Finnish Finds

Hello Gentle Reader

The Finnish language is esoteric, both literally and figuratively. In the linguistic physical sense, the language has only two other languages in the world, which are considered its relatives: Estonian (and its neighbour) and Hungarian. Finnish is the language of dreams, spells, enchantments and incantations; it’s a language of divination. The sound of the Finnish language itself continues to propagate such mystical thoughts of its people, who come from a land of forests and frost. To further show this point one need only look at the following sentence in English and the uniqueness of its Finnish equivalent:

[ English ] “Koko (name), gather the whole kokko (midsummer fire)! The whole kokko? The whole kokko.”

[ Finnish ] “Koko (nimi ), koota koko kokko ( juhannus tulipalo ) ! Koko Kokko ? Koko Kokko.”

Though the translation presented above is from google translate, it does give a unique idea of the complexities and morphology of the Finnish language. The Finnish language is known to chance its word meaning based on syntactical structure. Listening to the Finnish language spoken is equally a unique, with its shift in tone, sounds and vocalisations; though deciphering where a period is used, to signify the end of a sentence, is a challenge at times.

The challenges of the Finnish language are why it is so underappreciated and under translated, to the English language. Thankfully though, some works of Finnish have found themselves translated into English, via anthologies, short story collections, and of course novels. But to see an author’s entire oeuvre in the English language is much harder to find. Yet again the eclectic reader will always be able to find a sample of a Finnish writer’s work somewhere, in some obscure anthology or magazine.

The anthology in which I personally own is “The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy.” The anthology is unique as its collected samples and stories, range from the contemporary to the twentieth century all the way to the nineteenth century. The editor of the anthology Johanna Sinisalo wrote a wonderful introduction to the anthology, by first and foremost discussing the historical landscape of the Finnish language, and how its first written word, is by most historical grand societies rather juvenile in contrast, to the grand literary traditions of England, France, Germany or Russia. Yet as Sinisalo points out in her introduction, the Finnish culture had a strong oral tradition of storytelling and poetry, before anything was being transcribed or scribbled on paper. Yet since then Finnish literary culture has been unique, often falling between the traditions of the nineteenth century realist novel, the twentieth century existentialist novel, and now the emergence of greater questions of identity, privacy and the concepts of reality as science and technology takes us further and further into what we would have once thought an impossible future.

The now defunct “Books from Finland,” is perhaps the greatest resource if anyone is interested in Finnish literature. There is a wealth of articles, stories, poems, samples of novels, and essay as well as interviews, which will a reader entertained for hours, as they excavate the archives of the site, and become acquainted with new and exciting writers. “Books from Finland,” has (and continues to) been a resource which has yet to have been exhausted. To this day my e-mail archive is still filled with links to articles, titles and authors, in which I have yet to fully research, read, and enjoy. One of these days I will get around to that task, and read the work of each of those writers and come to appreciate each of those writers, and dream of the day in which I can finally own their work in English translation, and carry them with me in their full novel format or short story collection, and even perhaps the odd poetry collection here and there.

Now Finnish literature is not entirely out of the English language perspective when it comes to translation. There have been a few Finnish writers who have come to have great success in the English language. The most recent and well known writer to have had received that success is Sofi Oksanen, who is also considered a global literary phenomena. However, Oksanen’s subject matter, deal with Finland’s cousin: Estonia, specifically under the Soviet Union. In this sense Oksana is not entirely a Finnish writer in her subject matter, but discusses the complex and tragic history of Estonia. Oksanen achieved great critical acclaim with her novel “Purge,” a novel that traced the lives of two sisters who went separate ways during the occupation of Estonia by Soviet Forces and ideology, but also of the contemporary problem of human trafficking, and rampant corruption of former Iron Curtain states. For “Purge,” Oksanen walked away with Finlands most prestigious literary award: “The Finlandia Prize,” as well as the Nordic Council Prize for Literature; and the rock star writer probing communist pasts, has continued. 

There are however, many authors – Finnish writers who themes are closer to home, that are often overlooked; but are nevertheless great writers. It is now that I would like to say thank-you to “Books From Finland,” for introducing me to these writers, and some of which I would like to introduce below.

( I )

Complicated and tragic are the two words that come to mind when thinking of the Finnish poet Helvi Juvonen. In the photos I have seen of her, she is wide eyed and curious in one, with restrained sense of elegance; and the others wide eye with paranoia, fear, and animal instinctual distrust. In her youth Helvi Juvonen was referred to as: Nalle (Teddy in English). This animal reference would make numerous appearances in her poetry, along with fairy-tale logic and eccentric subject matter. However, do not be quick to dismiss the poet as being lightweight or nonsensical. Helvi Juvonen was a serious poet, who had a unique way of refreshing the world via new perspectives, but also discussed the subjects of alienation, loneliness and suffering. Despite the subtle childlike surreal streak can run through her poems: a goblin who shares its happiness with a bee, a kettle that sings, or a tapir who talks to a stone – her poetry has often been known for its foreboding religiosity and discussions of human suffering.  Helvi Juvonen wrote with her eyes trained down, she not once dared to look to the sky; rather she wrote of the moles, the lichen, the moss, the stones, and maggots under foot. Helvi Juvonen however was a tragic character herself, she left her studies after panic attacks over the final exams; she took a job as a bank clerk and then a proof reader, while living in the bleak and squandered landscape of post-war Finland. At one point she was well underweight, and her life as I remember reading was filled with illness, struggles, and often tragic circumstances; later in life it should be noted, that the poet made a living by her poetry and translations, and was a adamant and accomplished translator of Emily Dickinson. Despite her poetry often dealing with this suffering, this illness, and the subsequent alienation and loneliness she felt because of it, there was often a transcending sense of hope for humanity and human life, though often mixed with mystical religious symbolism. In the following poem; taken from “Books from Finland,” titled: “A New Game,” Helvi Juvonen’s form of god is intimate and someone in which the poet can converse with. In the poem however, God is more a playmate then an authoritative and omniscient

“A New Game,”

            By Helvi Juvonen

Phenomena and circumstances toyed with me,

and so I said to them:

You have become really dull.

Now I will start to toy with things myself,

and when I grow weary,

I will go away.

I will find a new habitat.

God the Father asks me thoughtfully:

Where should I put you,

you who have been capable

of neither goodness nor badness.

Then I will say it to Him,

then I will say it:

Let’s play that new game now,

the one in which we are happy

and everywhere.

It becomes aware that the religiosity Helvi Juvonen is not strictly religious in the traditional sense of ornamentation and holy praise. Rather it is subtle and more spiritually inclined, then formally religious. But the final three lines always strike me the most of her poignant ability to shine hope, especially against the phenomena and circumstances of the current situation. To read: “Let’s play that new game now, / the one in which we are happy / and everywhere,” breathes new life and hope under ones wings to go on, and battle the upcoming dawn and the new day.  Though she only published five collections of poetry during her life time, and a sixth posthumously, Helvi Juvonen remains a remarkable poet of the Finnish twentieth century literature, as a depicter of hope, spiritual maturity, and childlike surreal perspectives which often show our humble beginnings via the most miniature and overlooked aspects of nature. This leads us to an end, and to depart with one of my favourite poems by Helvi Juvonen, one in which her surreal and childlike observation gives a fresh new perspective to the world.

“A Fairy Tale,”

            By Helvi Juvonen

A fairy tale is going round the forest:

A goblin child walks, a green scarf on her head,

and a harebell tinkles, a silver jingle.

At the places she touches with her hand, the grass revives,

the troll folk go into hiding  behind a tree stump.

A fairy tale is going round the forest in the guise of a goblin

the haircap moss is dewy and the hay is fragrant,

the white clover gives enough

nectar and gold-dust to the bumblebee.

The goblin eats nectar-bread and shares her joy

with the bumblebee.

