Fumbling and Faltering over Fantasy

Hello Gentle Reader

[ Part I ]

When I was younger my friends were incredible readers. They were the kids, who when they weren’t outside playing with friends, or playing video games, or watching television; where most certainly found tucked away reading a book in quiet solitude. They were voracious readers, who when conversations got drab or boring would turn to the books they were reading and discuss them, like our parents would discuss soap operas. Their mouths scribbled and rattled off names that were exotic and foreign. Each name held the sketches of a character. I’d sit back at first alienated and ignorant of the information being passed around me. They discussed the worlds like they had traveled there, the battles as if they’d seen the ruins and read the histories, and passed judgements on the characters and villains with informed opinions. There was little I could add to these conversations. So I sat back quietly and listened or watched the clouds drift overhead or observed sow thistle and dandelions shudder in the wind. Other times I excused myself and would go home. It’s no fun when you can’t be considered an active participant in the conversation. These foreign lands and exotic countries were personal and private to the books they had read. Seeing as I had not read those books, I was not invited to participate. Eventually my alienation was taken note of. Children are perhaps more perceptive and empathetic then they are previously credited for. Rather than reading the books, my dear friends told me (in condescend and personal way) the stories from books they read. The recounted in great detail battles and wars, and what caused them. They offered character analyses. They went over the history of the ‘ages,’ as they were often called, and discussed what happened in each age, which lead to the current chapter in the saga. Then of course they would listen to my minute, detailed oriented inquiries about the characters, the geography, the history, the cultural differences and the abilities which were abound in the books. I learned about high towers of sorcery, where pupils were trained on the nature and art of magic, and how conjure and compose enchantments; or knights and mercenaries who did battle for honour or for money, elves who were above the mortal squabbling of men, and the mundane toil of other races, gnomes who invent imperfect machines, because perfection only reduces purpose and meaning, and so on and so forth. It was all so bewitching, to sit on the playground and imagine these unique worlds and cultures just forming around the edges of your peripheral eye site, as you imagine them taking shape. At night I would dream about these wonderful worlds of awe. I’d ride on horseback through prairies and fields, through babbling brooks and flowery meadows; or work in a historical capacity, theorizing and documenting the battles and wars fought, through all the rusted armor and weaponry lying scattered about the fields of battle, and occasionally stumble across a bone or skull.

It was always a joy to listen to my friends tell me about these unique worlds found in the books they read; and of course in turn ask questions about the narratives and the stories told, which they enjoyed answering. Eventually I borrowed one of the books, my friends were reading, and while I sat alone in my room that late summer evening, I tried reading it. To my surprise Gentle Reader, I found the book terrible. It did not in the least bit echo the stories that my friends had told me or spun for me. The writing often tried to be high and flowery, while at the same time fell into the vernacular. The characters were as thin as the cheap mass market paperback itself. The author(s) came across as egocentric, and self-centered. It appeared immediately that as a reader I was expected to already know the world presented; the characters within it, and the history which has already happened, and be aware of the current political machinations of the time. Not to mention the books had tasteless illustrated cover art, which appeared chauvinistic with a blatant attempt at sex appeal marketing directed towards pimple faced pubescent boys. The plots were melodramatic, the battles short and the buildup long and drawn out, and any romance or filtration was undercut by how poorly written it was, as it came across as more a slapstick comedy then a tense and sexy mood. But my difficulties with the fantasy genre extended beyond the writing and its marketing. The truth is, I couldn’t grasp the premise. I would sit in my bed and do my best to sound out the spells or better yet the names of the characters, and try to understand the laws and makings of the world; and in the end failed miserably. The premise of magic was never a subject that was offered any elucidation. It was seen as both a natural force, which could be contained and controlled by human laws. Any culture presented in the work was often just a sentence or two and left at that. I returned the books to my friends, who eagerly waited for my review. I always lied. I’d say I enjoyed the novel and thought it was good; but admittedly I preferred when they retold the stories to me, rather than attempting to read them myself. They would return to their fantasy and science fiction novels, while I returned to my own books. I remember at the time reading children’s editions of: “White Wolf,” “Oliver Twist,” and “Moby Dick.” As we got older they continued to read works in the fantasy genre, while I pushed forward and read Charlotte Bronte’s “Jane Eyre,” and Charles Dickens “Great Expectations,” before moving onto crime and murder mysteries, before falling back in love with Virginia Woolf, branching into philosophy with Friedrich Nietzsche, then Jean-Paul Sartre (who I had a reader/writer falling out with), and then began to move towards my current reading tastes, which I have yet to stray from.

[ Part II ]

Fantasy and science fiction is rarely read and reviewed here. To this day the land of fantasy is closed off from me. No matter how many times I scale the walls, and sneak through fields and forests, the world refuses to relinquish the joys others seem to find in it. At which point, without further ado, I always depart from their lands and forget about their borders. As for science fiction, their spaces and other planets fail to amaze me or intrigue me, so I won’t be on the latest SpaceX car launch to travel to some far-flung galaxy and explore the world; whereupon I can observe its slow colonization and terraformation, at which point it too can sustain life. But I do retain some curiosity and perhaps even sympathy towards the genres and how they are loved by many in the reading public, before being quickly eviscerated by the ruling literary elite, who refuse to welcome the authors and their work into the pantheon of literature, due to their subject matter being considered subpar, ridiculous, ludicrous, with no real tether or attachment to reality or the present human condition. Now for long periods of time, the writers and the readers accepted this degradation and dismissal. That perspective, however, has changed over the years.

The late Ursula Le Guin, was an adamant defender of the genres, as well as a vocal critic of their unjust ghettoization. This fierce desire to change the perspective and the dynamic did not wane or adjust as she got older—it only grew fiercer. Who could forget her criticism of Margaret Atwood, who preferred her genre defying work(s) such as: “The Handmaids Tale,” “Oryx and Crake,” “The Year of The Flood,” and “MaddAddam,” to be considered speculative fiction rather than science fiction; which she called: “talking squids in space.” The charge of the outrage and backlash was led by Ursula Le Guin, who understood the reasoning behind Atwood’s comments, but remained steadfast and firm in her criticism that Margaret Atwood and others in the literary establishment were so quick to dismiss the merit of science fiction and other genre fictions. Margaret Atwood would later clarify her position (not apologize), and understood how Ursula Le Guin and others would find her comments unnerving even (unintentionally) offensive. The storm settled and Margaret Atwood and Ursula Le Guin would continue their unique relationship as both friends, and contrary opposites of perspective and viewpoints of each other. As she got older, Ursula Le Guin became both grandmother and saint of her ghettoized community, which she continually tried to tear down the walls surrounding it, and see it recognized as a potent literary form of its own merits, not some B-listed, third class hack. Yes, there were those who could be found amongst their midst—but they were not the sole diplomatic representatives and ambassadors of their clan. This is where Ursula Le Guin, gather’s her credit. She was a writer who wrote both: science fiction, fantasy and children’s literature, but treated them with as much seriousness as she would a realistic novel or short story. She embroidered and emblazed her genre fiction work with precautious and human themes, which explored ideas of sociology, anthropology, psychology, gender, philosophy and other unique questions about the human condition, in a more foreign and extreme format, which only fantasy and science fiction could offer.

