works which includes novels, short stories, children’s books, and a book of essays. Barba is also known for his photographic endeavors. To boot this jack of all trades writer he is also a journalist. Recently (and by that I mean two-thousand and ten) Andrés Barba had been named one of Granta’s best young writers in the Spanish language.
In “Rain Over Madrid,” Andrés Barba deals with relationships and the complexities and dynamics of each relationship, that as human beings we form with our fellow human beings. They are maternal relationships; sexual relationships; romantic relationships, and sibling relationships. Each one has its own set code of conduct, in some unwritten book, which details the actions and appropriate way to hold oneself in such circumstances. For Barba’s characters however, relationships become both a longing desire and an eventual prison. Yet his characters are introverted and in a sense alone or drifting in the world, seek out the warmth of another human being, and the desire for human contact; and at times are repulsed by the sudden jolt or burn that they acquire from having finally obtained that connection. Barba’s style is casual, cool and calm. His prose is laconic to a degree, with moments that strike the reader, as a fine tuned sentence. Yet for the most part, Barba tosses aside overt verbose language and pomposity, to ensure his work is welcoming for readers, but also rewarding.
The novellas of “Rain Over Madrid,” take on an almost seasonal change with each new novella. The first novella “Fatherhood,” has the appearance of being racked in the green light of spring; and the drifting white orbs of pollen, that dance in the sunlight of the street. The story itself concerns a semi-successful musician, and his eventual impregnation of a young woman. Who turns out to come from a very wealthy family. The story focuses on the new fathers attempt at breaking past the barriers set up by the mother of their child, and to form some kind of connection with his estranged young son. Early on, there are obvious traces and insulations that the main character – the father; suffers a difficult and complicated relationship with his, own mother, which stems from her own attempt to reach a social standing or wealthy status, by exploiting him as a child in advertisement for television. Could this explain the characters views of sex being simple sexual conquest – an almost symbolic revenge upon his own mother; an exertion if one were to be so bold; of control over another being simply through the sexual act, and emotional devastation, of any sexual relationship to be purely meaningless and physical. The act itself is rendered to mere capitulation of another human being to whims of another, simply by physical attraction, devoid of any romantic interest – and if any are there, they are quickly abandoned for the abrupt realities. When the tables are soon turned, it becomes fascinating that the father is unable to deal with the loss of his own control; and that when his son his born, his attempts at bonding come under strict regulations and procedures dictated by politeness. The situation is not in his control. He must play by the rules of another; in a game where sex is no longer the sole tool for conquest.
The same formula is used in the novella ‘Fidelity,” which is brimming to the pages ends, with sexual depictions. Sex here is rendered down to mechanical copulation; where Marina is able to use it as both a tool of primal pleasure – something which has been hardwired into her instinctually; but also as a cruel game of control to the point where sex is both release of frustrations and rage; but also an act that deviates on voyeuristic perversion – as if a willingness to be caught in the act that is both natural, and yet somehow shameful. What changes for Marina is catching her father, with another woman; and her own realization, that much like her own secret sex life – or rather her budding one; her father has fallen into his own instinctually hardwired primal urges, and seeks his own releases via other alternatives. Her summer gets a fresh sour reality, realizing that her father partakes in the same cardinal activity that she does. Where hers comes into being a form of rebellion; an act of aggression against her own established order, she becomes complacent in her own fathers fidelity, by not speaking of the matter, but comes to understand the tension between both her mother and her father; and even showcase empathy for the girl that her father abruptly shatters with his end of the affair.
“Guile,” and “Shopping,” details two women and their complicated relationships with their mothers. The first novella “Guile,” shows how the unpopular daughter, takes the time, to assist her ailing mother in finding once again a new live in caregiver. A task which has fallen into routine, with acerbic remarks made; vitriolic observations being duly noted, and sarcastic accusations thrown about. This novella shows how convenient obligations becomes, a breeding ground for resentment, bitterness and general malaise and misery. Yet their comes hope in the form of a young caretaker from Colombia and her own uprooted life, becomes the breath of fresh air in a room stale with old age, and words that have been used as weapons. This new young and exotic caregiver becomes part of the daily humdrum and routine but also offers that much needed human contact – a foreign kind of human connection for the character of this novella. The caregiver become a buffer between mother and daughter, and offers a distance between the two physically, despite the chasm that has grown between the two over the years. The sentence “You never really new me,” lingers still in my mind – an accusation that is filled with criticism that does not cut the skin; but rather sinks and festers deep inside; like a cherry pit in the earth, trying to sprout.
As the seasons change, the season of winter arrives on Madrid, and so ends the collection with the novella “Shopping.”