( II )

If you have read my Nobel speculation list, the name Sirkka Turkka will strike and ring familiar. Animals have a particular place of fondness in the poets work. In nineteen-eighty seven she received the Finlandia Prize for her volume of poetry titled: “Tule takaisin, pikku Sheba,” or translated into English: “Come back, little Sheba.” The volume of poetry documents and details the friendship of the poet’s dog named Sheba. Animals are given greater love and tenderness, then the human contemporaries. Her love of animals and the animal kingdom often rings true in Turkka’s poetry, which is also reflected in her unique career, holding numerous positions along with being a poet: librarian and stable master. Yet one should not be quick to dismiss Sirkka Turkka as a simple nature poet, who as a love and affinity for animals (be it dogs, reindeer, horses, or hares), rather she is a poet who discusses and probes the level of grief that the human soul is forced to endure and deal with. The death of a rabbit, the suffering of a horse; these are all metaphors for the plight of human existence. Yet it should be noted, the poet is not entirely concerned with these solemn occasions. Her poetry is filled with irony, sarcasm, quotes from proverbs, rock songs, and pop lyrics, all pastiched against the high style of the poets work. What is always consistent with Turkka’s work is always the tone of the poet. Tone becomes rhythm in how the topics, themes, and subjects are all dealt with. Now as mentioned already, animals have a strong connection to Sirkka Turkka’s poetry; but they are not objectively described as such. Rather the animals which are placed within the poetry, are coded be our cultural perspective: ravens, reindeer, foxes, elk, hares – these are creatures which are depicted being wiser and more ancient then humanity, who is new, and destructive in its intelligence; whereas the animals understand the natural order of the world, and seek neither to improve it or usurp it. The following portrait or prose poem comes from her collection “Minä se olen,” or in English: “It’s Me.” In it we can see how the dog takes certain stage, but is quickly juxtaposed against the experience of the human narrator of the poem. It should also be noted the following poem is written in a prose poem like manner, or what was called: Prose Fantasy, when it was first published back in the seventies.

“Something kept me awake late. Something woke me up early. It’s four o’clock and the dog is puzzled. He tries to continue his dream: he was just about to catch a squirrel he barked at all of yesterday. He leaves me quite alone in silence, in which not a single breeze stirs. What is in the past ceases to be, what is to come has no significance. There is only the sun, just about to come up. And the calm surface of the lake and the coffee cup, from which leisurely steam rises.”

With her mixture of biblical proverbs, highly stylized tone, and then the use of pop cultural lyrics, Sirkka Turkka often creates a unique verbal landscape in which she details the challenges, the grief, the sorrow, and the hope of humanity. In this sense, I always slightly consider Sirkka Turkka to the Polish poet and Nobel Prize winner Wisława Szymborska. Both poets showcase a gentle wisdom towards the world around them. They offer unique perspectives and thoughts on the convoluted idea of the human experience. For Turkka if we wish to understand the terms and words of love and compassion; loyalty and devotion; wisdom and experience, we need only look to our natural counterparts: dogs, horses, elk, jackdaws, foxes. In which I leave off with one more prose poem from her collection: “Yö aukeaa kuin vilja,” in English translation: “The Night Opens Like Corn.”

“A poor dog has little to give to the moon. No luggage, no lighted rooms, no compartments hidden in the heart. It has only its heart. Only a bark, long and narrow like a tunnel, released from its brown muzzle. Like a small abandoned ice-cube it zings from shore to shore. Strange, how the heart can be carelessly left behind in bed-linen, on long, endless streets, in dust behind curtains or in a glass, like teeth. Dogs ceased talking and received in place of a mouth an inky line, but man lost his heart; his ear can no longer pick out songs from inside a tree. He  swears criss-cross on his heart, he thinks it’s a distant island, or then he looks for it in his trousers; in many, the heart looks like a bottom and vice versa. But in dogs it is where it should be: just after the muzzle, boulder-like, baby-faced and willing.”

( III )

Genre bending or format bending can often lead to some new startling and wonderful results via this experimentation; or it can be a disaster of postmodernism pastiche. In the case of Kaarina Valoaalto, it is a wonderful delight. Is it poetry or prose; perhaps a prose poem, or poetic prose. Whichever the case Kaarina Valoaalto has often kept readers and critics puzzled, but overjoyed with her writing. To classify Valoaalto’s work as short stories would be misleading. Rather Valoaalto’s work is summarized as slices and sketches from people’s lives. Her work is best summarized then as small poetic vignettes. Yet both people and animals are given the same weight, and the same character, in her work. Valoaalto is capable of describing a dog with equal traits of a human being, and with its own blend of mannerism becomes a realistic creature full of intelligence and instinct on its own. Kaarina Valoaalto’s work is poetic and sensual. One can certainly see the poet in the writer come through in her genre and form bending work. She linguistically kneads and moulds the words like a child crafting a unique format in which detail and outline the world. Just read the following little extract from her work: Einen keittiö, Eines kök or English translation: “Eine’s kitchen,” taken from “Books from Finland,”:

“This sort of detached block of flats is as much of a living organism

as the folk dwelling in it.

For above are the brains and below are the intestines and outlets.

The upper floors were flaunting their kitchen taps, sink-tops,

lion-clawed sofas, mahogany chests and

sapphire-pendant crystal chandeliers, flashing the violet-tones of sea and

rain.

Years later these very things, like the previous generation’s taps and

furniture, passed a ghostly underground life in the weird

chicken-wire-salons

of their storage-spaces, telling about their former life, inviting us to share

their phantasmal world of things and furniture, manifesting with moss

green faces like the faces the graveyard dead beckon with to the living.”

Kaarina Valoaalto is a writer who I wish was translated into English. Her work is poetic, startling, and formalistically bending. She is the kind of writer, the English language almost appears to lack, the kind who takes simple concepts of the day and in quick and gentle brushstrokes shows the intimacy of such moments, and the absurd epiphanies that are abound in the everyday mundane and monotonous life. Specifically speaking “Eine’s kitchen,” is based off and around her childhood and adolescent memories; taken from the perspective of a sensitive child, who has a certain proclivity for poetry. The work itself through the short and small samples provided by “Books from Finland,” is startling, unique and original. Valoaalto lives and breathes new life to language, and the poetic and prose formats, by marrying both forms.

( IV ) 

Raija Siekkinen was a master of the short story format in Finland. She died suddenly and tragically though in two-thousand and four, during a house fire. After her death though, Siekkinen left behind a strong archive of short stories, which details the middle classes blights and plights, and materialistic requirements to fend off the dark nights of the soul. When there is a hole, the path treaded often is: fill it; in the case of Siekkinen’s short stories, the holes are bottomless and often filled with continual new bright and shiny object, in attempt to ward off the abyss and its alienation. In the stories of Raija Siekkinen tension builds on the idea or thought that something will happen, which leads to the memories of the past to become newly acquainted with the holders; as the characters think about what will happen in the coming moments, months, years, for somewhere down the line in their future. Raija Siekkinen has gathered comparisons between herself and the Canadian short story master Alice Munro, for their similar treatment of women’s souls. Where the two writers verge in differences is, Alice Munro details the life of a women against the backdrop of the societal or small town values of the time, whereas Raija Siekkinen predilections move in a more poetic journey of the interior world of the women. For Siekkinen the prose form and the lyricism of her writing gives rise and essence to the of the music of the heart her female characters experience in their darkest nights and their desperate hours. Such as the following sentence taken from “‘Yöllä kello kolme,” translated into English: “‘Three o’clock in the Morning,”:

“That night, once again, she woke suddenly and was immediately wide awake, and even without looking at the clock she knew that it was the darkest moment of the night, when death breathed her own breathing.”

Much like Ersi Sotiropoulos and Alice Munro, Raija Siekkinen writes of the relationships of people – be it siblings, mother and daughter, or husband and wife. However, unlike Sotiropoulos or Munro, the world in which Siekkinen creates is far more pessimistic. Relationships as described by Raija Siekkinen are at their most bleak and pessimistic. Relationships are best defined and depicted in her short stories, as prisons in which her nameless characters often find themselves confined and incarcerated in. it’s a sentence in which the characters cannot break free from, are bound to each other in a continual dismal prison. There is a lot of regret for her characters, they’ve past their youth, and they are frustrated with their lives or their studies or career choices. In doing so they are alienated from others around them, people who go on with their normal and face-value happy lives, while her protagonists are left to mull over their regrettable decisions or situations. Raija Siekkinen’s stories are poignant, pointed and pessimistic. They give rise to the psychological abyss and its landscape of every woman who questions her own decisions, and life path. It would be difficult to discuss a positive resolution being found in one of her short stories, which there never is, but there is a subtle survival plan which is formulated with some, who manage to continue living, and face the uncertainty in which the future holds.

