Hello Gentle Reader
This is the Japan I had since searched for. Yukio Mishima writes about a more traditional Japan, just opening up to the concept of western influence, and the nihilistic wanderings of Japan after World War II. The Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight, Yasunari Kawabata discussed the traditional beauty of Japan in a modern world. Kenzaburo Oe the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-ninety four, is more American and European (specifically French) literary influenced, and deals more closely with the intimate and personal relationship he has with his brain damaged son Hikari. Haruki Murakami’s Japan is rather Americanized, dripping in pop culture, and music, with surreal and magical moments, that are accepted. Yet with Natsuo Kirinio’s noir novel “Real World,” This is the Japan I had since imagined and become suspicious of. This the contemporary Japan. This is the Japan that everyone speaks about. The Japan of tiny houses; capsule hotels; young girls as sexual objects; the polluted air; the students stressed out by school that they have mental breakdowns and even commit suicide. In a sense it’s a world of plasticity, a place overcome with postmodernism, consumerism, mass media – it’s an empire of information overload, over come with a sense of general apathy, and a falsity where people are not what they seem. They are all there hidden in their own worlds. Universes and galaxies a part. The people are separated physically by their flesh. They are separated by the spaces between them. Their places at the dinner table. Their seats on the subway, or the clothing that touches each other, as they walk down the street. However mentally they are all so distant off and gone, surrounded in their own inner world, far away from the stresses of their reality. Students dare not to think of cram schools, and college entrance exams, or their teachers and their stifling and stuffy lessons. Parents escape into a different world; they disregard their children as simple worry. Fathers disappear. They hide in the bars, drinking. They watch the fantasy’s of prostitutes, strippers, geisha, and fantasize about it, while disregarding the fact that they are married and have children, only then slip on home to sleep in their bed with their wives, and hide in their drunken dream, only to wake up the next day and repeat the same cycle over and over again. Wives and mothers, do their own work, lost in their own worlds. Day time television I am sure, watching tabloid news, soap operas. The children themselves hide from themselves, lost in their own lifestyles. They hide their identity with false names, which they give to fortune tellers, and on other odd ends that come with the consumerist society of Japan. Theirs the fake smiles, of the older students, going around to the cram schools. They are always smiling, giving pep talks on college education, and telling students, to work on getting their grade point average up. Study like their lives depends on it. Study twelve hours and take their average up three percent. Study until you cough up blood. All of this and pressure to succeed. Go to good colleges, and good universities, and the real sense that if one does not they would be a failure. A failure in the Japanese society. This is the life that all these characters have to live. The constant sirens of air pollution. The constant threat of dishonour of not making it into any university. Soon they would be one of the prostitutes or strippers, which dance shamelessly for the men. But there is more danger looking out into the world then the dishonour of education. There are shady men who hide in the world, and watch little girls. Who even prey on them. It is a world of repressed sexuality and explicit sexual marketing. A place of neon lights, which are shinning and blinking everywhere. It’s a postmodern Disneyland, and a dangerous place. A carnival where everyone see’s the sites, and yet does not find them awe inspiring or amazing but simply, just the reality and normal scenery that they pass by every day.
Natsuo Kirino does not lament this newly discovered Japan – or rather what Japan has become. She expresses it with what it is and what it has become. She describes this new Japan as a consumerist driven society, and how people are not as what they appear to be. No one ever appears to be what they are. Kirarin is a fine example. How she lies about herself on those chat rooms, and then goes and picks and meets up with the men; or rather goes and see’s how she not only deceived them but how she herself was deceived. How she also deceives her friends. How they think they are this kind and sweet hearted woman. She herself is just like the rest of Japan. Disconnected and dissociated form everything and everyone around her. Lost in chat rooms, of playing deceiving games with each other men, who are also pretending be something they are not. Then there is Yuzan she hides her sexuality away from her friends. She shuns it from them. She goes out and meets other lesbians like Dahmer, and connects with them. She appears to despise her own gender, wishing to be a man. Maybe life would be easier for her if she was a man, not just a lesbian woman. Then she could be accepted for her sexuality because it would have been perceived as normal. Then there is ‘Worm,’ who in act of being God commits matricide. He is a complete nobody. His parents pressured and pushed him to do well in his elite school, though there he is shunned as a nobody, just as he is shunned as a nobody or just a distant shadow in a storm of other shadows. In an act of extreme violence Worm is noticed by everyone. Yet in this action all the same Worm remains abstract. His mother is dead – he himself had murdered her; this new reality just seems odd to him. A reality he cannot comprehend. So he flees, and disappears into the surrounding prefectures of Tokyo; however at the same time, he is the odd man out. His act or rebellion has only further to alienate him from everyone else. Terauchi is the smartest of the bunch. However her intelligence and great student appearance has left her arrogant and lonely from the others. She believes herself to be more clever than that of the rest of her friends. She only finds some solace on some subjects if only briefly with her friend Toshi whose casual and apathetic demeanour does not hide her sensitive true self.
This is the world that these characters inhabit. A world of distrust and disillusionment. These four girls have a great distrust of the adult world, that they are being so carefully groomed for. Worm was the same way. But he openly shatters the barrier separating him from the real world, and from the world he is living. By committing matricide, Worm is able to destroy that barrier, which separated him from the world he was being carefully educated for. Is this why he then seeks the approval and the sympathy of the other characters? Those four girls, who distrust the adult world, who fear it, who lurk away to find their own sense of reality other than the one that they themselves are going enter regardless of how they feel.