“Shopping,” once again showcases the complicated relationship between mother and daughter, in a different light. This time the main character is left in the shadow of her mother, and the devastation in which her air of luxury, vanity, and selfishness has sowed throughout her life, and which Nelly; the mother, is all but completely oblivious too. If one were to bring the magnificent Nelly to task, on the destruction left in her wake, she would flip the accusation on to the prosecutor and skirt the fact, that she had anything to do with the shattered remains which trail behind her. The character does her best to become comfortable in her own body, but the prospect of meeting Nelly always once again shatters her own self-confidence, and her own comfort within her own skin. Yet the cracks of Nelly’s superficiality are quickly noted in the banal moment of Nelly buying a dress. This simple transaction becomes a moment of tension, between tyrannical mother who demands and expects praise; and the emotionally stunted daughter who feels obligated to offer praise. A simple dress, which in Nelly’s eyes becomes desire – and the realities contradict this desire; showcases her own selfishness. In the act that she buys the dress knowing full well that she won’t wear it. This frustration becomes a point of contention for Nelly who will not listen to the praise and demands her daughter wait outside for her. In this sense Nelly truly is natural in the cacophonous ways of a typhoon. When the two women, witness the apprehension of a shoplifter by a retail clerk, an empathetic connection is formed between the character and the perpetrator of the act of stealing. The prosecution she witnesses and the attempt at fleeing, mimic her own relationship with her own mother: a mixture of masochistic adoration, and attempts at flawed rebellion.
“She is thirty years old and she’s done nothing with her life—study business, spend two years living in Paris, take care of Papá, adore Nelly, spurn Nelly, try to live as though Nelly didn’t exist, forget about her, even. The secrets, frustrations, and accomplishments of a poor little rich girl, a spoiled child.”
Andrés Barba’s collection of novellas, are existential and showcase the complexities of human relationships. Barba’s characters are alienated and troubled by memories, by tyrannical relationships, by secrets and knowledge. Repression and guilt run through these novellas, as the motifs that keep the characters stuck in their limbo. They are haunted, they are stunned, they are in able to communicate, and break the boundaries that separate them. Barba’s writing style in these novellas is calm, collective and easy for most readers to become rather acquainted with. The day to day living becomes a crisis of the soul and the mind. Daily transactions become existential catastrophes. Yet the novella shows how the characters, come to comprehend or at least recognize and be aware of the lives of others; no matter how unconnected or different from another, there is to a degree an understanding that everyone is equally as aimless and confused about how to live or what is life – some just know how to bluff by better.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Monday, 22 June 2015
The Camões Prize 2015 – Winner
Hello Gentle Reader
The Camões Prize is the most lucrative and most prestigious Portuguese language literary prizes; with a prize amount at one hundred thousand Euros. Since its inception in Nineteen-eighty nine, the Prize has honored many renowned Portuguese language writers including: Jose Saramago Sophia del Mello Breyner, and Mia Couto. Last year’s winner was Alberto da Costa e Silva a Brazilian poet, historian and former diplomat. This year’s winner is Helia Correia, a Portuguese novelist, poet and playwright. Helia Correia father was a anti-fascist, and was taken by Salazar’s regime; for most of her life Correia lived under the fascist dictatorship of Salazar. She studied Romance Philology in University and was a high school teacher; publishing her poems in early periodicals and magazines before writing her first novel in Nineteen-eighty one. Helia Correia has also reinterpreted Greek myths and turned them into theatrical performances – generally the new revisions are the women’s perspective of the myth. Being one of Portugal’s most renowned writers, Correia is not known in English or translated either. However hopefully the prize will change that.
Congratulations to Helia Correia
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 Camões Prize is the most lucrative and most prestigious Portuguese language literary prizes; with a prize amount at one hundred thousand Euros. Since its inception in Nineteen-eighty nine, the Prize has honored many renowned Portuguese language writers including: Jose Saramago Sophia del Mello Breyner, and Mia Couto. Last year’s winner was Alberto da Costa e Silva a Brazilian poet, historian and former diplomat. This year’s winner is Helia Correia, a Portuguese novelist, poet and playwright. Helia Correia father was a anti-fascist, and was taken by Salazar’s regime; for most of her life Correia lived under the fascist dictatorship of Salazar. She studied Romance Philology in University and was a high school teacher; publishing her poems in early periodicals and magazines before writing her first novel in Nineteen-eighty one. Helia Correia has also reinterpreted Greek myths and turned them into theatrical performances – generally the new revisions are the women’s perspective of the myth. Being one of Portugal’s most renowned writers, Correia is not known in English or translated either. However hopefully the prize will change that.
Congratulations to Helia Correia
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
Simon Armitage – Wins Oxford Poetry Professor Election
Hello Gentle Reader
The Oxford Poetry Professorship is a unique academic appointed position. The elected incumbent will hold the part-time professorship for one term consisting of five years. The chair itself was created in 1708 and since its inception has held forty-five appointee’s to its chair: including: W.H. Auden, Robert Graves, and Seamus Heany. However as of late, the position has been embroiled in electoral scandals. The first scandal was in two-thousand and nine with Derek Walcott and Ruth Padel. During the electoral process photocopied pages from a university publication by the name of “The Lecherous Professor,” had been given to some Oxford academics; the photocopied pages included articles on sexual harassment in American Universities, and two cases that were laid against one of the runners for the chair: Nobel Laureate and esteemed poet Derek Walcott. However Walcott’s nomination for the position was controversial from the start; with consideration to his university teaching years. Ruth Padel was immediately put under fire and scrutiny in regards to the letter campaign and that had smeared Derek Walcott forcing him to bow out of the elections. Padel states innocence to the letter campaign, but e-mails the poetess sent to a journalist, later fell into the grasp of the wider media, and soon a bitter divide erupted over Padel’s eventual electoral win, which ended in her resignation, nine days after holding the position. Padel remains the only woman (however brief) in the positions three-hundred and seven years to have held the position. A new election was held and Geoffrey Hill was named the new incoming incumbent for the chair.