( V )

Eeva Tikka is a biologist by education, and was a biology teacher before she turned to writing. Her writing resume includes poetry, prose (short stories, novels, and children’s books), and story-telling. Yet it is her scientific education in regards to the study of life, which finds itself liberally placed within her writing. Nature is nothing new to Finnish literature, but rather than being an ornament or a lyrical landscape painting n beautiful prose, for Tikka it is both an all engulfing arrogant foe in one instance, and in another it is a tender earth mother, nurturing the surrounding landscape. Much like the preceding author Raija Siekkinen writes in the grand vein of the realist tradition, often dealing with middle aged individuals or middle class people; but just Raija Siekkinen she is not a dime store kitchen realist or a garden variety realist; Eeva Tikka is a psychological prober of the lives of her characters. Where she differentiates from Raija Siekkinen, is that her work often finds itself, with a more positive inclination, rather than facing the abyss and hopelessness of the human predicament in the darkest hour of the night. Eeva Tikka is a highly lyrical writer, and depicts often ordinary landscapes and ordinary lives, but beneath the surface the foundations of the quiet life begins to fracture and crack, revealing the whirlpools hidden beneath the normalcy of the otherwise content and complacent lives of the individuals she depicts in her short stories. There is often a quiet strength to her work, depicted by nature, and religious imagery, when relationships begin to grow tense or break down. One such pivotal novel is “Hiljainen kesä,” or in English translation: “The Quiet Summer,” which depicts the family drama and tension, which builds after the youngest son of the family, drowns in a nearby pond during the spring gales. The pain and transgression both past and new, come to haunt the family, and tensions begin to rise as spring burns off into summer. What has always struck me though as the hall mark of Eeva Tikka is her striking and beautiful lyricism and poetic sensibilities, which often find itself being placed in the short stories, that are available on “Books from Finland.” Her work often deals with the sense of abandonment as the day’s progress forward, and the years begin to add up behind them and be subtracted before them. Days of youth are looked back upon with a sense of nostalgia only afforded to the old, and the tragic longing for a time when everything made sense, is made all the more poignant by the changing landscape, the breakdown of relationships, and the ever present motion of moving forward without any other decision. Yet for Eeva Tikka relinquishment and atonement, are forms of moving forward with a lessen load, and a lighter sense of being, and often give rise to hope. Love maybe a disappointment, and youth squandered and wasted and frivolous needs of the time, and these regrets certainly shake the present day middle aged cage quite well, there is a relinquishment afterwards and atonement for past mistakes. The slow passion of her work, the measured tone and rhythm all work in  Eeva Tikka, creating an often highly lyrical depiction of the quietness of life, with often a great sense of wisdom and understanding of how things should work – or rather what we’ve forgotten about the naturalistic way of how things work. The following extract from the short story comes from Eeva Tikka’s short story collection: “Hidas intohimo,” or translated into English as: “A Slow Passion,” thankfully once again to the courtesy of “Books from Finland,”

“I don’t want to interfere with it. If something comes of it, then something comes of it. You can’t interfere with time, or fate, or another person. Time ripens things on its own. Fate takes a longer view of things than people do. Like the prophet says, there is a time for every purpose, for my purposes and other people’s.

This garden cottage is a good place to watch everything quietly, a ringside seat for someone who doesn’t want to flail around getting smashed up. The potatoes bloom when it’s time for them to bloom, depending on the length of the summer, the weather, and the time they were planted. Their white and purple flowers are worthy of admiration– potato flowers are flowers, after all. But when the flowers are just opening, it’s not yet time to go digging around among the roots. You have to restrain yourself and wait until the tubers form. You have to wait until they’re finished blooming and the flowers are replaced by plumping green, poisonous berries – though not all potato varieties produce them. But if your fingers are really itching for them, you can poke into the dirt and grope around a little before it’s really time, feel for tubers and remove them carefully, patiently, leaving the plant undisturbed for the smaller ones to grow. If the groping turns up something, you can slip away and savour it, but you still have to wait before you can dig up the whole plant with its rootstock, its beautiful pure tubers heaved up onto the soil, as if Life were offering itself on a silver salver. Then you can have them. They’re ready. But it takes time. Many good things are destroyed by impatience.”

( VI )

Rosa Liksom is a post-punk, post-feminist writer, who depicts a thorough debauched world, filled with despair, destruction, and macabre actions – all quickly sketched in icy lyrical prose, of a rather detached authorial presence, in just a few pages in length. The reviewer Marc Lowe compared Rosa Liksom to Elfriede Jelinek in a similar approach to literature, with a shock value punch line. Much like Jelinek there is often a nervous guffaw to be found here and there (often during a second reading) and there is scathing, scalding and biting irony, freshly open for display. Rosa Liksom writes about the anguish of existence. Her characters may arrive from one of the most northern parts of Finland, and also its most scarcely populated places: Lapland; where the author herself often hails from. The world however in which Liksom portrays is dark, though ironic, it is dark and gloomy. It’s a world desolate, desperate, and filled to the brim with despair. The nights never end, and when the days do break, it simply means you’ve reawakened to the existential anguish and nightmare that is your life. It should be surprising then to see Rosa Liksom dressed in often contrasting clothes, with bright vibrant colours, and quick to smile, a full toothed grin, considering her shocking subject matter. But like the Nobel Prize winning writer Elfriede Jelinek, Liksom uses shock value to bring to attention to the questionable circumstances in which the current society chooses to live, and how it quickly ignores the less fortunate or the desperate and disturbed individuals, being consumed by the schizophrenic reality around them. Her short impressionistic vignettes of dark and disturbing images certainly give rise to the thought that the grass is not necessarily greener on the other side; especially when its frozen stiff. Some people may find it surprising to learn that Rosa Liksom is a revered and acclaimed writer in Finland. Her latest novel “Hytti nro 6,” or translated into Enlgish “Compartment No. 6,” won in two-thousand and eleven the Finlandia Prize. It may be surprising to readers as well, that Rosa Liksom has one book of short stories translated into English “Dark Paradise,” by Dalkey Archive Press; and “Compartment No. 6,” is on its way for North American readers, later this year; while Serpents Tail in the United Kingdom has already published the novel. It can be seen the Kafkaesque prose of Liksom and her episodic sketches are also taken an interest, not just in Finland but also abroad. Currently I am humming and hawing about purchasing “Dark Paradise,” but the comparison to Elfriede Jelinek is quite intriguing, and her novels written about the Soviet Union strike me as interesting. The following is a sketch taken from “Books from Finland,” which will hopefully give you an idea about her writing style:

“Between the town centre and the boarding house there was a broad marsh. The hard February frosts coming in from the Atlantic had frozen it into a shining plain of ice. A woman was cutting straight across it to her boarding house. She was wearing a fur coat and high leather boots and she had an irritable look on her face. In the sky a jet-trail snaked across the dark blue clouds. Near a clump of bushes her pace slackened. She felt a shooting pain in her heart and remembered something far off: midsummer, a mat of thick green grass and a pig squealing in the butcher’s hands. She managed to localise the memory: it had happened somewhere else, in another country, but it had happened. A sadness crossed her face. She thrust her hands deep into her coat pockets and felt the cold rising from the pit of her stomach to her scalp.

Behind the bushes a man was holding his breath and hanging on a moment till the woman was in exactly the right place. His eyes were frightened and the veins in his temples distended. He held himself back another moment and then leapt out on her from behind. She fell on her back, hitting her head on the ice. He was panting hard, fitfully, with pale childish features, light wavy hair and black leather gloves. He struck her in the face, tore her fur coat open, thrust his hand into her blouse and tried to wrench her trousers apart. She didn’t cry out but looked at the man discerningly. He even had a certain beauty for her. She glanced up at the sky. The white trail of the jet had vanished: nothing but blue clouds and the frost that made her nipples stand out.

‘Do it somewhere warm,’ she said as he struggled despairingly with her tight trousers. He started and withdrew his hand. He stared at her in distrust but let go her hands, which were bleeding. ‘I’ve a little room that’s warm.’

He eyed her swollen lips and quickly got up off her. She staggered to her feet, buttoned her blouse and straightened her hair. She set off again for her boarding house and the man followed her a few paces behind.