The entire concept of reality is key to Natuso Kirino’s work. For the characters in this book, the only reality they know or have had is the reality of the educational system, which is dog eat dog. A gladiator pit. No one can be trusted. It is all about beating the other students. Looking out for oneself. Getting into a better college, and succeeding in life. This is all the characters have. This is what they live for. This is it. This is all. There is nothing else really that they live for. They live their own lives – though those lives are also kept secret from everyone else. In their own world. Their own realities. They all separated from each other. Even the friends of Toshi, Terauchi, Yuzan, and Kirarin, are all separate in their lives. Delving into the depths of the reality, and the real world. Even that has its own costs. Dodging perverts, making sure they are not attacked or raped by someone.
There are a few problems with Natsuo Kirino’s fiction. She tells rather than shows. Her characters are not all that deep, there are very few complexities. They fall prey to their own cliques which lead to a lot of clichés.
In the end it is just a simple noir novel. A novel about the modern Japan. A Japan for its dark realities. It is a stark moral landscape. Murder becomes a philosophical statement. An act of rebellion. The novel takes the readers on a ride of the grotesque and the extreme. An underground and underworld of Japan. A place with dark little secrets hiding everywhere. A place full of lies. A place where people are always ready to sell you something, or rape you. Pedophiles on the prowl. It is a dark world, in Natsuo Kirino’s eyes, and there is no redemption. No one can help them. They have to remain false themselves, lie, and watch their backs. This is all that they can do.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 10 November 2011
Monday, 7 November 2011
Keystone Pipeline: Where I stand and a bit more
Hello Gentle Reader
Please Note: This is all a political/personal opinionated essay, I do not care if you agree or disagree, and to be frank, I am not open to discussing or changing my mind on this entire matter – further more I am not open for discussion/arguing/debating this matter either. We are all entitled to our opinion whether we agree with them or not.
It is very rare – and by very rare, I certainly do mean very rare. It is very seldom in fact, that I do care to even bother, to write about politics, and economics, and all other great conversation and debate beginners – also great way to destroy family dinner, and make that “happy positive (wrapped in cellophane of falsity),” family reunion, into a raging gladiator arena, family member against family member, and sit back and watch to see who wins the battle. It’ll become no surprise that as a Canadian and not to mention Albertan, that I am more than against the concept of the proposed, and greatly controversial “Keystone Pipeline,” that the government of Canada and Alberta tries to spoon feed to the people, that it is good for the Canadian Economy and Albertan Economy. However, if one really wishes to look at, it does not do much for Canada, in economic ways. It does do some good for those, select who have a great stake in the business of the Albertan Oil Sands; however it does no good for the average Canadian or Albertan. Nothing. No new jobs (besides building the pipeline) et cetera. Furthermore, this does nothing for the new concept of the great debate about the validity of the concept of “Canadian Sovereignty,” when the politicians, are nothing more than little puppets (ventriloquist dummies) sitting on the laps of foreign countries, having the stick in the back being pulled, and the voice saying what the ventriloquist (in other words the foreign power’s voice) and how good the foreign powers influence is on, Canada, and what it means to Canada – further lengthening the nose of the lies coming from the wooden man on the lap, that we as Canadians would refer to as “The Canadian Government.” It brings to question now what use is it to vote in and elect officials, who do nothing but sit on the lap of another country, let it do the talking, let it speak, let it manoeuvre through Canada’s resources and then take them – of course they do pay for them, but not at the same price, that they would if Canada, had the monopoly on the resources themselves, by Canadian Companies, using Canadian Workers, and being sold at a much more economically situated price. Which brings me to the further proposition on the absurdity of this situation.
The Oilsands are often referred to as Albertan Oilsands. Then why on earth does, Alberta not have any refiners up in Northern Alberta? Why do the oil companies send all the unrefined oil and gas, to Eastern Canada to be refined? To send it via pipeline should cost the same amount of money as to build the refiners here. Furthermore to build and to operate the refiners should open up plenty more jobs for both Albertans and Canadians in general. Riddle me that I do say. How can such a large oil producer, be so ill-equipped and unprepared, to have the drilled and refined in the same area.
But to discuss and question the concept of Canadian Sovereignty and its validity in now this new chapter of Canada and its own time of being a country – being relatively new; is a question that Canadians need to ask themselves. Is Canada really a sovereign nation? Just because a piece of paper, says that this country is sovereign does not mean anything in reality. Calling a cow, a sheep does not make it a sheep anymore then calling sheep a cow. The entire concept of Canada and its need for “protection(ism),” from other countries is pathetic, degrading, and disrespectful. Just as the concept of Canada selling out the countries resources, minerals, and everything else for quick money – but not necessarily at its full price, and at its power of creating jobs. Canada is a great country – do not get me wrong on that; but as a Canadian, there is a long unspoken tradition that Canadians despise the government and not just all, but all countries. Most Canadians prefer someone of moderation in power, who does little, and does not sell the country short nor does it sell the resources at a undervalued price(s), not to mention is willing to stand by the country and its peoples values, even if they are seen as unpopular. But the most important aspect of that I consider as a Canadian is a politician who is willing who doesn’t sit on a foreign power’s lap, and has no voice, but just moving those wooden lips. It’s about a politician who is a Canadian Elected official, and is willing to stand by that stand point, and stand up for a country rich in resources, and make the country as wealthy as possible, and as much money as possible.
Proud To Be Canadian
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
Please Note: This is all a political/personal opinionated essay, I do not care if you agree or disagree, and to be frank, I am not open to discussing or changing my mind on this entire matter – further more I am not open for discussion/arguing/debating this matter either. We are all entitled to our opinion whether we agree with them or not.