Ursula Le Guin’s pen turned spear, was often quick to be thrown at perceived threats. In two-thousand and fifteen she turned her criticism towards Kazuo Ishiguro, over his perceived trepidation that some of his readers may have with regards to his recently published novel: “The Buried Giant.” In her strongly worded blog post, the late author, lambasted Ishiguro, for what she saw as a high standing literary recognized writer, who snobbishly looked down on the fantasy genre, he so willing decided to utilize. His curiosity was concerned for his readers; would they follow him on his journey into the unknown post-Arthurian fantasy world he crafted (fit with ogres, pixies, and a slumbering dragon exhaling amnesiac smoke), would they grasp what it is he was trying to discuss, would they have some prejudicial perspective and judgement towards the superficial elements—“Are they going to say this is fantasy?” Ursula Le Guin took the final pondering as the most insulting comment the author could make. Just what was wrong with fantasy? Just what is his, own trepidation towards fantasy? Her curiosity was merely artificial then sincere, as she did not necessarily care what his concern for the word fantasy meant, or more precisely: if the novel is called fantasy where does that leave the career of Ishiguro as a high literary author. She accused his novel “The Buried Giant,” for lacking conviction in imagination, and that the novel merely borrowed surface elements of fantasy, such as mysterious boatmen, ogres in the peripheral, or a slumbering dragon—to set the scene, but lacked the vivid imagination and storytelling of fantasy to be considered fantasy. At best, she provoked, “The Buried Giant,” was just merely literary hackwork; where a literary author borrowed elements and techniques of the genre, with no real understanding of the depth of the narrative, or its unique style. She concluded, that of course Ishiguro’s novel would be well received, and his readers would most certainly run to him, buy his novel and seek to comprehend and understand the message and plot he was trying to convey. Yet, she could not endorse let alone condone the novel. She admired the attempt he made with the novel, but found his lack of conviction towards respecting the fundamental uniqueness of the genre, diminished any attempts at making the novel realize its full potential, and would not receive her endorsement. Her point was made explicitly clear in at the end of her blog post:

“No writer can successfully use the ‘surface elements’ of a literary genre — far less its profound capacities — for a serious purpose, while despising it to the point of fearing identification with it. I found reading the book painful. It was like watching a man falling from a high wire while he shouts to the audience, “Are they going say I’m a tight-rope walker?”’

“The Buried Giant,” initially received mixed and lukewarm reviews (then eventually positive ones). It was, however, later endorsed by the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy Sara Danius, who commented on how much she enjoyed the novel and would recommend it to others, as it explores through parable elements, amnesia and guilt take hold of a society as a whole.

[ Part III ]

Fantasy often requires some explanation, introduction and orientation to the world. The writer must offer some brief overview of the world, from history to geography, as well as anthropology, before introducing main characters and eventually getting the story underway. Some writers are better known for their extensive world building then others; such as J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Terry Pratchett, Ursula Le Guin, and George R. R. Martin. They introduce and intricately weave history, geography and anthropology through their works, far after initial introductions. This has been an issue with me as a failed reader of fantasy. I can’t grasp my head around the quick sketches and minimal vignettes provided, and often require and desire greater elucidation. Tell me more about the geography and the land; inform me about the unique cities salt and peppered on the map; enlighten me with greater detail about the cultures of the people living in this land; notify me of the flora and fauna, their dangers and their unique characteristics. Alas, a writer can only play an imperfect god, and at greater mercy for a harsher god and critic: the reader. Some are willing to disregard any gnawing questions they have and accept the world they have been offered. But I never could and never will. I desire all information. I desire a complete codex or encyclopedia which lists and explains all the details I crave. They are rarely produced, and when they are—to say the least any experience has been underwhelmed.

Another issue with fantasy literature and the genre is its desire for epicism, and its lack of moral complexities. There is always some grand battle or war is to be fought where morality and virtue are to triumph over the immoral and parasitic evil which has infested the world. It is a rather dichotomous perspective, which I find both baring and lacking any philosophical engagement. As a reader and individual, I don’t believe in concrete or explicit terms outlining morals into the supremely just and righteous, and the purely depraved and corrupt. Nothing is truly or inherently evil or extraordinarily moral. As we are continuously reminded in this ever stranger world, sociopathy is a spectrum not a scale—and every individual in some way or another does, possess certain traits considered sociopathic. The difference of course is if someone fixates and willing exploits the traits at the expense of others. In other words: personal and individual choices; not cosmic or universal decree.  The moral standing ground of fantasy literature, it seems, has always been two dimensional.

The other issue I often have with fantasy literature is its lack of daily life depicted and a lack of mundanity to it. Due to the genres desire for epicism and grand scale battles, the daily life of characters and the populace as a whole is often overlooked. But do the characters change their clothes? Do they wash their clothes? Sure there are ‘moments,’ scattered through the books, where they sit down by a camp fire and eat some rabbit or whatever fantastical creature has been hunted for the dinner, its skinned and cooked over the fire, and eaten, at which point we are told that’s that, good enough, back to the action. What about health and hygiene, do they bath, do they get sick, do they get proper nutrition in their diet? What happen if they become injured or ill? Are we simply to accept magic heals all mortal wounds, and prevents illnesses from taking place? Personally I can’t disengage my practical thought process enough to ignore these pressing concerns, and then accept [insert jazz hands] ‘magic,’ as a deus ex machina solution for another apparent issue. What is daily life in this world really like? Does it require a feudal or serf like system of governance and economy? Is it aristocratic? Is it theocratic? Is it a plutocracy? What is currency like in this place; how do transactions take place, and how is commerce able to work in this society. Are people ‘developed,’ or are they barely scraping a living off rocks; is there a division between economic classes, and a disparity of wealth. What do houses look like, what are in these houses, what is a family life look like, what are the prospective careers for the average citizen of the land and society? All these questions go unanswered. They are perhaps too trivial, myopic, and insignificant for a writer to give a thought to, and a reader to care to know about. After all we a interested in the great bloody battles, the epic fights, the glory and the death—not currencies and commerce, economies and disparities, or how a society functions under a particular governance. No we have a hero chosen by the gods, who will do the good work, and in his success and victory change the world. He will rid it of evil and immorality, and create a shining utopia, one of justice, righteousness, and shining moral codes. My thoughts: not interested. Call me dreary or boring, but the fantastic should be realistic in its world, which encompasses the realities of mundane day to day life. Of course we are not there for that at the end of the day. The true readers of the genre would much prefer (it seems or so it is marketed) to have it the way it is.

[ Part IV ]

Magical realism is often seen as the enemy of fantasy genre fiction. Magical realism has achieved everything that fantasy fiction wishes it had. Magical realism is recognized and acclaimed as a unique literary format of writing (not a genre), where the mundane is depicted with magical pizazz. The work of magical realism is often treated with scholarly intrigue and scalpel study. Where it’s relative or closest superficial relation: fantasy fiction; is still treated with contempt and snobbery. In return fantasy writers have often mocked magical realism wish such comments as:

“magical realism—which we all know is just fantasy written by a Latin American author.” – Steven Brust

“magic realism is fantasy written by people who speak Spanish.” – Gene Wolfe

“[Magical realism] is a polite way of saying you write fantasy.” – Terry Pratchett

There comments are justified, but not entirely. In fact most of the comments merely show disdain or envy towards magical realism, due to its success, acclaim and appreciation.

Magical realism is often considered a form of fantasy by many—as it does not strikingly depict a staunch realistic or naturalistic world, in the same vein as: Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, Leo Tolstoy, or Emile Zola. Rather, magical realism, presents the real world, which is afflicted or affected by fantastical or supernatural phenomena. This unique pheromone—or magic—is observed as a normal occurrence. The other striking difference between magical realism and fantasy fiction is how the magical element of the narrative are handled. In fantasy, magic or sorcery or enchantments, are seen as tools to be used by certain individuals, be it a wizard or a witch et cetera; these individuals are apparently naturally gifted or trained to use supernatural or magical elements as a functionary force of their will. In a magical realism novel or piece of fiction, magic or the supernatural is a natural occurring event, no different than the wind blowing, rain falling, or clouds overhead. It is simply put: an absurd natural event which takes place, and is dealt with in a similar fashion, with characters working around the event, preparing for the event, or cleaning up or mitigating the event.