The doorkeeper was asleep. They went into one of the cheaper rooms on the ground floor and undressed, she expertly, he clumsily. She folded back the coverlet, lay down on her back and looked in his eyes. There was nothing to see there but a profound emptiness. She sighed, put her hand between her thighs, closed her eyes and settled a little smile on her face. The man lowered himself shyly onto her. She caressed his shoulders. He kissed her breasts and neck, tried to penetrate her straight away but without succeeding. She closed her eyes and swallowed. He rolled down beside her sobbing like a puppy. They slept in each other’s arms till morning, and then she had to go to work. She took a packet of cigarettes from the bedside table and went out. Sometime after mid-day the man woke from his sleep with a start and went away without a look back.”

( VII )

The next writer, is a writer who I did not discover via “Books from Finland,” but rather through “The Best European Fiction,” anthology series. Anita Konkka does not appear to make an appearance on “Books from Finland.” Yet she is a writer of esoteric subject matter; specifically dreams and their relation to reality. Her work often though traces relationships; specifically relationships dealing with love, though not with pity or with furrowed brows, but humorously and with understanding compassion. Konkka herself has written novels, short stories, essays, radio plays and one dream book. When I state that Finnish is a language of the esoteric, mystical and the voice of dreams, it is because of Konkka. In her novel titled “The Garden of Desires,” her characters consist of the following (as quoted from a review posted on Konkka’s website): Paula, the building custodian and life's pushover; Rosa, who sweeps men off their feet; Eugenia, the neurotic virgin; Dolores, who practices witchcraft; and Leif, the poet. With Adam, the hermit-composer, who still lives on the nearby hillside; Teresa, who meditates perpetually under the fig trees and unemployed Milopa, a fool for women. Her characters reflect the authors eclectic and eccentric qualities, and are all mashed together to certainly create quite an entertaining and enthralling read. Dolores herself strikes me as the most interesting; I imagine her reading the stars at night, pulling tarot cars out from her sleeves for consulting purposes, and interpreting and articulating the language of dreams of all those who seek her services and assistances. Beyond this though, there is not a lot to mention about Anita Konkka. Her achievements, oeuvre and biographical information is difficult to find and discuss. She has two works translated into English. The first being “Fools Paradise,” as published by Dalkey Archive Press, and the second an extract from her novel “The Garden of Desires,” titled “The Clown,” published in the anthology “The Best European Fiction: 2010.” One can certainly hope though that Anita Konkka’s work is given more and more opportunities abroad, in order for readers over here to become enchanted by her discussion of love and its troublesome relationships that it creates.

( VIII )

Petri Tamminen is the comic come tragic kind of writer. His work is often filled with tragic events, juxtaposed with the comic and deft sense of the situation. The tragedy or the phobia’s of his characters often creating very absurd situation, in which relief is found in the neurosis of the characters. My first foray and reading of Tamminen came from his user manual on hiding; how to escape reality and find the comforting spaces in which one can be safe, and find security: be it an attic or a mother’s lap. In just a few sentences, or a sketch Tamminen creates a life, and quickly summarizes it. When I think of Petri Tamminen the Icelandic poet and vignette writer Gyrðir Elíasson who is capable of creating and summarizing a life in equally small spaces, and leaving most of the work unsaid, for the reader to create and understand what has happened, and will transpire. Yet for me, it was his book of short short prose: “Piiloutujan maa,” or English translation “The Land of the Hider,” in which I found a manual to rid oneself of the burdens and responsibilities of the world, for just a moment, by tucking away out of sight for just a short amount of time; and have continued my search for a open but private little hide away, in which I too may take refuge. The following short prose is taken from “Books from Finland,” and is from Petri Tamminen collection of short short prose: “The Land of the Hider,”:

“The Library,”

A cosy local library can be a paradise but there are hideaways to be found in a scientific library. Awaiting the visitor are kilometres of austere shelf space, the silence of lonely potplants and a melancholy like that at a long-jump pit in October.

First you should wander as if searching for something, then suddenly grab a book and open it. The title pages waft dust into the air. The surface of the paper is a delicate shade of yellow, the typeface is matter-of-fact, the book’s subject the reception of Catalan women’s writing in Sweden. The book should be stroked tenderly.

As you continue wandering, you know that the world will endure. Humankind is overflowing with love and trust. People do not desire evil, rather, they wish for time and for a safe cell in which to examine matters. When you think about it, it makes you want to huddle in the space between the wall and the shelves. Sooner or later the gentle smell of coffee floats into the room, indicating a well-deserved break for the hard-working library staff.

( Part II The Second Language )

Finland is a relatively young country, which prior to its independence, was continually under the influence of another empire of some sort. Generally speaking it was either the Kingdom of Sweden or the Imperial Russian Empire; Finland however did fight back during the Winter War, against the Soviet Union, and retained its independence and ideological autonomy from the corrosive touch of Stalinist Communism. Finnish is the dominant language of Finland, and its second language is Swedish, spoken by just five percent of the population. However, literal Swedish writers in Finland have gathered as much notoriety and acclaim for their written works, as their literal Finnish contemporaries.

( ii I )

Tua Forsström is a wise, existential, and vulnerable poet. She’s not a new writer to me, but with the help of “Books from Finland,” as well as “Poetry International,” I’ve come to grasp and have a better understanding of the poet. She does not publish often, but when she does, Forsström often has great expectations resting on her shoulders, to repeat previous success. Her poetry is known to clean up awards, including the Nordic Council Prize for Literature in nineteen ninety-eight with her collection of poems titled: “Efter att ha tillbringat en natt bland hästar,” or English translation: “After Having Spent a Night Among Horses.” Her poetry is readable, wise, and looks to the everyday with a melancholic tone and keen observation. Her poetry has found a home in other languages as well, including Dutch, Danish, German, Italian, French, and English. Much like Sirkka Turkka, there something about Tua Forsström that reminds me of the Polish poet and Mozart of Poetry: Wisława Szymborska. Perhaps in the case of Forsström it is her slow pace of writing, and her continual desire to perfect, and make her poetry transcend or vacate the ivory tower of poetry itself. Much like Szymborska, Tua Forsström turns her keen poetic observations to the everyday life, and writes compelling and beautiful poems in regards to the everyday interactions in which each of us participate in. Utilizing beautiful and original metaphors with a simplistic language though, Forsström is close to her Swedish compatriot Tomas Transtromer, in her wise and existential discussions. The following poem: “Staden Glittrade,” or English Translation: “The City Was Sparkling,” show cases keen observational skills, mixed with her melancholic tone and breathe; it is taken from her page on “Poetry International,”

“The City Was Sparkling,”

            By Tua Forsström

“The city was sparkling at a distance, and

I stopped. Everything looked so beautiful,

the street plans and the terraced gardens,

as if water-transparent, and I saw it all

very clearly. I thought about the great cities

with cathedrals, and the small local museums in

the countryside in Sweden, and the meadow-sweet with its

strong fragrance, and I remembered how attached I had been

to the little kitten with the spotted paws who

ran away and how I had missed it.

I turned around and someone was crying, I couldn’t

pay attention to it. The city was made of transparent glass.

I stood there. I saw my pre-eminent love.

Shimmering of pearls. The black swans. Chalcedony.

I tried calling the small kitten. Everything was sparkling.

I hesitated, I knew everything, I would

not come back.”

( ii II )

Susanne Ringell first began her career as an actress on the stage; but eventually turned away from the stage, to work behind the production of plays, by playwriting, which eventually turned her into the direction of poetry and prose. Since her change in career, from actress to writer, Ringell has achieved great success. She is most well known for her short stories, which can vary from the traditional length of a short story, to what would be considered vignette, character sketches, to flash fiction. The spoken word is greatly important to Ringelle as a writer; which stems from her writings for theatre, as well as being an actress herself. Dialogue and linguistic acrobatic idioms are often used full force in her work, which often makes for a unique reading experience which further brings life to the work, rather than alienating readers; especially readers from a different language in itself. Body language is often used in her work of prose as well, often as the bridge between the physical and external world, and the internal world within her characters. Ringelle’s work is varied, unique and startlingly new and fresh. Her prose poem collection or poetic novel: “Vara sten,” or English translation: “Being a Stone,” is written in a monologue of a stone, sitting in a field commenting on the world passing it by. Recently it has been the small sketches, vignettes and character sketches that have seen Ringelle receive success and praise over. “Av blygsel blev Adele fet,” or English Translation: “It was embarrassment that made Adele fat,” is an A-Z book for adults, filled with multi-layered short stories, and character sketches, which grasp and paints small episodic lives of the characters in question.  After testing the waters with this collection of short prose format, Ringelle repeated it once again with the collection: “En god Havanna. Besläktad,” or English translation: “A good Havana. Kith and Kin,” uses the authors strange relatives as the subject matter, and the book is connected more so than “It was embarrassment that made Adele fat,” this allows for Ringelle to show her playfulness and in some cases provide meditative prose poems to discuss her themes. What I find most enjoyable about Susanne Ringell’s work is the lyrical and poetic fashion in which her work is written, often with startling and unique metaphors to further push her points across. The following short prose piece is from A good Havana. Kith and Kin,” taken from “Books from Finland,”

“Take Your Plastic Bag and Go,”

The fact that you don’t happen to have a birch-bark basket skilfully woven by selected Karelians to hand is not a problem. Take your plastic bag and go!