It is very rare – and by very rare, I certainly do mean very rare. It is very seldom in fact, that I do care to even bother, to write about politics, and economics, and all other great conversation and debate beginners – also great way to destroy family dinner, and make that “happy positive (wrapped in cellophane of falsity),” family reunion, into a raging gladiator arena, family member against family member, and sit back and watch to see who wins the battle. It’ll become no surprise that as a Canadian and not to mention Albertan, that I am more than against the concept of the proposed, and greatly controversial “Keystone Pipeline,” that the government of Canada and Alberta tries to spoon feed to the people, that it is good for the Canadian Economy and Albertan Economy. However, if one really wishes to look at, it does not do much for Canada, in economic ways. It does do some good for those, select who have a great stake in the business of the Albertan Oil Sands; however it does no good for the average Canadian or Albertan. Nothing. No new jobs (besides building the pipeline) et cetera. Furthermore, this does nothing for the new concept of the great debate about the validity of the concept of “Canadian Sovereignty,” when the politicians, are nothing more than little puppets (ventriloquist dummies) sitting on the laps of foreign countries, having the stick in the back being pulled, and the voice saying what the ventriloquist (in other words the foreign power’s voice) and how good the foreign powers influence is on, Canada, and what it means to Canada – further lengthening the nose of the lies coming from the wooden man on the lap, that we as Canadians would refer to as “The Canadian Government.” It brings to question now what use is it to vote in and elect officials, who do nothing but sit on the lap of another country, let it do the talking, let it speak, let it manoeuvre through Canada’s resources and then take them – of course they do pay for them, but not at the same price, that they would if Canada, had the monopoly on the resources themselves, by Canadian Companies, using Canadian Workers, and being sold at a much more economically situated price. Which brings me to the further proposition on the absurdity of this situation.
The Oilsands are often referred to as Albertan Oilsands. Then why on earth does, Alberta not have any refiners up in Northern Alberta? Why do the oil companies send all the unrefined oil and gas, to Eastern Canada to be refined? To send it via pipeline should cost the same amount of money as to build the refiners here. Furthermore to build and to operate the refiners should open up plenty more jobs for both Albertans and Canadians in general. Riddle me that I do say. How can such a large oil producer, be so ill-equipped and unprepared, to have the drilled and refined in the same area.
But to discuss and question the concept of Canadian Sovereignty and its validity in now this new chapter of Canada and its own time of being a country – being relatively new; is a question that Canadians need to ask themselves. Is Canada really a sovereign nation? Just because a piece of paper, says that this country is sovereign does not mean anything in reality. Calling a cow, a sheep does not make it a sheep anymore then calling sheep a cow. The entire concept of Canada and its need for “protection(ism),” from other countries is pathetic, degrading, and disrespectful. Just as the concept of Canada selling out the countries resources, minerals, and everything else for quick money – but not necessarily at its full price, and at its power of creating jobs. Canada is a great country – do not get me wrong on that; but as a Canadian, there is a long unspoken tradition that Canadians despise the government and not just all, but all countries. Most Canadians prefer someone of moderation in power, who does little, and does not sell the country short nor does it sell the resources at a undervalued price(s), not to mention is willing to stand by the country and its peoples values, even if they are seen as unpopular. But the most important aspect of that I consider as a Canadian is a politician who is willing who doesn’t sit on a foreign power’s lap, and has no voice, but just moving those wooden lips. It’s about a politician who is a Canadian Elected official, and is willing to stand by that stand point, and stand up for a country rich in resources, and make the country as wealthy as possible, and as much money as possible.
Proud To Be Canadian
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
Friday, 4 November 2011
Atlantis: Model 1924
Hello Gentle Reader
Atlantis, is a legendary and a mythological island or continent, that has blurred the lines between fantasy and reality; pseudoscience and archaeology – it is the island that in some way or another one wishes or hoped that existed – this concept of what has come across a perfect utopia, a paradise of sorts for others; while others search for it, as a way of trying to understand the world years ago – both in geographical content and culture content of human beings. However the origin of Atlantis did not first appear until the year three hundred and sixty before common era (360 B.C.E) in Plato’s two dialogues “Timaeus,” and “Critias.” It is here that Plato describes Atlantis as a naval power which sat between “The Pillars of Hercules,” (which are actually promontories [a promontory is a mass of land that looks over lower land or sea] that overlook the Strait of Gibraltar) that at its time had conquered much of Western Europe and Northern Africa, until its failed attempt to take over Athens, and it is then in a day and night, that Atlantis (as famously stated before hand) had sunk into the sea, as if being swallowed by the sea itself. In the Renaissance the allegorical aspect of Atlantis become something of that utopian thinkers and humanist philosophers. One writer Francis Bacon wrote “New Atlantis.” However in today’s fiction and other area’s that the entire thought of Atlantis has inspired once again has become to a degree (depending how much of an influence is shown and how much the influence and content had been done and redone before) can be seen as cliché. However the legend of Atlantis, has developed and been shaped through the years. In today’s world Atlantis is a symbol of lost prehistoric civilizations advanced beyond its means. Yet for some, surely Atlantis evokes a sense of trepidation and awe. Just picturing the classical Greek columns and temples, all lying abandoned at the bottom of the sea or ocean somewhere. The shifting, rippling light, dancing across the weathering and collapsing. Where once people roamed through the halls – which have depleted and fallen into disrepair and ruin; fish and other creatures swim through. Where once people paid homage to, the earth-shaker and god of the sea whose bipolar temper could make a feed a family or cause great grief and ruin to an entire country or city, now lies on the seabed, faceless, and forgotten. His trident however stays standing above the sand dunes of the underwater world. Its three forked fingers point toward the above, yet do nothing more, then to be a marker of the great feared god. Not far from the trident, though lower then where it sits staked in the sand or perched there in free will or a last stance of free will against time; there lies a conch. Large twisted and magnificent in both size and its delicate structure, it is a wonder of the sea. Where lips of a man with the tail of a serpent – or what appeared more serpent then fish like or like that of some marine mammal. Then even farther fallen into the ruins and forgotten and slowly drift along the ocean floor lies the dutiful and forgiving wife, mother and goddess of the sea. It is a forgotten world; hidden in the delicate shroud of liquid and fluidity. Deep beneath the surface. At one moment calm and still as glass, as if vibrating – the next a raging world of vicious dark waves. Crashing into boats. Tearing them apart. Washing over them, tipping the boats over. The sea’s fury a force unable to be reckoned with or stopped; all one could do is hopefully make it out a live, while those below did their best to get through the turbulence. While others waited for the storm to pass and pick the ripe gifts, given to them. This all becomes the world of Atlantis. A world of a capricious and uncertain future.