In “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” by the late Nobel Laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez, there is a scene where a ghost meanders and mopes through the house looking for water in which to wash his throat wound, the mother leaves out pails of water for the ghost. In another scene, a girl is so beautiful, while she is hanging the laundry on the clothesline she ascends back to heaven due to her beauty. A character within the novel is always followed by a group of yellow butterflies. Beyond “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” magical realism springs up in Marquez’s short stories and other novels. In one short story an aging prostitute trains her dog to cry at her grave; while in another a village is stunned when an old man with enormous molted buzzard wings. The oddities discussed are at times mundane or perceived as natural occurrences.  These unique manifestations are also symbolic devices utilized by the author in the narrative. Take for example the story of the old man with enormous wings (“A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,”). The titular character, the woman with the wings, is first thought of as an angel by the residents of the village; but the local priest (an authority on all matters divine and theological in nature), disagrees with this colloquial definition. The old man is too human, too frail, to be considered one of the select servants of God; and therefore cannot be considered angelic in presence. This divine appearance and then thwarted divinity by the priest, is a unique symbol of the human condition, whereupon we are viewed as earthly, frail, sickly, and could never come close to the divinity and celestial presence of god—and seeing as the angelic creature, shares these same physical traits, it also cannot be considered a member of the divine court.

I confess, I rather enjoy magical realism—when it is done correctly. I enjoy the fact that the world is familiar and requires no introductions, orientations, or explanations. The characters are who they are and go amongst their daily lives, with supernatural occurrences parading or existing around them. I enjoy the fact that magic is considered a more natural force or eccentric event, often mixed with the mundanity of life, such as being followed by butterflies, or being called back to the heavens due to one’s beauty. Perhaps, though, my most favourite book I have read, which displays stylistic elements of magical realism is, Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times.” The beginning of the novel alone is truly a wonderful experience, its light riddled and baroque. One almost wishes Primeval exists itself. But the mystical town caught between the joys and pains of the world, does not exist and nor do its eccentric characters. The lives of the characters, which we observe through their slow procession through time, make up the novel and truly give it, its great success. The characters themselves live rather mundane lives; they build their homes and raise their families, they drink and cuss at the moon, or scrap what little food they can find to survive. Their lives are completely ordinary. There is no major quest or battle; no epic journey or encounters. There is pontification of the forces of good versus the armies of evil; it’s just the mundane and yet slightly baroque and whimsical world of Primeval.

Perhaps that is what is enjoyable about magical realism; it eschews the hallmarks of fantasy fiction such as the epic struggles, journeys and battles; for the quieter side of things in our own world, which just happens to be affected by the odd magical forces which surround the world. These magical forces, however, are not the pillar of the story or tools of functionary use, they are symbols utilized by the author to comment on the human condition, but also to present a magical perspective of our own ordinary world. I believe (though cannot verify) it was Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who commented on the shortsighted and static perspective that pure realism literature possessed, as it never took into consideration the truly unique, personal, and exotic perspective every individual has of the world.

It should be noted as well, magical realism is not exclusive to Latin America or more specifically the Latin American Boom. There are writers all over the world who write in the style of magical realism (and then refute the term). They include the late Angela Carter, Ben Okri (refutes the term), Olga Tokarczuk (refutes the term), Salman Rushdie, Toni Morison, Franz Kafka, Jose Saramago, Victor Pelevin and even Kenzaburo Oe. Writers describing and other wise indecipherable or odd perspective of the world can be seen all over the vast literary stage. Magical realism grew popular from the Latin American Boom, but is not exclusive to the southern continent or its writers. It’s an enjoyable literary style, one that offers the breath of fresh air, from the same old depressing and brow beating books of some realistic narratives. It can be both whimsical and serious, provoking deep philosophical and symbolic questions, while also displaying a unique perspective of the world around oneself. When I think about “Primeval and Other Times,” I still warmly remember the first half of the novel, painted with its late summer light, and its baroque beauty. Secretly then I hoped I would never finish reading the novel; and the lives of the characters would just continue to unfold before me, and when they died their offspring would continue, and so on and so forth; but of course the novel had to end and it did end. To think back on the novel fondly though, as I often do, I know I had read something spectacular and worth remembering.

[ Part V ]

Fantasy fiction is something I could never grasp or comprehend. It’s a genre which eludes me. Perhaps I am too much of a pedantic reader, who is incapable of letting go of the tangible realities in order to explore the world so many others have found comfort and entertainment in. Admittedly, I’ve enjoyed HBO’s “Game of Thrones,” but can’t imagine myself reading the books. The adaption of “The Lord of the Rings,” still puts me to sleep. Yet, fantasy and I, as genre and reader are not simpatico. We’ve never blended well; and the same sits true for most science fiction; though I do recall enjoying the magical/dystopian novel “Blindness,” by Jose Saramago; but when it came to the science fiction metafiction of Margaret Atwood’s “Blind Assassin,” I was rather put off by its kitschy perspective; that being said, I did enjoy “Oryx and Crake,” and “The Year of the Flood,” but never finished the trilogy. I have been told I should read Angela Carter, and take a look at Ursula Le Guin. At this point though my Dear Gentle Reader, I do think my prejudice are firm and well-grounded. I doubt I’ll have any future attempts at serious puritanical fantasy fiction. I do enjoy magical realism, with its odd perspective and extraordinary events taking place in an otherwise ordinary world; and those same events are dealt with in the same ordinary fashion, befit the mundane world.

When I think back on fantasy fiction and my attempts at reading it, I am more reminded of my friends of my youth who have since scattered. I remember how they told me about the novels they read and the worlds they visited, the soap operatic adventures, the archetypical characters, and the otherwise unremarkable plots. Their enthusiasm still shines in my mind. If I am to confess what is missed the most: it would simply be the company and the socialization. Perhaps fantasy fiction and its worlds are more persistent in my memory due to its association with a time when things were simpler, when life appeared simpler, when time stood still, and summers would extend into what felt like eternity. Since then, I have stumbled, fumbled and faltered over fantasy, and grow more frustrated and even contemptuous towards the genre. No matter though, when I think of the genre now I remember sow thistles and dandelions; clouds overhead and blue skies.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Edna O’Brien, Wins PEN/Nabokov Prize

Hello Gentle Reader

Edna O’Brien has received the $50,000 PEN/Nabokov Prize. It is one of numerous awards the author has received. Yet, still a victory of author, whose first publications and forays into writing were met with resistance. In her youth as a controversial Irish female writer, Edna O’Brien’s work were often banned, censored and even burned. Her debut novel “The Country Girls,” opened up a new horizon for Irish Literature. This new horizon, however, was not comfortable. “The Country Girls,” displayed an intimate portrait of young women living in the Irish countryside. It depicted explicit scenes of sex, and was noted for using foul language. Needless to say the reigning puritanical Catholicism of the time had the book immediately banned, and O’Brien’s parish priest burned the book(s) with fanatical frenzy. Afterwards, the author and her home would often have a complicated relationship with each other. Despite the censored and burning reception the book got in Ireland, it was considered an interesting debut elsewhere. From that point on Edna O’Brien became a green hurricane from Ireland, whose novels, short stories, non-fiction, dramas and plays would go on and open the doors of Irish literature, seen through the eyes of a woman. Her works broke down the taboo subjects of sex, and opened the doors for sexual liberation and a discussion of social issues facing women. The road to success for Edna O’Brien often found her morals and her character questioned and attacked. She was viewed as a sexual libertarian, a party girl, a social animal with no disregard for traditional thoughts on family and child rearing; and was often considered an immoral idol for young girls to look up to. Yet, now in her late eighties the author, with her wits about her, coupled with candor, offers compliments and criticism to her early year’s slander.