On June 19th, Simon Armitage had been announced as the winner of this year’s electoral campaign. However the election itself had, its own moments of fiery criticism; which centered around another Nobel Laureate nominated for the position: Wole Soyinka. First came speculation that Soyinka himself was this time more concerning his age; from his previous supporter Melvyn Bragg who worried that Soyinka would not “bother to come to Oxford,” if he were appointed and continued: “Soyinka is a grand man … I also query his age.” And sparks flew. Soyinka later rebuttal with: “How curious that anyone would even speculate that I would allow busy and committed people - friends, colleagues and total strangers - to waste their time nominating and campaigning on my behalf for such a prestigious position if I were not serious about contesting.” Soon divides were drawn, and Soyinka’s supporters coming to the authors defense, over such queries. However the election was finished and Simon Armitage was the elected incumbent over Wole Soyinka. Even now though there is still an aftershock setting in, and many have already blamed the British Press and its (alleged) sabotage of Soyinka, for his failure to receive the chair position. Many have lamented that without Soyinka on the position it is a great loss, to the chair and to the University. Wole Soyinka however has accepted defeat graciously, thanking his many supporters who campaigned on his behalf, and Lucy Newlyn who was his most adamant supporter.
However congratulations to Simon Armitage. Here’s hoping the future elections will not be so lost in squabbles over who deserves it or not. It appears that many thought Armitage would be a great appointee to the chair, and hopefully his five year term is graced with less smaller issues, and the main focus attributed towards poetry and its loosening grip on the contemporary world in the twenty-first century, as well as its slow slip into oblivion.
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 Oxford Poetry Professorship is a unique academic appointed position. The elected incumbent will hold the part-time professorship for one term consisting of five years. The chair itself was created in 1708 and since its inception has held forty-five appointee’s to its chair: including: W.H. Auden, Robert Graves, and Seamus Heany. However as of late, the position has been embroiled in electoral scandals. The first scandal was in two-thousand and nine with Derek Walcott and Ruth Padel. During the electoral process photocopied pages from a university publication by the name of “The Lecherous Professor,” had been given to some Oxford academics; the photocopied pages included articles on sexual harassment in American Universities, and two cases that were laid against one of the runners for the chair: Nobel Laureate and esteemed poet Derek Walcott. However Walcott’s nomination for the position was controversial from the start; with consideration to his university teaching years. Ruth Padel was immediately put under fire and scrutiny in regards to the letter campaign and that had smeared Derek Walcott forcing him to bow out of the elections. Padel states innocence to the letter campaign, but e-mails the poetess sent to a journalist, later fell into the grasp of the wider media, and soon a bitter divide erupted over Padel’s eventual electoral win, which ended in her resignation, nine days after holding the position. Padel remains the only woman (however brief) in the positions three-hundred and seven years to have held the position. A new election was held and Geoffrey Hill was named the new incoming incumbent for the chair.
On June 19th, Simon Armitage had been announced as the winner of this year’s electoral campaign. However the election itself had, its own moments of fiery criticism; which centered around another Nobel Laureate nominated for the position: Wole Soyinka. First came speculation that Soyinka himself was this time more concerning his age; from his previous supporter Melvyn Bragg who worried that Soyinka would not “bother to come to Oxford,” if he were appointed and continued: “Soyinka is a grand man … I also query his age.” And sparks flew. Soyinka later rebuttal with: “How curious that anyone would even speculate that I would allow busy and committed people - friends, colleagues and total strangers - to waste their time nominating and campaigning on my behalf for such a prestigious position if I were not serious about contesting.” Soon divides were drawn, and Soyinka’s supporters coming to the authors defense, over such queries. However the election was finished and Simon Armitage was the elected incumbent over Wole Soyinka. Even now though there is still an aftershock setting in, and many have already blamed the British Press and its (alleged) sabotage of Soyinka, for his failure to receive the chair position. Many have lamented that without Soyinka on the position it is a great loss, to the chair and to the University. Wole Soyinka however has accepted defeat graciously, thanking his many supporters who campaigned on his behalf, and Lucy Newlyn who was his most adamant supporter.
However congratulations to Simon Armitage. Here’s hoping the future elections will not be so lost in squabbles over who deserves it or not. It appears that many thought Armitage would be a great appointee to the chair, and hopefully his five year term is graced with less smaller issues, and the main focus attributed towards poetry and its loosening grip on the contemporary world in the twenty-first century, as well as its slow slip into oblivion.
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
IMPAC Literary Dublin Award Winner
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
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
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
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