“Atlantis: Model 1924,” by Samuel R Delany is an interesting stylised novella with some postmodern fireworks. Throughout the novella itself there are is the main story line – then there is another story shown, but is on the same page, written in little blocks or sometimes half the page would be one story and the other half the other story line. This is both an interesting technique but also an annoyance at times. Though maybe the most annoying part about the two parallel story lines running alongside each other is the second one never really clearly shows its intentions; though one can certainly take interpretations and theories of it, and work with them. That of course is the best part about reading a novel, novella, story or poem, is allow to interpret it in accordance to the individual reader.
Here are some interesting notes and details though about, the author and aspects of this novella itself. Samuel R Delany is born in nineteen-forty two. He has been writing since nineteen-sixty two, and writes primarily in the science fiction genre, specifically the “new wave,” of science fiction that also housed authors such as: Ursula K Le Guin, J. G. Ballard, Michael Moorcock, and Harlan Ellison. However Samuel R Delany is also noted for his postmodern techniques and styles in his writing, as well as his literary criticism and non-fiction work.
Samuel R Delany is also included in the “Paris Review,” in the summer of 2011 No. 197. It is here that Samuel R Delany discusses a little bit about “Atlantis: Model 1924,” and also reveals that Sam in this novella is not Samuel R Delany himself but his father, Samuel Ray Delany, Senior.
(From the “Paris Review,”)
“When I was seventeen or eighteen, before I’d gotten married, my dad had told me that the main reason he had come to New York from Raleigh was to see the skyscrapers. He hadn’t turned eighteen yet. It was just after Thanksgiving 1923. His older brother Hubert met him at Grand Central Terminal. They didn’t even come out of the station. They went immediately into the subway and got out at 125th and Eighth Avenue. My father looked around, but there were only two-story buildings. He was very disappointed, because he’d expected New York to be all skyscrapers. He said to Uncle Hubert, “Shoot, this ain’t no different from Raleigh. And there, at least, we got a building six stories high what got an elevator.”
“And Uncle Hubert, who was a twenty-three-year-old law student at NYU at the time, turned to him and said, “You are a real country nigger, ain’t you?”
When my father told me this, it was just a funny story. But he was so disappointed at not seeing the skyscrapers right away, I decided, thirty-five years after his death, to include the anecdote in “Atlantis: Model 1924.”’
( http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6088/the-art-of-fiction-no-210-samuel-r-delany )
This same anecdote has also (as you just read) had appeared in “Atlantis: Model 1924.” The entire novella is an interesting piece of work. An ode and an elegy at times – the novella takes different twists and turns, into the thoughts and concepts of memory. This is the primary focus of the novella, memory and its lucid, shifting, fluid landscape. It is in this novella that Samuel R Delany, is able to make a reference to the legendary sunken city of Atlantis. Most of the chapters of the novella all open with quotes from poems. W.H Auden, and Robert Duncan’s poems (both titled “Atlantis,”) are the first poems featured before any of the chapters. But the most interesting part of the story is near the end. There, the young Sam meets another writer or poet of some sorts on the bridge. He is gay. A bit pretentious and a bit eccentric really. His monologues are long winded, and full of literary allusions. Each one discussing in some way or another Atlantis; a magical place; a paradise of sorts; a utopian world – much like the world that humanist philosophers and romantics had done their best to envision. Hart Crane, was a poet. He wrote primarily in the Modernist tradition. Though he was a lot different than T.S. Eliot, whose epic poem “The Waste Land,” was full of such ironic despair; Hart Crane’s work was more interested in the optimistic sincere tradition – somewhat romantic if one were to put it kindly. However Hart Crane was a modernist at heart and in style with an obscure text of words. Hart Crane’s most famous work is “The Bridge,” an epic poem about the Brooklyn Bridge – one (or the last section) of this epic poem was titled “The Bridge: Atlantis,” Where one (if I recall correctly) to find the man on the bridge that the young Sam, meets quoting lines from this particular part of the poem. Even mention some by the name of Hart and a book titled – and the man that Sam meets on the bridge’s name is Harry Hart. An interesting piece of work. An ode to New York is what Samuel R Delany had written, but also in some ways or another a eulogy to his father. A study of memory. But also an appreciative piece of work about Hart Crane. It’s an interesting little novella that once one starts thinking about the different details holds more weight then it previously did before.