In her acceptance speech for the 2018 Pen/Nabokov Prize, Edna O’Brien gave Ireland a slight backhanded compliment:

“It’s a wonderful thing to know that madness and obstacles are grist to the mill. So I thank my country.”

Beyond casting a bit of shade of Ireland, Edna O’Brien offered thanks to the PEN American association which has worked tirelessly to promote freedom of speech and secure freedom and safety for persecuted journalists and writers. Edna O’Brien also pointed out the importance of language and writing in such ‘unhinged times,’—where telling the truth is more important now than ever, and language as the preeminent force to showcase the undying and resilient human spirit.

Congregations to Edna O’Brien, for receiving the award; and at the age of eighty-even continues to write. Her next novel is “Girl,” about the kidnapping of almost three hundred school girls, by the terrorist group Boko Haram. Neither age or time slows the author down, as she continues to write about a world continually thrown into perplexing states of madness.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

P.S. To read more about Edna O'Brien's recent win, please read the following Irish Times article:

Edna O’Brien: Lolita author Nabokov was ‘scathing of women’''

Reflecting on Dreams for the Future

Hello Gentle Reader

“What do you want to be/do, when you grow up?” is an age old question, which adults use to engage children in conversation or at least probe their still forming psychological character. The answers are best general or archetypical: police officer, firefighter, doctor, lawyer et cetera. To add to the conversation one will ask for rationale for the answer. The rationale varies from: ‘I want to lock up the bad guys,’ to ‘save people.’ Yet the professions identified are always admirable, just as their reasoning’s are adorable.

In a recent interview with Studio 10 in Australian, veteran actress Dame Patricia Routledge reflected on her dreams of her future as a young girl. The grand dame reflected that when she was younger, she had fancied herself a English teacher, and by the time she was forty she would have become an avant-garde headmistress, who drove a red sports car, who had romances all over Europe during her holidays. Yet, Dame  Patricia Routledge’s life took a different turn during university—where she was studying English language and literature—when she worked alongside the academic Edmund Colledge, who was involved with the dramatic society of the university, and encouraged Patricia to seek out a career in acting, which she did.

Alice Munro is considered the marvel of Canadian conventions, ideals, and beliefs. She’s modest, humble, hardworking, and never ostentatious—she’s almost on the borderline of apologetic. Her career has been an example of hard work and dedication, while overcoming life and obstacles. Her first forays in publication where muted but celebrated, but she was deemed a housewife before she was titled an author. Then, forty-five years from her debuted short story collection, Alice Munro won the Nobel Prize for Literature with the citation of being: “the contemporary master of the short story.” When asked in an interview her early thoughts and dreams of her writing success, Alice Munro presented a contrary perspective to the reality. She confessed when she thought of becoming a writer in her early teenage years, she would have become a great success before she was twenty-five. Afterwards she would have traveled to England and met Laurence Olivier, and have a beautiful velvet blue ballroom dress. She would have written one great novel at this time, which would have been the “Wuthering Heights,” of its time. Alice Munro may have never met Laurence Olivier or wore her velvet blue ballroom dress, or write the “Wuthering Heights,” of her generation; but her short stories have captivated readers beyond borders and languages. Her keen psychological insights, sparse prose, and ability to portray the extraordinary in the ordinary, and cast a welcoming gaze on the life of others, have made her a successful writer and Nobel laurate. She helped raise the short story from its root cellar dwelling, all the way up to its Olympian heights. In all: quite the achievements for someone who was once remarked as just being a house wife cum writer.

Another Nobel Laureate (and the most recent), Kauzo Ishiguro, recently elucidated on his private and personal ambitions of his younger self. When he was fifteen years old, the young Ishiguro had the ambition of becoming a songwriter, much like his hero and favourite singer Bob Dylan (who regrettably is also a Nobel Laureate in Literature). Ishiguro credits Bob Dylan’s album: “John Wesley Harding,” to opening his eyes (or ears) up to the possibility of utilizing words in a way beyond their vernacular functions, where one can tell stories, create worlds, and share moments. Following Bob Dylan’s influence, Ishiguro opened up about other literary ended singers and song-writers for the late seventies which included Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell. During this time period, Kazuo Ishiguro confessed her wrote hundreds of songs in his bedroom, and played them on his guitar with his friends, and has called this period his apprenticeship to becoming a writer of fiction. As he states in an interview with the Nobelprize.org website, one year in his twenties he transitioned from writing songs to short stories—and after years of getting nowhere professionally as a songwriter, and somewhere as a writer of prose, he moved to the one which was better received. In another interview, Kazuo Ishiguro had expressed how he did not fit the rock and roll image or the scene, and perhaps in a subconscious form of justice was always destined to be a man of letters then music.

Herta Müller is an individual marred by history and circumstance, while being an abnormality all the same. In an interview with “The Paris Review,” the author commented on how as a lonely little girl she tended the cows in the summer. There by herself with only the cattle as company, Müller dreamed of a life away from her tiny agriculture community. She considered becoming a seamstress (a career her mother had wished for her daughter) like her aunt, and even a hairdresser. But a writer? The thought was absurd if not entirely non-existent. There were no books in her parents’ home. Yet the young and lonely girl who tended the cattle identified, created and named the world around her. She created names, personalities and relationships for the wildflowers of the pastures, and gave thoughts to the clouds drifting overhead. She also imagined the unique lives of the passengers on the trains as they zipped past. She would wave at them, but also sure to have a new apron on every day, to show she had several ones. During this time the lonely girl would have her first existential ponderings, she ate the wildflowers and the plants throughout the valley, because she thought plants truly knew how to live, while she did not, and by eating the plants she would gain the knowledge of what it meant to live. It was the first time she would try to conceive of the notion of mortality and its meaning. She took note early on her existence was always vulnerable. This lonely girl would eventually escape her village, and ‘grow young,’ where she would discover books in the city and become corrupted. Once she started to read, she read voraciously! She consumed and devoured every parchment, poem, prose, and story she could get her hands on. She would study at university and become a translator at an engineering factory, where she was solicited by the communist state to cooperate with the secret service. She declined and suffered. She was sacked from her job, and was not permitted to have any official status of employment. She worked as a kindergarten teacher and supplemented her income by teaching private German lessons. Her solace and resistance, however, came in writing; which only infuriated the state. Still she continued to write, and much like her younger self, Herta Müller used her unique precision of language to identify, name and understand the cruel and absurd world of communist Romania, only to end up on the blue carpet of the Nobel Prize ceremony, as a recognized Laureate in Literature—a true world away from becoming a seamstress or a hairdresser.

Everyone has dreams of their future, and the success which they will surly accumulate over time. Success varies for each individual, from being an avant-garde headmistress driving a red sports car, to a songwriter who creates mystical worlds through the use of instruments and words, to having that velvet blue ball gown, where you are most certainly invited to all social soirees, and can indulge in champagne and good company. No one is immune to these dreams of the future; whereupon they break free from their current mundane life and achieve something extravagant and personal.