That is the motto of second cousin Siv. The mushroom forests are there for everyone: they are not reserved for aesthetes with special equipment, these strange autumnal snobs who walk down the leafy catwalk in their precisely adjusted accessories. Nor are they there exclusively for mycologists with special insights and a special sort of knife. Don’t let yourself be cowed! A plastic bag and fingers are all you need, eyes, legs. If chanterelles are all you can recognise, just pick chanterelles. There’s no shame in that. The shame is to stay sitting at home thinking I can’t do that. What if someone were to see me and my disreputable plastic bag? What if someone were to see me and my shabby jacket – old in the wrong sort of way – my shoes unsuitable for the forest, my eyes unaccustomed to the forest, looking in the wrong grove, under the wrong tree, in silly terrain. Don’t pay any attention to it, the apple – cheeked open – air hogwash! If you are scared of snakes and ants (elks bears wolves) take rubber boots. If you’re scared of the howling green confusion, the branches, the thickets and the twigs, take the paths. Or if you’re just scared, take a bottle of schnapps in your pocket. Have a packet of mushroom soup ready at home in the cupboard, preferably Knorr rather than Pirkka, but it doesn’t really matter. Go. Enjoy. If all you can see is yellow leaves, then all you can see is yellow leaves. They are soggy, stickily attractive. Perhaps you’ll spot a mourning cloak, a late butterfly. Even if you don’t know that the mourning cloak is a mourning cloak, you can rejoice in it. Naming things isn’t everything. Take your plastic bag and go. That is the motto of second cousin Siv.

( Part III The Break Through of One )

Leena Krohn is one of Finland’s literary exports. She is a genre bending master, while maintain a sense of what is literary. She can appeal to both lovers of fantasy fiction, and those who loved Kafka and other serious literary writes, who bend the rules of reality. Leena Krohn is an award winning writer. She has walked with the Finlandia prize, and has been nominated for the World Fantasy Award, the Horror Guild International award, as well as the Nordic Council Prize for Fiction, all for her breakthrough novel “Tainaron: Mail from Another City.” Krohn is a writer whose main literary themes, are morality, problematic situations in which human beings find themselves in, the borders between reality and illusion, and questions of rising artificial intelligence. Now, Krohn has finally received a breakthrough in English, with the publication of a huge collection of her work being published in one large volume. In the volume includes novels, short stories, extracts from novels, a children’s book and numerous essays. The book has received critical acclaim by numerous literary journals and reviewers who are delighted by the prospect of the author reaching a larger audience in a larger language. Since the publication of: “Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction,” has appeared, numerous short stories and essays can be found throughout the internet. One such story “Lucilia Illustris,” is a great short story published on electricliterature.com, is a great starting point in which to understand the themes, and writing style of Leena Krohn. She is a unique writer which has broken literary bounds between genres that are generally pushed to the side in favour of more realistic or philosophical narratives. Krohn however uses philosophical narratives in her often strange and unwavering fiction to delve into concepts of morality, reality, and the human predicament. Much like the Canadian Margaret Atwood, Leena Krohn sees the boundless possibilities of the human future, but also provides warnings, and needs to be weary of rushing head long into the future without thinking of the current situation, and predicament of the world, and the state of humanity; and urges humanity to think carefully about its decisions before acting on what at first appear to be innovative and unique ideas.

It is with great thanks to Cheeky Frawg Press, and Jeff VanderMeer for advocating the author to have her work more readily available in the English language, for new readers, to take a marvel at her serious literary works, and contemplate the destiny of humanity. It was thanks to the publication of Leena Krohn that made me come up with this blog post. To see and give Finnish literature its deserved and due attention in the spotlight is one that should be done more often; hopefully with the warm and positive reception of Leena Krohn’s collected works, will we see more Finnish writers, receive their due attention in the English language.

( Part IV To Conclude )

There is no denying that Finnish is a difficult language, and that English translations would be difficult to get the original into another language without too much adjustments being made, which would take away from potency of the work. However, surely newer and better attempts need to be made to make the great writers of the Finnish language more known to the English public and readers. It is a shame that “Books from Finland,” is not defunct because the website, and its publication, was doing such a service to readers in the English language with an interest in foreign languages and its literature. Yet attempts are certainly being made, with the publication of Leena Krohn’s collected fiction; Tua Forsström had a poem published in “The Guardian,” newspaper, and her more recent collection: "En kväll i oktober rodde jag ut på sjön," or in its English translation: "One Evening In October I Rowed Out On The Lake". Yet what is disappointing is to hear that Raija Siekkinen translates and lands quite softly in the English language, and yet we have not seen one of her short story collections published in the English language yet; then questions are raised about Eeva Tikka and the possibility of seeing her in the English language any time soon, with her highly lyrical prose, and biologically infused short stories. What about Susanne Ringell? Surely there should be either a very good excuse why we have not seen her published in English, or are we just fooling ourselves of our own parochial crimes by refusing to even think about or look at such a wonderful writer. It would be delightful to see her work someday published in English like “Being a Stone,” or “Water,” or “A good Havana. Kith and Kin.” Though Sirkka Turkka has been published into English, she still remains unknown and obscure to any potential readers. The world of translation is certainly moving into a more positive and productive manner, and yet we still overlook some languages and their respective countries. Someday I hope we will see more Finnish translations, more Estonian translations, so they too can join Hungary their linguistic cousin, on the literary map.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Post Script - For those of you my dear Gentle Readers, who would like to a further look into Finnish literature, please follow the links provided below, as they will give you extracts from novels, short stories, poems and essays to read, as well as wonderful introductions and notes about the authors presented. 

Books from Finland

Transcript (Finland)

As well as the following website which deals specifically with Nordic Women's Literature:

Nordic Women's Literature

Man Booker International Longlist 2016

Hello Gentle Reader

This is the Man Booker International Prize’s first run in its new traditional format. Before two-thousand and sixteen, the Man Booker International Prize was a biannual award, that was awarded to a writer of international stature and reputation (and of course translated into English) along with their lifetime of work, such winning writers included: Ismail Kadare, Alice Munro and László Krasznahorkai. Now the award is annual, and is no longer awarded to a writer’s lifetime work, but rather a sole individual work, will now be their testament to the award. This year’s longlist, is beginning to show some unique characteristics, that will hopefully stay true for the award, and its international flavour.

The longlist for this new format of the award, is compiled of thirteen authors from twelve countries and nine languages.

The longlist is as follows, with the author, their country of origin, and the title of their longlisted work.

Orhan Pamuk – Turkey – “A Strangeness in my Mind,”

Aki Ollikainen – Finland – “White Hunger,”

José Eduardo Agualusa – Angola – “A General Theory of Oblivion,”

Elena Ferrante – Italy – “The Story of the Lost Child,”

Han Kang – South Korea – “The Vegetarian,”

Maylis de Kerangal – France – “Mend the Living,”

Marie NDiaye – France – “Ladivine,”

Raduan Nassa – Brazil – “A Cup of Rage,”

Eka Kurniawan – Indonesia – “Man Tiger,”

Fiston Mwanza Mujila – Democratic Republic of Congo || Austria – “Tram 83,”

Yan Lianke – China – “The Four Books,”

Robert Seethaler – Austria – “A Whole Life,”

Kenzaburō Ōe – Japan – “Death by Water,”

There you have it Gentle Reader the longlist! On it there is a wide variety of authors, and themes. Some are well known writers, including two Nobel Laureates, while others are rising stars in their respective languages, and their work now coming forward into English with great admiration, in their literary endeavours. It’s certainly a delightful and varied list of writers, and books; certainly something a bit new for the Man Booker Prize association, with its usual drab and bland sense of taste; but this is certainly more flavourful.