It is here that I am given my first introduction to Samuel R Delany and I was not disappointed, but more along the lines of pleasantly surprised. Maybe in the distant or near future I shall read more of his works, for the enjoyment and pleasure that Samuel R Delany had given me.
Any How Gentle Reader:
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
Atlantis, is a legendary and a mythological island or continent, that has blurred the lines between fantasy and reality; pseudoscience and archaeology – it is the island that in some way or another one wishes or hoped that existed – this concept of what has come across a perfect utopia, a paradise of sorts for others; while others search for it, as a way of trying to understand the world years ago – both in geographical content and culture content of human beings. However the origin of Atlantis did not first appear until the year three hundred and sixty before common era (360 B.C.E) in Plato’s two dialogues “Timaeus,” and “Critias.” It is here that Plato describes Atlantis as a naval power which sat between “The Pillars of Hercules,” (which are actually promontories [a promontory is a mass of land that looks over lower land or sea] that overlook the Strait of Gibraltar) that at its time had conquered much of Western Europe and Northern Africa, until its failed attempt to take over Athens, and it is then in a day and night, that Atlantis (as famously stated before hand) had sunk into the sea, as if being swallowed by the sea itself. In the Renaissance the allegorical aspect of Atlantis become something of that utopian thinkers and humanist philosophers. One writer Francis Bacon wrote “New Atlantis.” However in today’s fiction and other area’s that the entire thought of Atlantis has inspired once again has become to a degree (depending how much of an influence is shown and how much the influence and content had been done and redone before) can be seen as cliché. However the legend of Atlantis, has developed and been shaped through the years. In today’s world Atlantis is a symbol of lost prehistoric civilizations advanced beyond its means. Yet for some, surely Atlantis evokes a sense of trepidation and awe. Just picturing the classical Greek columns and temples, all lying abandoned at the bottom of the sea or ocean somewhere. The shifting, rippling light, dancing across the weathering and collapsing. Where once people roamed through the halls – which have depleted and fallen into disrepair and ruin; fish and other creatures swim through. Where once people paid homage to, the earth-shaker and god of the sea whose bipolar temper could make a feed a family or cause great grief and ruin to an entire country or city, now lies on the seabed, faceless, and forgotten. His trident however stays standing above the sand dunes of the underwater world. Its three forked fingers point toward the above, yet do nothing more, then to be a marker of the great feared god. Not far from the trident, though lower then where it sits staked in the sand or perched there in free will or a last stance of free will against time; there lies a conch. Large twisted and magnificent in both size and its delicate structure, it is a wonder of the sea. Where lips of a man with the tail of a serpent – or what appeared more serpent then fish like or like that of some marine mammal. Then even farther fallen into the ruins and forgotten and slowly drift along the ocean floor lies the dutiful and forgiving wife, mother and goddess of the sea. It is a forgotten world; hidden in the delicate shroud of liquid and fluidity. Deep beneath the surface. At one moment calm and still as glass, as if vibrating – the next a raging world of vicious dark waves. Crashing into boats. Tearing them apart. Washing over them, tipping the boats over. The sea’s fury a force unable to be reckoned with or stopped; all one could do is hopefully make it out a live, while those below did their best to get through the turbulence. While others waited for the storm to pass and pick the ripe gifts, given to them. This all becomes the world of Atlantis. A world of a capricious and uncertain future.
“Atlantis: Model 1924,” by Samuel R Delany is an interesting stylised novella with some postmodern fireworks. Throughout the novella itself there are is the main story line – then there is another story shown, but is on the same page, written in little blocks or sometimes half the page would be one story and the other half the other story line. This is both an interesting technique but also an annoyance at times. Though maybe the most annoying part about the two parallel story lines running alongside each other is the second one never really clearly shows its intentions; though one can certainly take interpretations and theories of it, and work with them. That of course is the best part about reading a novel, novella, story or poem, is allow to interpret it in accordance to the individual reader.
Here are some interesting notes and details though about, the author and aspects of this novella itself. Samuel R Delany is born in nineteen-forty two. He has been writing since nineteen-sixty two, and writes primarily in the science fiction genre, specifically the “new wave,” of science fiction that also housed authors such as: Ursula K Le Guin, J. G. Ballard, Michael Moorcock, and Harlan Ellison. However Samuel R Delany is also noted for his postmodern techniques and styles in his writing, as well as his literary criticism and non-fiction work.
Samuel R Delany is also included in the “Paris Review,” in the summer of 2011 No. 197. It is here that Samuel R Delany discusses a little bit about “Atlantis: Model 1924,” and also reveals that Sam in this novella is not Samuel R Delany himself but his father, Samuel Ray Delany, Senior.
(From the “Paris Review,”)
“When I was seventeen or eighteen, before I’d gotten married, my dad had told me that the main reason he had come to New York from Raleigh was to see the skyscrapers. He hadn’t turned eighteen yet. It was just after Thanksgiving 1923. His older brother Hubert met him at Grand Central Terminal. They didn’t even come out of the station. They went immediately into the subway and got out at 125th and Eighth Avenue. My father looked around, but there were only two-story buildings. He was very disappointed, because he’d expected New York to be all skyscrapers. He said to Uncle Hubert, “Shoot, this ain’t no different from Raleigh. And there, at least, we got a building six stories high what got an elevator.”
“And Uncle Hubert, who was a twenty-three-year-old law student at NYU at the time, turned to him and said, “You are a real country nigger, ain’t you?”
When my father told me this, it was just a funny story. But he was so disappointed at not seeing the skyscrapers right away, I decided, thirty-five years after his death, to include the anecdote in “Atlantis: Model 1924.”’