When I was younger, I don’t recall being an ambitious dreamer. I once thought myself a lawyer where I could stand on the pinnacles of justice; though I was persuaded by a contrary argument by a relative who asked me: “how can you defend someone who is guilt?” or on the flipside: “how can you prosecute someone you believe is innocent?” This relative immediately called into question my righteous capabilities, and as a shy and anxious child I could not argue or provide any contrary argument and accepted defeat. I don’t recall ever wanting to become a firefighter or a police officer. They always had the glory of the hero but at the cost of chaotic dangers. I once said marine biologist, because I had heard that a cousin of mine in the states was one—which is now considered ironic seeing as I never learned to swim. Yet, throughout my childhood I always viewed the pinnacles of success being working in an office. To my young mind, success was shaped by the office environment. I had always dreamed of working in some skyscraper in some high flung office overlooking the urban cityscape. Success was having one’s own office with a window with a view, where you could look out onto the horizon and see only potential and new conquests, because the dirty business of clawing ones way to success had already been done.

As a child, I was renowned in the family circle for being neurotic. My neurosis often displayed itself in absurd anxieties. The most prominent neurosis of my childhood was: taxes. I was constantly obsessed with taxes. Whenever I heard someone talk about taxes in my childhood I always imagined some bowler hat, suit wearing, leech mouthed man who was destined and determined to bleed the financial resources of people’s parents, through mundane ways such as: utilities (electricity, heat, and water), consumer goods, and paycheques. I often feared due to taxes my family and I would be forced into abject poverty, and to thwart this financial drain, I often ran around the house turning lights off and ensuring the taps never leaked. It was during this time that it came to my attention that taxes originated from the government, and seeing as the only position I knew of that worked for the government at the time, I vowed to become prime minster—if only to avoid paying taxes. Thinking of this now it is ironic, throughout my junior and secondary education (aka junior high and high school) I was often deemed in my class the most likely to become prime minister or work for the government. Of all my childhood dreams this one is still the most prevalent and present. I still wish to work in the public service, though not as a politician anymore, but rather a civil servant. Laws, policies, statues, and edicts still fascinate me, and the broad world of political science and law have become even more enticing and attractive with age. The law is a board field of study encompassing: constitutional law, criminal law, taxation law, business law, employment law, healthcare law, contract law, family/probate law, and so many more. The field itself screams bureaucratic paradise, one complete with paper work and ostentatious elocution—what could be better? Of course the studying path for law in Canada is not a straightforward or easy process—but that is a column for another day.

It’s fascinating: to review previously held dreams and to see where one has deviated from them, or changed the course of their life in a far more exciting venture. It’s exciting to see what still remains prevent, what interests have never changed, what goals are more refined now than ever, and how one continually builds, dreams, and falls for success.

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

M. Mary

The Golden Booker Prize

Hello Gentle Reader

Once again the Booker Prize is seeking the public’s help in naming its ‘Best of the Booker [ . . . ] For Now,’ award. In others words: seeing as the award has been around for fifty years, the Booker Prize Foundation is now, willing to name a ‘Golden Anniversary,’ Booker Prize winner, from previously awarded writers and their respective novels. The judging panel has already been selected and they are now tasked with reading the books of the decades, starting from the inception of the award in 1969 to the present (in other words two-thousand and seventeen).

Now this isn’t the first time the Booker Prize Foundation has created a special award, where the crème de le crème of the previous year’s winners have been weighted, measured and judged by judges and the public. In two-thousand and eight, Salman Rushdie and his Booker Prize winning novel “Midnight’s Children,” won the forty year anniversary Best of the Booker award, and in nineteen-ninety three would win again on the Booker Prize 25^th anniversary for its “Booker of Bookers,” year.

Now the judges are tasked of reviewing a wide berth of novels and writers from the mid twentieth century, to now. There are writers who are now considered the masters and classics of their time, as well as Nobel Laureates, as well as contemporary greats. The judges are set to read and review, and in May will present a “Golden Shortlist,” of writers and their novels, after which the public will have their say and vote on who they think deserves the Golden award. The winner will then finally be announced on July 8^th at the Hay Festival.

So, who are some noteworthy novelists who are in contention for the award?

The elephant in the room with precedence behind him is: Salman Rushdie, with his second novel “Midnight’s Children.” The novel went on to win the Booker Prize in 1981, as well as winning the 1993, and again winning the special 40^th anniversary award in 2008. It can be confidently stated; the public enjoys “Midnight’s Children,” and has supported the award in the past.

Iris Murdoch will be in contest with her 1978 winning novel: “The Sea, The Sea.” The novel traces the inner workings of a self-absorbed and egotistical playwright and director, who begin to write his memoirs in his seaside retreat. The novel is praised for its unique depiction of the cruelty of her characters, their motivations, petty and petulance; all in complete contrast to their public personas and displays of virtuous characteristics. It has been hailed as a masterful psychological novel—though not the most flattering in its depiction of the human soul.

V.S. Naipaul, Nobel Laureae, distinguished novelist, critic, essayist, and travel is also open to winning the Golden Booker with his novel: “In A Free State.” The novel is considered a hallmark of his symphonic style, and dealt with his themes regarding questions of freedom, especially the cost of freedom.

Margaret Atwood is also in the running for the award with her multilayered Matryoshka doll like novel “The Blind Assassin.” The novel is often considered one of Atwood’s bests. It’s a unique story which moves through time freely, from present to past, and we see the breakdown and collapse of a family, the march of time, and the radicalism of youth. It’s stylistically postmodern and metafictional delight, a real treat for a reader who desires something more and something new.

J.M. Coetzee another Nobel Laureate is also in contention to win the award. He is one of three authors, who have won the Booker Prize twice; and perhaps this doubles his chances. Coetzee first won the Booker Prize in 1983 with: “The Life & Times of Michael K.” Then in 1999 he would win again with “Disgrace.” Seeing as the author has won the Booker Prize twice and in two difference decades perhaps, he will have a chance of greater chances in being on the Golden Shortlist.

Hilary Mantel is the third writer to have won the Booker Prize twice, as well as the first woman to do so. Her first novel to win the Booker Prize in 2009 was “Wolf Hall,” the beginning of her Tudor trilogy which details the life of Thomas Cromwell. Her second novel in the trilogy “Bring Up the Bodies,” won her, her second Booker Prize in 2012. Let’s face it . . . the English do love their history, and Mantel’s work will be given serious consideration.

So my Dear Gentle Reader, will you be voting for after the Golden Booker releases its shortlist? Who do you think has the greatest chance? With fifty years of books to cover, the judges have their work to cut out for them. They after all are required to pick the very best and the most deserving writers and novels for the shortlist, and only one can win. Will the winner be from the first years of inception or will it be more contemporary in perspective? It’ll be curious to see what the authors bring to the table when they create the shortlist, it is a pity though to a degree we are not privy to the conversations and debates which will most certainly arise during this time.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Non-required Reading: Selected Prose

Hello Gentle Reader

Poetry has never been a first love—rather there has been very little love with regards to poetry. Poetry was torture in a literary format. In high school the teachers despised teaching it. Yet, they adhered to the curriculum and administered the perception of education with loyalty and devotion. If they were nurses their motto would have been: “cruel to be kind.” The anthologies of poetry were quickly tossed on desks, and so the reciting torture of poetry would begin. The poets on offer: John Keats, Lord Tennyson, and William Wordsworth. In dry drones, came the monotone monologues of each poem slowly and terribly murdered, line by line; syllable by syllable. The horrors never stopped after the final stanza and line were recited. No it continued afterwards. Redundant and useless questions were aimed and fired at each student: what did the author intend by [ blank ]; what did the poet mean in the following lines—et cetera, et cetera. When I think of poetry, I think of that class room; and of those crusty old poets who have since long been dead, and whose work has survived the test of time only because it is taught in classrooms, to students who otherwise don’t care. Reading and reciting the poetry of Wordsworth or Tennyson often felt like one was trying to conduct a séance with them, or worst simply singing disingenuous praise to the already dead and forlorn. But we did. We recited every poem. We butchered it with apathy. We destroyed it with disinterest. Best of all, we forgot the poets at the end of the day; their names meant little us, other than pretentious pillocks. When the unit or lesson was finished, the anthologies were packed up with great pleasure and tossed back into storage where they belonged. Afterwards we never looked back on the subject. The only real world application of poetry, has is placing a line or a quote in an e-mail signature.  