Enjoy Gentle Reader!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Missing Person

Hello Gentle Reader

Identity is defined, by the fields of study of: Anthropology, Philosophy, Sociology, and Psychology, as: the conception, qualities, beliefs, and expressions, which make an individual.  The concept of identity is a highly stylized theme in literature. The nature of identity has been dealt with by with countless, authors in different ways; such as: the concept of creating a new identity, possessing a new identity, or ridding oneself of their own identity. Perhaps one of the most notorious characters, for continually shifting into a new identity is Patricia Highsmith’s own, chameleon Tom Ripley. Tom Ripley is first introduced in Highsmith’s greatest and most well-known novel: “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” where he kills and takes the identity of the errant heir of a wealthy family: Rickie Greenleaf. Throughout the novel, Ripley is shown emulating Greenleaf’s mannerisms, and even dressing in his clothes. Other such writers to presume the identity of another individual would include Orhan Pamuk in his post-modern existentialist mystery novel: “The Black Book,” where the lawyer of the novel Galip one day finds his wife, Rüya, missing. Galip has the inclination, that she has taken residence with her half-brother, Celal, a columnist whose columns are literary lengthy meditations on the city of Istanbul and its history. Soon Galip finds himself wearing Celal’s clothes and writing his columns, and taking the identity of Celal. Both novels, showcase two characters: Tom Ripley and Galip, as two individuals who are disillusioned with their lives, and subsequently their identities. Both of these individuals would soon take the guise of other individuals to compensate their own impassioned lives, and disillusionments. Patrick Modiano however, goes in the opposite direction with his novel “Missing Person.” Guy Roland is a private investigator, with no knowledge of who he is or who he was, in the preceding decade. The novel traces Roland’s attempts to rediscover his identity.

Patrick Modiano is one of those splendid obscure writers. His Nobel win was a shock, and a delight. He is not a self-absorbed avant-garde writer, writing in the tradition of the nouveau roman, like an earlier J.M.G Le Clezio, or Claude Simon. Rather, Modiano’s style was straightforward, but evasive, and always brings to mind a rather monochrome world, where the white of light only breeds greater shadows. Modiano’s clear writing style is deceptive, with his themes. Patrick Modiano is known for his continual exploration of the past, often leading to the comparison to Marcel Proust, who also traced and retraced concepts of memory in his famous (and lengthy novel) “In Search of Lost Time,” or “In Remembrance of Things Past.” The art of memory however is the only concept that the two writers have in common, as a prevalent theme.  How the two writers, go about the discussion of theme, is entirely different. Proust used convoluted sentences, flowery prose, and modernist techniques in his novel. Modiano on the contrary, is lucid and straightforward – but by no means simplistic. Despite the approachable writing style, Modiano’s deliverance and treatment of his themes are more complex. The writer uses red-herrings, clues, dead ends, and a shifting perception of the past to usurp the concept of time. In doing so, Modiano distills time and memory into varying ethereal essences of mourning and nostalgia. Yet another layer of a greater national concept often becomes prevalent in Modiano’s work. The French Occupation, and the collaborative spirit of France of the time, complete with its black market, gangsters, and shadowy business man. The French Occupation is more personal for Patrick Modiano as a theme, then a literary device or a historical time period, in which he chooses to set his novels; rather for Modiano it’s a personal blight on his past. Modiano was born near the end of the Second World War, and his father was a business man known for his black market connections, and collaboration with the occupying forces. For Patrick Modiano the dark history of the French Occupation is the greater metaphor of the alienation, identity crisis, and amnesia or lapses in memory in which his characters find, have caused them to become silent, forgetful or alienated from the greater society as a whole. But for Modiano it is a personal exorcism, to try and purge the remnants of the crimes which have plagued his conscious despite, not being an active participant in those criminal activities.

One of Patrick Modiano’s hallmark literary devices is his characters are often in search of one another; from a long lost lover, to an individual from the past. But with “Missing Person,” Guy Roland is in search of himself, and best describes his predicament as such:

“I am nothing. Nothing but a pale shape, silhouetted that evening against the cafe terrace, waiting for the rain to stop.”

Thankfully for Guy Roland, he is a private investigator and his former partner, now retired, has left him a personal cache, of phonebooks, year books, itineraries, maps, and all other tricks and tools of the trade, in which Guy Roland is expected to utilize in order to piece together his former life, and hopefully recover from the dark recesses of his mind, his identity. What follows is an introspective novel, full of red-herrings, questionable people and characters, run down homes, forgotten landscapes, and stories of an ambiguous past, that maybe Roland’s.   

This is not a new theme for Patrick Modiano. His novels are continually rehashing the concepts and themes of memory, mixed with the self which either refuses to acknowledge the memory, or tries to unearth the reasons behind the memory. In his novels, we chase after young lovers; we attempt to find out why a suicide took place; we attempt to rebuild childhood idylls blown apart, by some force that was then unknowable. Yet eventually is served up via the novels of Modiano is a cartographers dissertation of the emotional distances, that the narrator finds himself from the shadow in which he chases; and all around him is the changing scenery of Paris and the scent of time.

“The sand holds the traces of our footsteps but a few moments.”

For Guy Roland, the identities in which he is given are all tried on; like suits or clothes in a department store, catering to those who wish to reinvent themselves, via the personas and lives of another individual. Yet as Roland tries each suit on, he finds none quite fit right. One is too tight in the torso; another, the shoulders don’t quite fit right; while another, the legs of the pants need to be brought down. Yet thankfully, chance encounters breed chance possibilities and plausible memories. Though these people encountered, know themselves through the amnesiacs questions, and their thought of who he reminds them of, are peripheral and therefore without clear purview context, the possibilities and plausibility’s of having an identity and a life again, outweigh the pale present, where Roland is nothing but a silhouette in chase of a thread of light through the shadowed streets. Though in time, a memory is born for Roland, and soon the thoughts of who he was, or who he is becoming, begin to become more tangible, and he seeks out more characters in which to pose his questions to.

Despite its detective novel noir like style, Modiano’s “Missing Person,” is not a typical detective novel. The clues, the evidence in which Guy Roland stumbles across, are all fragmentary, and very unreliable. Yet what follows suit, is Modiano’s sophisticated no frills style of writing, complete with its melancholic rhythmic flow. What follows suit is a novel of attempting to piece back together a life, that has since been wiped clean, with no clues to go off, and unreliable witnesses, cohorts, and possible friends; and theories of what had happened. “Missing Person,” is herald as Modiano’s masterpiece; in the novel Modiano proves that identity is elusive and ethereal, and its essence cannot be compiled by simple name, address, telephone number, birth date and year – that it compiles all the memories and experiences that an individual has accumulated over their years. Which is what makes Modiano’s amnesiac detective so admirable is that despite the loss of his life, his memories, and his identity he continues his quest to grasp it all again. In doing so, hopefully Guy Roland can compensate and rectify the past, with the future.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Doleful to Dreadful

Hello Gentle Reader

Always in the late winter, when the snow retreats, and the mud seeps; do we see the blight of autumn’s fires, now charred ashen remnants. The grass is brown or beige depending on light and perception. Doleful, as one co-worker called it; which immediately brought to mind the images of a doe: skittish, flappable, and ever so weak and helpless on the food chain. The transition from winter to spring is always dreadful more than doleful.

Whenever the world loses a writer of substantial literary merit, it’s a tragic loss. Two-thousand and twelve, saw two great writers depart from the earthly realm: The Polish Nobel Laureate Wislwa Szymborska Mozart of Poetry, and the Italian writer, Antonio Tabucchi, heir of the great Italian writer Italo Calvino, and student of the Portuguese mystical poet Fernando Pessoa. 

Now in two-thousand and sixteen, still fresh in our mind, the world has lost two other writers: Umberto Eco, and Harper Lee.