( http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6088/the-art-of-fiction-no-210-samuel-r-delany )
This same anecdote has also (as you just read) had appeared in “Atlantis: Model 1924.” The entire novella is an interesting piece of work. An ode and an elegy at times – the novella takes different twists and turns, into the thoughts and concepts of memory. This is the primary focus of the novella, memory and its lucid, shifting, fluid landscape. It is in this novella that Samuel R Delany, is able to make a reference to the legendary sunken city of Atlantis. Most of the chapters of the novella all open with quotes from poems. W.H Auden, and Robert Duncan’s poems (both titled “Atlantis,”) are the first poems featured before any of the chapters. But the most interesting part of the story is near the end. There, the young Sam meets another writer or poet of some sorts on the bridge. He is gay. A bit pretentious and a bit eccentric really. His monologues are long winded, and full of literary allusions. Each one discussing in some way or another Atlantis; a magical place; a paradise of sorts; a utopian world – much like the world that humanist philosophers and romantics had done their best to envision. Hart Crane, was a poet. He wrote primarily in the Modernist tradition. Though he was a lot different than T.S. Eliot, whose epic poem “The Waste Land,” was full of such ironic despair; Hart Crane’s work was more interested in the optimistic sincere tradition – somewhat romantic if one were to put it kindly. However Hart Crane was a modernist at heart and in style with an obscure text of words. Hart Crane’s most famous work is “The Bridge,” an epic poem about the Brooklyn Bridge – one (or the last section) of this epic poem was titled “The Bridge: Atlantis,” Where one (if I recall correctly) to find the man on the bridge that the young Sam, meets quoting lines from this particular part of the poem. Even mention some by the name of Hart and a book titled – and the man that Sam meets on the bridge’s name is Harry Hart. An interesting piece of work. An ode to New York is what Samuel R Delany had written, but also in some ways or another a eulogy to his father. A study of memory. But also an appreciative piece of work about Hart Crane. It’s an interesting little novella that once one starts thinking about the different details holds more weight then it previously did before.
It is here that I am given my first introduction to Samuel R Delany and I was not disappointed, but more along the lines of pleasantly surprised. Maybe in the distant or near future I shall read more of his works, for the enjoyment and pleasure that Samuel R Delany had given me.
Any How Gentle Reader:
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Friday, 28 October 2011
The Short Story Review No. VII
“Filboid Studge, The Story of a Mouse That Helped,” by Saki – From “The Complete Saki,” by Saki – Section: “The Chronicles of Clovis.”
Saki’s sense of humour lies in a twist ending, and a satirising of the upper middle class of the Edwardian period. He wrote about – as it is often distinguished and discussed to the point of repetitive, woodpecker knocking it into one’s skull (and yes I am also guilty of it); the golden afternoon that England had pleasantly enjoyed before the Great War. Filboid Studge is not a person’s name – the odd things people call themselves or what parents name their children these days and even back then, it comes to no surprise to myself that I had even considered the fact that, it could have possibly have been a name at all. Instead Filboid Studge is a breakfast cereal. Previously under the title “Pipenta.”
It is a horrible breakfast really. Something that I can only think to myself reminds me of grits, porridge (how I hated porridge as a child lumpy and warm sitting in a lucrative warm milk), or biscuits drenched in a watery gravy with bits of sausage in it. It all makes me shudder – breakfast has not and remains to this day and probably until I am dead; the most hated meal that I have ever eaten. I despise the cereals (though those children ones with cereal are good) but since I personally was young, breakfast never appeased me. Though there were the odd times of having eggs and toast, with a cup of coffee that I did find enjoyable. But usually I found it all quite disgusting and unfathomable. Who would force their stomach’s I wonder(ed) for such a long period of time, why people could desire to eat such things. Yes the sugary cereals marketed to children is good – but does not sustain the affects of hunger. It does quench that growling monstrosity in my stomach until lunch. Of course now day’s people eat yogurt and fruit for breakfast. But this vile fictional concoction that Saki has created is perhaps the vilest breakfast that I have had both the pleasure and displeasure to read about.
Our protagonist, Mark is a simple artist. He designs posters for products. He makes about two hundred dollars a year. Yes Gentle Reader two hundred dollars a year. It’s messily earnings but life was simpler back then. He wishes to be wed to Leonore an heiress and daughter of a businessman Duncan. Duncan our ill fated, businessman you’ll find if you read this story made a stupid investment in a foul tasting disgusting ruthlessly indigestible breakfast, that no one would buy. However Mark, sensing a way to help Duncan, and secure his proposed marriage to Leonore takes the opportunity to rebrand and redo the advertisement of the breakfast that was so vile and so disgusting that no one wanted it. So Mark does. Soon with his plain poster of the damned in hell, reaching for the now renamed and rebranded Filboid Studge, puritans everywhere are going out to their local grocers and buying the product. The salvation of their soul – at the cost of their stomach’s and the torture of their tongues; become top priority.
All in most ways or another turn out just fine for everyone – to a degree. Once money is made it can always provide a new spin on the perspective of life. Which is fortunate for some and rather unfortunate for others. Though in a sense or way everyone is happy after they get what they want. At least for those who get it – and in typical Saki style it’ll come at the price of the stomachs, the tongues, and the mouths of those foolish and puritan – in other words devoted enough to believe what they see in a poster and their thoughts on the salvation of the soul; enough to buy the foul crap that is sold to them.