Despite our poor introduction, the relationship between poetry and myself has thawed over the years. The cause of this thaw comes from one specific poet: Wisława Szymborska. When I first began to take an interest in the Nobel Prize for Literature, many moons ago, I continually came across Wisława Szymborska. On her Nobel profile the citation reads: “for poetry that with ironic precision allows the historical and biological context to come to light in fragments of human reality.” The citation was ostentatious and was off putting. It reminded me of the old forlorn dead poets of my former English classes of high school, and worried this bird like woman was somehow equally connected to them. Much like those ancient poets, I thought Szymborska was a poet locked in the ivory tower and whose only correspondence with the world were here highly pretentious pieces of poetry, which were more cryptographic then communicative. Thankfully this was all false. The first poem I read by Wisława Szymborska was: “Cat in an Empty Apartment.” The poem showed me what poetry could be—or rather should be: simple and human, all the while grappling with grand and universal themes. The poem “Cat in an Empty Apartment,” famously deals with the theme and concept of death, via the perspective of a cat whose owner has died. The poem is both humorous and serious, as it discusses the theme of death through the self-absorbed eyes of a cat. From there, I sought out to see more of her poetry and to learn more about the author, who finally awakened me to the beauty of simplicity, and the enjoyment of asking naïve questions. 

Through the years, I’ve learned quite a bit about Wisława Szymborska, who is affectionately called: “the Mozart of poetry,” as well as the “Greta Garbo of poetry.” Throughout her life time she produced very few, but exquisite poems—a total estimate of 350 poems. When asked about her limited output by a journalist she responded: “I have a waste basket.” Yet, she has been one of the most highly praised and well respected poets of her generation. Yet, she was known as a humble person, who preferred her life to be calm and quiet. She rejected ostentatious procedures and celebrations of prompt and grandeur. She did not like to ask questions which invaded someone’s privacy and never felt it appropriate to discuss herself. She rarely consented or gave interviews, and was known for being quite mute on the topic of poetry. When she was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in nineteen-ninety six, her friends called it: “The Stockholm Tragedy,” as the media and press requested more interviews and comments, and then she had ever consented to in her life prior the award. The peace and calm she once enjoyed had been suddenly usurped by congratulatory messages, and requests for appearances.

Despite becoming a somewhat unintentional celebrity, Wisława Szymborska, continued on with her usual daily life. She took her walks through nature, enjoyed coffee with friends, and hosted ‘lotteries,’ or ‘lucky dips,’ where her dear friends and associates would win kitschy prizes from her apartment—often called “the drawer.” In one documentary film: “Life is Bearable at Times,” there is a scene when the poet and her friends, search through her apartment to find her Nobel medal, which had been misplaced amongst the collection of her collectables, all neatly placed in her ‘drawers,’—which the poet thought was the greatest invention mankind had thought up. These collected items, however, were not for personal use. Wisława Szymborska would often bring back these unique items to be shared with her friends, and according to her wishes, her friends gathered one last time in her apartment to retrieve one memento at random, as a farewell gift.

I’ve continually returned and pick up one of my collections of Szymborska’s poetry and will often read at random. I read her when I am sad or angry or happy. I read her to inspire me to get up in the morning and trudge through the day. I read her for comfort. There has been no writer, quite like Wisława Szymborska, and always find amazement and hope. For the past two and a half years, I’ve been casually reading her selected prose titled: “Non-required Reading.” It’s taken me so long to get through these short thoughts and essays on books read, simply because I desired to savor the journey with the book. On cold winter nights, I’d pick it up and read one or two essays, and enjoy the irony, wit, candor, and grace of the author; then place it back on the shelf and leave it for a week or two to a month, before returning to it again, and once again be filled with the same joy. After finishing the book, there was no sense of relief or accomplishment, but just a wonderful sensation of sharing the ethereal company of a truly wonderful person.

The collected sketches (not reviews—and that is the authors own words) showcase Wisława Szymborska truly enjoyment of reading. In her introduction to the book she states:

“I’m old fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.”

This book certainly offers testimony to the above statement. The books overviewed and pondered on are eclectic and eccentric. Each one offering a little bit of information, something to gather, something to enjoy, as well as something to ponder. As she provides her thoughts, Wisława Szymborska employs her wit with great timing. In the sketch titled “Dream On,” she opens with the following:

“We dream, but so carelessly, so imprecisely! “I want to be a bird,” this or that person will say. But if an obliging fate changed him into a turkey, he’d feel betrayed.”

I don’t recall laughing out loud as much as I did while reading “Non-required Reading.” I don’t recall enjoying the opinions of others as much either. But as of late, I’ve become more interested in reading the essays, journals, and thoughts of writers—in order to get a feel for them as individuals and their work. It came to a surprise to Wisława Szymborska that Jules Verne was more monster than man; yet he was adored by children everywhere, and upon his death was mourned with sadness worldwide, but in his hometown and by his family, a sigh of relief was exchanged, and perhaps even hands clapped ready to dig and bury, and be done with him. Thankfully the fate of Jules Verne has not been shared to our dear Wisława Szymborska, who remains beloved, missed, and enjoyed.

I finished this book on my birthday, a week and some ago—and cannot think of a better way of spending my birthday (and spending my time at work), then finishing this beautiful collection of prose, which will most certainly come back to, much like I do her poetry.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Recitation

Hello Gentle Reader

There is a continual plethora of Korean fiction being translated and published in the past few years. This would make the market saturated. Everywhere one would look (that is if they are looking) there is some Korean novel or short story. Dalkey Archive Press for example has a complete Korean Library series. Sadly every novel or short story collection published in the series, has the same design, meaning it’s difficult to separate title from title by photo alone, and you must rely on summaries to get a feel for the work. Despite this flooded market, riddled with drift wood translations among other flotsam and jetsam books—two authors appear to have surfaced above the rest. Those two writers are: Hang Kang and Bae Suah.

Most readers know Hang Kang as the Man Booker International Prize winning author of “The Vegetarian.” The novel was praised as a psychological profile of human cruelty, personal and family relationship breakdown, as well as asking pointed and poignant questions regarding shame, empathy, and the failure to understand our fellow human beings and their motivations. The judges for the Man Booker International Prize praised the novel for being original and powerful, and the award would boost sales of the novel. From there on then, Hang Kang became a well-known and established Korean author in the English language literary scene; whereupon two further novels have been translated: “Human Acts,” and “The White Book.” Both are noted for their emotional resonance.

If Hang Kang is noted for her novels which tackle personal and familial breakdowns; as well as their emotionally powerful sequences, which come as revelations to the reader, than Bae Suah is her contrary counterpart. Bae Suah’s work comes across as: nihilistic, masochistic, degrading, postmodern, fragmented and intellectually motivated. Her novels break down the conventional constructs and perceptions regarding time, memory, and novelistic format. She embraces postmodern literary techniques, but only superficially, Bae Suah borrows the tropes of postmodern and personalizes them into her own style. In her previously reviewed novel “A Greater Music,” time becomes a fragmented and disjointed series of puddles and ponds, whose only connection is the altered perspective they have of the same sky—or in this case memory. How those memories are remembered is not always chronological. Her characters are noted for being adrift, aimless, and aloof; they act as if they are merely spectators to their own lives, where they only react to the situations they are in, rather than actively participating in them. For this Bae Suah breaks down societal barriers, where she explores, probes, and exposes every rotting facet, feature, and façade of contemporary Korean society. For lack of respect and convention of Korean societal norms, Bae Suah has often been heavily criticized. These criticism have only bolstered her to international recognition, where readers are quick and keen to read the works of what they perceive to be a postmodern anarchist Korean writer; the kind of writer who writes about men becoming victims of domestic abuse, unsettling the reader by the use of unfamiliar and ever changing shifts of perspective. Her disregard for social taboos and niceties, her unconventional style, and her psychological profiles of otherwise unfortunate characters make Bae Suah, a tantalizing writer for the rebellious reader.