Umberto Eco, preferred to think of himself as an intellectual rather than a writer. Many other writes, have also included such thoughts when discussing their own work. Such as fellow Italian writer Antonio Tabucchi considering himself a professor (teacher) and scholar before he was a writer, or Claude Simon (Nobel Laureate 1985) referred to grape farming as his occupation before writing, Franz Kafka was an insurance clerk before a writer; and the list goes on. But Umberto Eco was an intellectual before he took pen to paper. With regards to Umberto Eco’s intellectual pursuits, semiotics was his greatest philosophical interest; often penning numerous essays in regards to the study of signs and symbols, and the meaning that they create. Though for Eco it was his narrative work that often found him fame, starting with his nineteen-eighty novels: “The Name of the Rose.” “The Name of the Rose,” is a medieval detective novel set in an Italian abbey with a Brother (monk) investigating suspicious deaths within it. After witch Eco had published numerous other novels, which would solidify himself as a giant of international literature, and an Italian master of prose. Umberto Eco, was a continual contender for the Nobel Prize for Literature, but may have been overlooked to so speculation, because of his grander presence on the world literary stage. Now at the age of eighty-four, Umberto Eco has passed away from complications with cancer. May you rest in peace Umberto Eco, rest in peace.

Harper Lee was one of America’s literary darlings. Her most famous novel “Too Kill a Mockingbird,” was met with controversy at first, being banned by some schools and school boards, for its depiction of racism; and yet Harper Lee herself had created one of the greatest fictional heroes of all time: Atticus Finch, a lawyer who defends a accused black man of raping a young white girl. The novel published in the nineteen-sixties was a huge success and controversial one. It dealt with the South’s racial tensions and the racial divide of America at the time (which still persists to this day, by the news reports). With publishing “Too Kill a Mockingbird,” Lee created a folk legal hero in Atticus Finch, with legal journals reviewing Atticus Finch and the novel more, then literary magazines. Yet in two-thousand and fifteen, Harper Lee would release her second and last novel: “Go Set a Watchman,” which would destroy Atticus Finch’s character, with revelations of his own racist past, and inclinations. “Go Set a Watchman,” would be met with controversy, and many wondering if the newly released novel had spoiled Harper Lee’s literary legacy. It’s a damper comment on her recent death, at the age of eighty-nine. “Too Kill a Mockingbird,” would most likely remain her masterpiece, and her tour de force, of her dual literary output. With a Pulitzer and a novel, about the Southern racial tensions, Harper Lee solidifies herself as one of America’s greatest writers of the last twentieth century; but also a silent giantess of literature, with a very small literary output, and some would consider it a one hit wonder.

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 

Tristano Dies: A Life

Hello Gentle Reader

Antonio Tabucchi was one of the greatest writers in contemporary Italy, before his death (prematurely as all death is premature in some form or another), back in two-thousand and twelve, after a long battle with cancer. Yet he left behind a great deal of books, which have been published, and are being translated, into other languages. His work is true literary magic in many ways. Tabucchi was a serious writer, who wrote about losers. Be it they’ve lost to the political climate of the time; lost a lover; lost their life; lost an opportunity; in the end they’ve lost something. Though, as it has been said before: “loosing builds character,” and in Tabucchi’s world, loosing also brings doubts. His characters often carry doubts with them. Doubtful characters, in Tabucchi’s perspectives often had is great for contradictions. Characters with contradictions often, carried more interesting stories; and in Tabucchi’s case, he was right. One such example is Pereira, the old and obese journalist from: “Pereira Maintains,” or “Pereira Declares.” Pereira in the beginning of the novel is simply put, a journalist, in charge of the cultural section of a newspaper. His love is for literature; a pastime or a lifelong passion, in which consumes and interests him. Yet because of this, Pereira remains uninvolved with the politics of the fascist regime that surround him. Until, he reads an essay by a young man discussing death. Pereira is moved by the essay, and writes to the young essayist, and employee’s him to write “advanced obituaries,” about great writers who are in their advanced age, and who will most certainly die, at a moment’s notice. The young man (Monteiro Rossi) agrees; but what follows suite, are politically charged essays with explicit left leaning political ideas being advertised, and with the current regime, it is considered politically undermining, and inappropriate for publication. Yet slowly with his interest growing for the young man, Pereira begins to find himself, being stirred from his own stupor, both physically and politically. Throughout the novel, Pereira often admonishes the young revolutionary for his politically brazen statements and thoughts, and finds himself, expressing a certain bit of fear for his own career and livelihood, because of his association with the young man, and his desire to write politically charged articles. Despite this though, Pereira begins to show a curious interest in the subterfuge being utilized by the young man and his cohorts, to undermine the ruling political regime and its ideology. At first Pereira is an apolitical individual, a man among the mass who accepts the current political atmosphere and situation, as the current reality; then he takes on a admonished role, quick to attempt reason with Monteiro; and eventually Pereira becomes tantalized by the life of Monteiro, and after the political awakening, Pereira declares his own political awakening, and has completed an entire transformation, and awakened from his own political stupor.

Despite this, Antonio Tabucchi was not a politically motivated writer. When “Pereira Maintains,” or “Pereira Declares,” was first published, it was picked up by the masses, as an encouraging read, and as a book of protest – especially against Silvio Berlusconi. After the novels political and publication success had taken place, there was great speculation that the writer would run for election to the senate. Tabucchi however declined; and has stated that his love has always been literature, and for literature to succeed there needs to be a mixture, of dreams, desire and fantasy; and his professional calling has always been a university professor, and he had no interest in leaving either of those pursuits behind in favour of one that was political. Despite not being a political author, Tabucchi was a writer who openly admitted that everyone should keep a sharp eye on politics.

When politics do come up for Tabucchi, it often has questions relating to the philosophical, the ontological or the existential, and often in a historical context, of some sort or another. It is not a political thriller, or a discussion of communism being ideologically purer then fascism; or fascism far more sustainable then communism. Rather for Tabucchi, it is the shaking of the political or ideological yoke, and undermining oppression. The oppression of such: dreams, desires, and fantasies, which make literature a possibility. Though, when serious conversations do appear, concerning political matters, they are often driven by philosophical questions, rather than politically engaged criticism or vitriol; such is the case with the short story “Clouds,” from “Time Ages in a Hurry,” where a young girl and a middle aged man, discuss the futility and the necessity of war. Such is Tabucchi’s magic, being engaged with contemporary concerns, but not being overtly politically engaged that one is patronized by it.

“Tristano Dies: A Life,” is a perfect companion book to “Time Ages in a Hurry.” The character of this novel, Tristano is a man of a colourful history. We are introduced to Tristano who was a resistance fighter in Greece, who shoots a Nazi-German soldier down in the middle of the street, after the solider attacks the people of a Greek village. From there enters one of the two women of Tristano’s life: Daphne; who hides Tristano away from the occupying forces, and until Tristano can safely get away into the hills. There in the hills, Tristano encounters another woman, who would haunt his life, from his receding memory, an American woman, who is supporting the resistance, and goes by the name Marilyn; though Tristano re-christens her as: “Rosamunde,” or “Guagliona.” Both women appear in Tristano’s monologue, but neither taken any more shape than any of his other dream-like memories, being recounted to the writer who has been called to his bedside, to listen to his recount of a life, on one sultry August. In these dog days of August, Tristano begins to recount his life, but his memory is clouded by both the vulture hovering death, and the morphine he takes to help manage the pain of his gangrene, which is devouring his leg.

The writer called to Tristano’s bedside, has a difficult task ahead of him. The writer is acquainted with Tristano already, having written a small prize winning book about the war hero, but with the request, to sit at the veterans side, and to listen to him recount his life, the writer, soon finds he needs to skim the fat of both imagination, dream, and drug to get the broth and stock of the story, without it being completely adulterated by other imposing forces. Yet, Tristano’s monologue and recount of the events of his life are not always straightforward. They are filled with tangents, thoughts, and questions of the past.  In memory, time is a force that does not move linearly or without logical principals. In memory, and in the case of Tristano’s concept of time, it moves forwards, backwards, without any reasoning behind it. This along with his often drug induced awakenings, would constitute him as a rather unreliable narrator. Still the journey with Tristano and the many versions of himself, and the stream-of-consciousness prose, in which is utilized creates an interesting and unique read.

“Tristano Dies: A Life,” has often been called one of Antonio Tabucchi’s masterpieces. It’s understandable, to see why it is referred to one of his major novels. It deals with the recurring themes of life, death, devotion, love and war. All mixed with Tabucchi’s keen style of always being vague in the middle, and giving the details around the edges. “Tristano Dies: A Life,” however is not an easy read. The style of the book, moves quickly through time, and without any linear direction; when the prose at the sudden shift in temporal perspective, do match up on a singular symphonic note, the majesty of Antonio Tabucchi’s talent become paramount and shine through. Other times though, the prose of “Tristano Dies: A Life,” came move in a direction, that becomes slightly off-putting; the use of extended letters or the attempt of language (both author and translator I presume), trying to use words to mimic the nonsensical sounds we make. But at its heights its witty, it’s thought provoking, and empathetic. I can imagine Frau smoking cigar in the garden, beneath a tree; or being spiteful and speaking German, despite the fact that her Italian is impeccable; and her tenderness when she reads a poem to Tristano every Sunday, just as if they were children again.