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“Riding Clothes,” by Yasunari Kawabata Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight – From “The Palm-of-The-Hand: Stores”
“Equinophobia,” or “Hippophobia,” is the clinical term or the more appropriate term for the fear of horses. There has never been a negative experience in my life, about horses. Mind you I have never grown up around horses. Though I look at them as dumb and skittish animals. Odd looking with their legs and heads, and those sad glass marble eyes. What then people ask makes me worry or feel uncomfortable around horses. Maybe it is there strength of those hooves. One kick and your down for the count. Perhaps it’s those teeth. Take your upper lip off, or remove your finger. Either way it does not matter. It does not matter either way. I have no use for horses. Large lumbering creatures, of a skittish attitude, and unpredictable behaviour – much like any animal though or person. When people tell me they are going horseback riding – or trail riding a smile and a good luck wish, and a “have fun,” is all that I can muster. My fear and disgust of horses have what kept me from those creatures, and continue to. What use is a horse to me anyway?
“Riding Clothes,” interests me as a reader for its location first and foremost. Yasunari Kawabata the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight, is Japanese. Some might think of Japan as a nation isolated from the rest of the world. Reclusive to the influence of other countries. Always individual, and always strong. One however does not really think of Japanese people as the traveling type. Yet Yasunari Kawabata shows a different Japan then what some people may traditionally envision. The Japan depicted in Yasunari Kawabata’s fiction is a country in purgatory. A place of traditions, of beautiful and elegant customs, and at the same time, a country that is on the verge of modernization and has come to be influenced by other countries.
The short story “Riding Clothes,” takes place in both Japan – in the present tense; and presently in London, England.
The story is about a woman Nagako, and her unhappy marriage to a man by the name Iguchi, who had since lost his job, forcing Nagako to teach English at a Preparatory School, to support herself and her husband. However Nagako is unhappy in her marriage for the reason that she is married to her husband who reminds her too much of her father. Her father has left her with less than happy memories. She remembers her father sending her to old school mates with a latter. Each one shaking their head at the embarrassment of a grown man sending his daughter to send a letter instead of going there himself. This memory had left her with such an unhappy feeling, and his death only strengthened her feelings of discontent with her father, who she saw as a coward.
The title of this story comes when Nagako see’s an English family riding in Hyde Park, in the appropriate riding clothes. Their faces the epiphany of happiness. Something she herself could only touch and yet not have as her own.
Yasunari Kawabata’s “Palm-of-The-Hand: Stories,” are like small moments. Echoes if you will, of characters, trapped in moments of beauty and moments of the past, whispering and calling; yet like a candle quickly snuffed out by the current situation, or the reality of their lives quickly becomes tears down the moment of nostalgia or fantasy of what could have been, and should have been.
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“A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” by Gabriel García Márquez the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-eighty two – From “Leaf Storm: and Other Stories.”
When Gabriel García Márquez discusses what Magical Realism is, he stated that: “the most frightful, the most unusual things are told with the deadpan expression.” Which is quite true, in discussing the short stories that I have read by him. For one with the discussion or the reading of “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” it best to say that the above quote “the most frightful, the most unusual things are told with the deadpan expression,” is a great description of the reality of this story. In the simple discussion of the old man – who later is referred to as an angel, with his moulted and tattered wings; discusses with the most simple of deadpan expression, the very way Charles Dickens or Thomas Hardy or Émile Zola, would describe the conditions of the reality of their time. Just like the way when the angel is disturbed with a hot poker, pressed to his side, is described not with a sense of inhumanity or humanity; but instead described with that neutral way that Gabriel García Márquez uses in writing.
What strikes me as interesting in this story is not the way this angel is treated – well yes it is also interesting; but the way that the angel is just a common occurrence almost; or the way that when the crabs walk throughout the house, because of the rains and the consequences of the flooding, that has resulted of the rain. Another interesting aspect of this story is the description of this angel.
The angel has aged like any mortal creature – usually when a celestial being is described, in any narrative or any work of fiction; it is described well as ‘heavenly.’ It is described as beautiful. It’s a majestic being. It is something that mortals could never really comprehend in its aesthetic beauty. However with this angel compromised with this story, it is aged, its wings are tattered and look like a buzzards (no gold wings, or angelic dove like white wings of purity or cleanliness) there are only a few strands of hair on the top of his head, most of his teeth are missing. I assume he is underweight, starved and looks like some creature with an eating disorder. One can tell that this angel is not an individual of heavenly beauty or celestial power. If anything Gabriel García Márquez has invented a creature so pathetic and pitiful, that any predetermined concept of heaven as a paradise shows in some way or another is nothing but just like earth. The angels (the mortals there) age and follow the same concept as human beings.
This poor angel who has – at least according to a neighbour; come for the child who was in sick health; has been so old was beaten down by the gusts and the rain and fell into the mud trapped. This leads to his dual nature of becoming a guest and a prisoner in the chicken coop, of Pelayo and his wife Enlisenda. Pelayo took the angel in out of a sense of fraternity. Not the sense of the two being bond in some brotherhood; but rather that Pelayo is a kind and generous man who would welcome and accept anyone into his home, and help them out as needed – though in all honesty as well he is a little bit reluctant in helping the Old Man but at the same time is willing to. Enlisenda wife and family woman, is the one who comes up with the concept of charging a fee to for people to see this old man and his wings – a prospective angel who Father Gonzana has his own theory and suspicions is a fake. However Enlisenda money making becomes a bit of a problem when she needs to clean up after the crowds of people. However in the long run it pays off.