Despite her recognition and continual translations, Bae Suah, has not been so well received for literary awards in translation. Her first novel to be seriously considered for a prize was: “Nowhere to Be Found,” for the Best Translated Book Award, in two-thousand and sixteen, where it was included on the longlist. However, the novel never made it much farther than that. Yet, from there on out Bae Suah’s work found a greater audience. It is reported to have shown Suah’s literary sensibilities had already taken hold, whereupon she would craft a narrative, tone, characters, only to shatter them entirely part way through, and from there analyze the broken pieces individually bit by bit, taking note of the jagged edges, the serrated capabilities, and their newly deformed nature.

Bae Suah’s more mature work has completely abandoned the typical tropes of fiction, she has done away with characterization, identity, narrative, linear timelines, and stories. Instead Bae Suah combined the fictional novel and essay to create a strange genre all her own, one which superficially borrowed elements of the novel like characters, but only made them dance and sing or talk like puppets, where they would discuss her philosophical digressions, dissertations, and thoughts. “A Greater Music,” would best be described as the transitional work, which displays this maturation of Bae Suah’s writing style and themes. “A Greater Music,” (as previously reviewed) playfully displayed time; often warping it and changing the events recollected or the perspective of the events to offer a more unique portrait of the events or questioning the validity and authenticity of the events. It also offered abrupt and open commentary on topics ranging from music, to literature, to language—often reminiscent of an essay, and not typical philosophical discussions housed between characters. Yet, the novel maintained the basic scaffolding of a novel: it had a narrative, characters, a story, and action—how it was told however, remained unconventional and postmodern in nature. “Recitation,” however, fully disregards the comfortable and conventional structural bases of a novel, and instead creates a bewildering novel all her own, and often called a: “a-fictional,” piece of literature.

“Recitation,” is a complex cognitive experience. The novel is loosely based around Kyung-hee a recitation actress who lives an aimless vagabond existence. The novel traces her loose relationships with a myriad of other characters, who in turn offer their stories, experiences, and thoughts to the fragmentary narrative of the novel. This, however, is as far as the novel goes in regards to plot or narrative. The novel itself is an exploration of identity, memory, travel, language, and geographical boundaries, and the idea of home. As the contrapuntal melodies begin to fight for greater solo acts, the voice of Kyung-hee becomes more distant and faded, it slips further and further into immaterial; as other stories take hold, as other narratives come into play, and the identities of every voice and character begin to merge and blend within each other—it is then, one wonders if Kyung-hee existed at all; or if she was merely the medium and conductor of the stories of others. The vessel in which contained their lives, their thoughts, their voices, and only then recited them offering their only chance to scream they lived and that they existed.

If one were to look at the term ‘globalized,’ as a form of literature, “Recitation,” would be considered required reading. Unlike Haruki Murakami who takes elements of Japanese culture and American pop culture, and poorly pastiches them together, to create lightweight modernized suburban novels—“Recitation,” by Bae Suah recounts the aimlessness and geographical breakdown of the world into a state of statelessness and almost homelessness, as people are more inclined to identify as a member of the ‘Human Tribe,’ then one restricted to country or city. This is perfectly made clear, when people identity more with corporate imagery and slogans then they do with their own flags or national anthems. A Starbucks is a greater symbol of ‘home,’ then say a flag or city. The novel explores the idea of a increasingly globalized world and its shift towards an urban cosmopolitan perspective. In a world currently in arms over borders, geography, and nationalist and isolationistic policies, the thought-provoking questions of “Recitation,” are more relevant today than ever. 

“Recitation,” is not for a lazy reader; Bae Suah has written a novel (in the loosest definition of the term) where the reader is expected to show and be ready for work. The prose is lyrical but never ostentatious, there is a simple elegance offered to the novels approach to its themes and questions. Thankfully language and style are never presented as roadblocks or blockades to the work itself. However, work still must be done, one must be attentive to the stories presented, the themes explored, the ever changing chorus of speakers who recite their stories, and then contradict themselves or argue against points or opinions made earlier. This, my dear Gentle Reader, is where I failed when reading Bae Suah’s “Recitation.” I often haphazardly picked up the novel when time was allocated or capable of being spared to read it. This generally means at work, when a co-worker was busy playing on their phone, or when I could not sleep and would sit in bed reading. More often than not though, my time had to be devoted to other activities; mainly course work. On those grounds the magic and profound possibilities of Bae Suah’s novel were often missed on me, as more often than not, I would attempt to recollect or remember a certain speaker who all of a sudden began to speak, or try to reconnect the strings of relationships and connections already established in the past. In the end, Gentle Reader, I was left scrambling to reconnect with the novels previously recited material and discussions then keeping up with the pace already set by Bae Suah. Yet, it’s still a worthy novel, one which I will enjoy to come back to a later date, when I can allocate it greater attention and consideration that present circumstances do not allow.

“Recitation,” solidifies as perhaps one of the most unique writers currently at work on the international stage, whose presence will hopefully only continue to grow. Bae Suah’s postmodernist voice is more authentic, as it explores and argues about the elitist urban cosmopolitan world which is a product of globalization, she humorously showcases the reality of corporate loyalty and identification versus nationalistic ones, and explores the ever increased blurring lines of language and travel, as well as the deceptive allure and clarity of memory. If there ever was a writer more keen and skeptical about the contemporary world it is Bae Suah, who puts the older and outdated American postmodernist to shame, with her relevancy and understanding of the times, and ability to see where they are taking the human race.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

On The Uselessness of Communications Courses

Hello Gentle Reader

Communication is defined as the ability or skill in which information is imparted and exchanged. Simple enough. The formats of communication are more diverse now than ever, from telephone to in person conversations, text messages, instant messaging, e-mails, letters, reports, meetings and social media communication networks. The world today is saturated in media, information (factual and false), and all forms of technological and virtual social exchanges. Yet, apparently, communication is a dying skill, and conversation a lost art. The decline of these skills and art forms are so terrible, post-secondary education institutions have now undertaken the stewardship and curatorial preservation and promotion of these skills and art forms, in order to resuscitate them back into relevance in today’s society. In other words it’s a cash grab.

Post-secondary education is expensive—but necessary. It is one of those necessary evils of an ever increasingly educated world. This being said, one does need to ensure their degree or education is relevant and equivalent to achieving a career of some sorts or value. In other words: a degree in oriental pottery, medieval poetry, or renaissance fashion, will not have any transferable skills to a competitive job market. Instead explore more practical options: law, accounting, taxation, policy/political science, finance, engineering, medicine, veterinarian sciences, administration (public, health, or business/management), pharmaceutical sciences, computer science, statistics, applied mathematics or economics. Though, those programs sound as about as dull and dry as a popcorn fart. Yet if it is one thing all these degrees, programs and majors have in common: they all require the student to pay and study a communication course of some sort.