The novel itself, is not a book about death, or morbid sentiments or mortuary guilty pleasures. It is true that Tristano is dying; hence the title: “Tristano: Dies,” but it luckily enough has the subtext: “A Life,” to go along with it. “Tristano Dies: A Life,” is far more concerned with the life of Tristano, depicted throughout the novel in one long monologue; and death is broached and discussed as Tristano faces his own mortality. He offers a discussion on the parting of Elephants when they die:

“Speaking of elephants, of all the creatures of this world and all their funeral rites, I’ve always admired the elephants’ the most, they have this strange way of dying—you know about it? When an elephant feels his time has come he leaves the herd, but not alone, he chooses a companion, and they leave together. They start out across the savannah, often at a trot, depending on how urgent the dying elephant is feeling…and they wander and wander, sometimes kilometers and kilometers, until the dying elephant chooses his place to die, and he goes round and round again, tracing a circle, because he knows it’s time to die, he’s being drawn into death but needs to understand this space, as though he has an appointment, as though he wants to look outside himself, look death in the eye, and tell her, good morning madam death, here I am…of course it’s an imaginary circle, but it helps to “geography” death, if you will…and he’s the only one who can enter this circle, for death’s a private act, extremely private, so no one else can enter except the one who’s dying, and at this point he tells his companion he can leave, goodbye, thanks so much, and the other returns to the herd…”

All readers are invited to trot along with Tristano, in this novel.

Archipelago Books, outdoes itself again with another masterful translation, and another book by the late Antonio Tabucchi as well! “Tristano Dies: A Life,” took a while to read, it’s a dense novel, but a pleasurable read, and one must face the facts, the more forward the pages flip the greater the possibility that our time with Tristano is coming to an end; and so it’s best to take it slowly, and enjoy the journey and the route forward, with Tristano and the writer, and admire the prose of Antonio Tabucchi. The work is both empathetic, and humorous; cantankerous and thoughtful; philosophical and critical. Another rewarding book, from Antonio Tabucchi, and Archipelago Books.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

P.S. Gentle Reader, because of considerable more energy being pushed towards, education and getting my educational requirements done and pushed through, I have been focusing more on those projects, which has taken time away from reading. Later this week I will also be leaving for a few days out of town, on a family matter, and will not be back until later next week, and will not have anything posted. I am hoping to get “Missing Persons,” wrapped up by Patrick Modiano, in this time frame. If not when I return I will hope to post some blogs about interesting literary news, that may have happened in my absence. Thank-you Gentle Reader for your readership, your understanding, and your continual kind support. ––– M. Mary 

Remembering Wisława Szymborska

Hello Gentle Reader

While watching Downton Abbey last night, I struck by the peculiar thought – I have my own Gladys Denker at my own work! Yes a Denker; the cunning, astute, and even a bit shrewd creature. Though perhaps referring to this co-worker as a Denker is a bigger compliment then it is a genuine realization or even insulting. Denker is not a character of many admirable traits or qualities. She manipulates Andrew Parker into spending his money, so she can drink at “The Velvet Violin,” at his expense; though thankfully the equally cunning and charming (if albeit sarcastic manner) Thomas Barrow rescues Andrew from another fateful night of Denker drinking on his penny. Yes, that does sound similar to a co-worker of mine; though Denker (as her name suggests – is a thinker) where my co-worker is nothing more than a window dresser of her work, and sloppy on who she steps on to achieve something substance via her perception. If only my work had a Violet Crawley and a Spratt, perhaps this would all be more entertaining; but for now it’s not.

Wisława Szymborska has also immortalized this individual, in one of her poems: “Old Folks Home,” which displays the poets grace, humour, irony, and often keen sense of the human condition.

“Old Folks’ Home,”
                         By – Wisława Szymborska

Here comes Her Highness—well you know who I mean,
our Helen the snooty—now who made her queen!
With her lipstick and wig on, as we could care,
like her three sons in Heaven, can see her from there!

“I wouldn’t be here if they’d lived through the war.
I’d spend winter with one son, summer with another.”
What makes her so sure?
I’d be dead too now, with her for a mother.

And she keeps on asking (“I don’t mean to pry”)
why from your sons and daughters there’s never a word
even though they weren’t killed. “If my boys were alive,
I’d spend all my holidays home with the third.”

Right, and in his gold carriage he’d come get her,
drawn by a swan or a lily-white dove,
to show all of us that he’ll never forget her
and how much he owes to her motherly love.

Even Jane herself, the nurse, can’t help but grin
when our Helen starts singing this old song again—
even though Jane’s job is commiseration
Monday through Friday with two weeks’ vacation.


I’ve never been much of a individual for poetry; an obscure and oblique literary form as far as I was concerned for many years. The structure of lines made no sense at all; and though at times its use of language was pertinent and often was capable of metaphorically giving voice to emotional thoughts and ideas, it was at the end of day, still a form that existed beyond my own comprehension. Reading an Elizabethan sonnet or an Italian sonnet, was equivalent to torture. Poetry it seemed had been reserved for poets, and other poets – cryptic creatures, that corresponded via these odd landscapes captured in words, and emotional revelations.

Enter Wisława Szymborska; specifically her poem “Cat in an Empty Apartment.” The poem itself tackled the theme of death, but domesticated it, and was written via the perspective of a cat, who views its absent owner as negligent and neglectful in their care and duty of it. The poem makes light of a dark theme, but also discusses the concept of death, with a fresh perspective, and gentle way. The poem itself, from my understanding is learned by school children and recited often by them.

Wisława Szymborska was a quiet and modest giant of poetry and literature. She wrote it is estimated only three-hundred and fifty poems, and yet still achieved the Nobel Prize for Literature in nineteen ninety-six. However the Nobel was often referred to as the “Nobel Disaster,” (or the "Stockholm Tragedy) as with its announcement, the quiet poet, was soon sprung into a limelight that brought unwanted attention. Request for interviews, call of congenial congratulations poured in, and the telephone never ceased ringing. Then of course there was the incident at Stockholm itself. Being the year’s Nobel Laureate in Literature, Szymborska was put up in one of the most luxurious suites in the hotel; and as the story goes, she was a kind woman who lived a modest and simple life, in Krakow, in an apartment, which had been christened “The Drawer,” by close and dear friends; in the suite of this hotel however, Szymborska found herself sleeping in the bath tub, because she could not figure out how to work the light switches. During her time in Stockholm she delivered one of the shortest acceptance speeches, which was filled her humour and gracious gratitude to the Swedish Academy. The affair would soon end, but for Szymborska, her life had been changed from that point on.

The Nobel shockwave continued to ripple through her life, and she soon hired a secretary to assist with the management of her affairs. His first job: stop the phone from ringing; though the position was planned as temporary, her assistant Michał Rusinek, and the poet had become close friends, but professional nonetheless.

Szymborska was profound, accessible, humorous all wrapped up in her earthly poetry with a penchant for understatement. She was a quiet giant of literature, who passed away on February 1st, 2012, was dearly mourned and missed by not only the Polish public but by those who had come into contact with the poet. Her love of kitschy objects befits her personality; her misplacement of her Nobel medal in her drawer of an apartment; her love of creating her own postcards showcasing her humour – they each describe Szymborska, the modest, shy, quiet giant of poetry who has reshaped poetry as not a literary form locked away in the ivory tower, but a lively, earthly conversation about all the aspects of what it means to be human.

Rest In Peace Szymborska. To this day, your poetry is a bed time reading for me. When I have a bad day, I turn to you. When I require a thought to mull, I read you. When I need comforting, I long for you. Because of you, I have learned to have a greater appreciation for drawers, and their capacity to hold, treasure, and keep; and for that I smile for you.

Life is sometimes bearable My Dear Szymborska, and at times only with you.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary

P.S. Now if only I could get my hands on the two documentaries of Szymborska herself. But for now her books certainly do.