Now, not all communications courses are created (or taught) equally. Some have actual merit. For example: I took a business correspondence course, which covered an array of subjects and materials. The course went through different types of business writing and correspondence from routine memos, to e-mails, persuasive messages, to declining an offer, to business reports—all rather practical knowledge when considered in the grander scheme of the work world. The business writing course turned out to be one of my favourite courses, and the text book is worn with reference and use, even today. A while later, I was once again asked to participate in a communications course, this time: an interpersonal communications course.

Interpersonal skills are defined as a set of social skills an individual possess which regulates how they interact with other individuals in a social, professional or business environment. My honest opinion about my own interpersonal skills: I am severely deficient, and unfortunately there is no vitamin supplement to take in order to enhance this deficiency. I’ve been called: cold, aloof, impersonal, and an extremely private person. All of which is true; and therefore: no offense taken. Yet, as part of the program of the day I was required to take this course, which would ideally cure me of my interpersonal deficiencies, and wretch me from my introverted shell. Needless to say I was not cured. Instead of discussing where one lacks in interpersonal communication, we went over the theoretical ideas of communication. These theoretical ideas ranged from perception verses reality, symbolic communication, nonverbal interactions, and emotional responses versus emotional reactions. Then came the different types of communication, specifically: Asynchronous versus Synchronous Communication. Needless to say I did not succeed in increasing my interpersonal skills tool box. I remain introverted, though highly articulate and eloquent in speech—though I have been described as prosecutorial in nature, when it comes to matters pertaining to moral arguments; but I insist I am a guardian of veracity in an otherwise pointless and vernacular world.

Now once again, I am forced to take yet another communications course! This course is much the same as the two previous communication courses I have taken. It’s a combination of business correspondence and interpersonal communication—both heaven and hell. My most recent assignment was a: ‘reflective exercise,’ where I have been tasked to reflect on my communication habits, and pin point and document my poor habits, and then reflect on them and become a more ‘active communicator.’ Well first off: I don’t interrupt people when they are talking; I don’t play on my phone when I am engaged with someone in a conversation; though admittedly, I do stop listening to someone talk and already begin to formulate my response before they have finished speaking.

During this exercise I found myself more drawn towards critiquing others then reflecting on my own conversational styles and habits. The IT kid was far more engaged in playing a game on his phone, or scrolling through Facebook, or responding to a text message, or reading some article, then paying attention to my concerns in the conversation. Then there is the odious co-worker—the know-it-all, who feels the need to interject with his/her own insights into a conversation which otherwise does not concern them.

I’m left wondering: why am I taking this course? I broached the institution of course, and presented them with the fact that I had already taken two courses exactly similar to this, and they responded: “every student must take this course as part of the requirement to fulfilling their program. We are sorry we cannot offer you transfer credit at this time.” So, once again I must suffer the torture of yet another communications course, where I am to learn about: active listening, nonverbal ques, business correspondence, presentation skills, and professionalism in the workplace (which includes outdated 80’s instructional videos). If I were to imagine hell, this would be it; stuck in a classroom with a bunch of half-baked, brain dead young adults, or post-teenage students, who are blazed and beyond, and can barely mumble a sentence let alone articulate an intelligent response. After which, I return to work, only to be met with a continual breakdown in communication. I then ask myself: what’s the bloody point?

The point my Dear Gentle Reader: post-secondary education is a business. It is a business where you pay seven-hundred and some dollars to take the necessary courses to fulfill your program (usefulness aside), and hope to the heavens above you get a damn good career out of it; or at least something sustainable where you find some success. Part of the required courses for your program will most certainly be a dreadful, useless, cash grab communications course, which generally does not have any relevancy or real world application.

For now I am stuck sitting next to the baked brain dead kid who continually wears a Bob Marley toque (sorry: beanie), as he gradually slips in and out of consciousness, whereupon I worry he will slowly transcend to the marijuana heavens of Valhalla, where he will converse with his famed heroes Bob Marley and John Lennon about world peace, congeniality, and the beauty of kush and hemp; only to be zapped back to reality from the AED (automated external defibrillator), where he will find himself with a mild concussion.

For now I ask for patience, tolerance and strength to get through this mind numbing course. If the art of the conversation is dying, and this is what is left on this planet to converse with, I’d rather take a solemn oath of silence, and live as a nun or a hermit.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

And Here We Go . . . Again

Hello Gentle Reader

Once again now four years later, The Booker Prize finds itself under attack; only this time it is from publishers, and not writers or the general reading public. In a letter to The Booker Prize Foundation, thirty publishers are promoting (and begging) that the award revoke its two-thousand and fourteen decision, to include American writers. The publishers lambast the decision, and have called its attempts at ‘diversifying the literary world,’ a failure, and in fact claim the decision to include American writers in the prize, has only homogenized the award. Since The Booker Prize has made the decision to be more inclusive of American writers, there has been a steady pattern to show the shortlist has been dominated by British and American writers. The publishers showcase this more prevalent trend when reviewing last year’s shortlist in comparison to the shortlist of the two-thousand and thirteen award. Since the decision has been made only two American writers have walked away with the prize, but this does not change that the literary horserace landscape has become dominated by American and British writers, as they compete for the award. This leaves one to wonder: who is being overlooked, in favour of more established writers from Britain or America.  

Not everyone, however, agrees with the publishers doom and gloom perspective, and have chalked their end of the world pontification, as simple paranoia. Many call the act of inclusion a testament of globalization, and the collapse of geographical boundaries. Others have called the letter isolationistic in its perspective, where in the most subtle changes the letter attempts to promote a: “British First,” policy on a literary stage. These same critics of the letter and subsequent publishers think the publishers and the writers should welcome the challenge of competition of American writers, competing for the prize.

As, for the American reading public: apparently they don’t car. In one “Washington Post,” article, the journalist/author pleaded that Britain take the award back, as the reading public over there didn’t much care.

The Booker Prize foundation did respond to the letter with the following statement:

“The Man Booker prize expanded in 2014 to allow writers of any nationality, regardless of geography, to enter the prize providing that they are writing in English and published in the UK. The rule was not created specifically to include American writers.”

My personal response to the above statement is: then who was supposed to be included in the award; as it American writes have been the ones to have benefit from the award. In my opinion the above statement is nothing more than cheap lip service. It exists to defend the decision, without much elucidation beyond that.

The truth is Gentle Reader, The Booker Prize, is in dire straits—even before the foundation had decided to include the award American writers. The award itself has been stuffy and stagnant, its shortlists (besides the few exceptions) are generally filled with the same old usual candidates: those genteel straight white starched British men; or the polite and becoming dames of British literature. Its lacked diversity for quite some time, and it’s lacked any real revolutionary perspective in recent memory. I believe, the foundation, sought to curve this stagnation through the inclusion of American (or sorry: any writer despite geographical location, who writes in English and is published in the U.K.—so . . . . American) was an attempt and rejuvenating the award and would revitalize its status as a pristine literary award. Well it failed. The Booker Prize still sits in its iron lung, left alone in some depleted hospital wing, forgotten and alone, to suffer its slow decline in oblivion, whereupon it will be: obsolete. If the Booker Prize foundation truly wishes to see the award retain its former glory, it will need to make a better effort then to move way from comfort and convention—if its sole goal is to be diverse. Yet, one only wonders if that ship has already left the harbour, and will not return.

In the end: the problem with the Booker Prize is not that it has included American writer; rather the problem is its lack of imagination. Every year’s shortlist looks and appears the same, the same usual suspects and candidates, the same old writers, writing the same old book. This is the death of the Booker Prize—its lack of ability to go beyond the conventional. In a world riddled with the same old suspects, only hopes an Elfriede Jelinek comes along and shakes up the status quo.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

for further information please see the following article by "The Guardian," 

Death of the Booker Prize