In the end the old man and his wings – though an ugly, pathetic and pitiful creature; finally loses his lustre and appeal. When a new ‘freak show,’ comes around and adds a new sense of wonder to the work other than that of the old man – who quite frankly did nothing. However with his fame done, his lodgers can now get their due rent.
The ending of the story is perhaps the best part of the story. It is not rushed. There’s a great sense of – not a happy ending, or a pleasant ending; but an ending which one can look back at as one does with their own life and give a slight smile to those wistful moments. For it is when the old man is described like a “senile vulture,” in the story it becomes slightly amusing to picture both a senile vulture, but it also adds to the grotesqueness of the old man himself.
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“Child’s Play,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness,” by Alice Munro
Alice Munro’s greatest strength is her foreshadowing. How her pen becomes a brush. How the brush paints the scene. An odd scene. Not even the most friendliest scene. It’s dense with atmospheric emotions, muted in sepia and other olive hue tones. Like that of memory itself. Her stories may not be that far away from the past, and yet there is a sense that they are distances between the reader and even the character and the past. Many praise Alice Munro’s ability to weave a story. Her theme of using both women’s strength’s and their vulnerabilities against them. However for myself, the long shadow her pens casts across the page, as she writes out the scenes, makes the characters react and respond accordingly – though not always appropriately. Accidents, depression, absurd situations, despair, adultery, divorce – all of these aspects of life, lead one to unanswered questions. Yet each of the characters, face them as they like anyone else, is forced to. There is nothing they can do. They cannot hide from them. They cannot runaway. They cannot disappear, or wish them gone. They are part of their lives.
“And the name Verna – I dislike that. It doesn’t sound like spring to me, or like green grass or garlands of flowers or girls in flimsy dresses. It sounds more like a trail of obstinate peppermint, green slime.”
That is what there situations are: “obstinate peppermint, green slime.” Slithering into one’s mouth, forcing that sickening taste down one’s throat. Reminds one of those sickening candies their grandparents give them when they are children – some rather enjoy(ed) them; in fact it wouldn’t come to much shock, surprise and awe that most even enjoyed them; however I found (correction still do) find peppermint a sickening creature. Upon reading that quote it became apparent that it needed to be slithered into this review somehow. My utter distaste and dislike – no more like hatred for peppermint (not only the taste for it but also the smell of it!) was just a necessary to fit in. Let it crawl in, and be known.
However this short story by Alice Munro for me was one of her bests. The detachment and foreshadowing was appropriate. It allows for one to realize and see the emotional sterility of the narrator and characters themselves. However what I thoroughly enjoyed by this Alice Munro short story, was a sense of literary academia.
It should come to no surprise that Alice Munro is usually depicted as a former house wife turned writer, whose writing is characterized by the mundane, and the subtleties of text that show the underlying struggles but determination that the modern women must face. Such problems can vary. From the women facing herself against the collective group of society or her own self, and her own mistakes. A woman fighting change or embracing change, but being penalized by those around her for embracing change in an, otherwise oppressive and somewhat fiscally conservative landscape (not conservative in the political sense, but the concept of tradition the ways aspects of life “have been done,” versus the way that aspects of life “should,” or “what is going to be deemed done.”) But it always done through the mundane. The life of these women, which is beyond ordinary to the point of banal – and yet it never become banal. The gothic undertones at times, the ensure there is something darker. More captivating just below the surface. Like a fat juicy earth worm to be eaten, after all that top soil has been sifted thoroughly. Did I ever get a thick fat juicy worm with this story though.
The protagonist Marlene is a university or college educated woman. She has never married, and is childless. She studied anthropology and as a child was greatly paranoid by a rather “special,” kind of person by the name of Verna, whose mental incapability’s were frightening to the narrator as a child. She is a horrible turning point for the narrator as well. Changing her life forever. Her friendship to her ‘twin,’ Charlene, as well as perhaps a sense of an obsession with the fact of mental incapacitated people, and what is deemed normal functioning people – at least in a social sense.
“The words ‘Deficient,’ ‘Handicapped,’ ‘Retarded,’ being of course also consigned to the dustbin and probably for good reason – not simply because such words may indicate a superior attitude and habitual unkindness but because they are not truly descriptive. Those words push aside a good deal that is remarkable even awesome – or at any rate pecuniary, powerful in such people.”
That is what I thought was enjoyable. For such a brief moment was a abandonment of the mundane, and for a second it felt like the narrator was actually quoting an extract from her fictional book “Idols and Idiots,” which dealt with people like Verna. One cannot help but feel a sense of guilt, being confessed, and washed away – or at best an attempt at redemption trying to take place between the narrator and the character Verna through that fictional book.
What came as a real shocker was the ending. At times, it felt like there were two stories being told and run through this one story, but once they had collided, as so, it worked out nicely and adequately. Beware however Alice Munro is not a sentimentalist, or a sensationalist. The narrator discusses the facts with the coldest and at times cruellest of matter of fact way of speaking. All guilt, grief, desire for confession, and redemption had failed, and had long since been abandoned. Reality and the personal history had sunk in. No matter, what she did – be it confess, or flog herself – would ever change that.
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“(Autumn) The municipal pigeon,” by Italo Calvino – From “Marcovaldo or The Seasons in The City.”
There certainly is a sense of sardonic humour – that arguably could be seen as resembling to being irony; in Italo Calvino’s short stories. That being said humour is something that one should always state is quite difficult for an author or writer or anyone for that matter, to communicate or present across through any written text. Humour can be situational. It can become physical. It can become vicious. But one aspect of humour that it truly be stated to become difficult and even next to impossible to do, is provide a substantial humours effort in written text. There is no physical or active proportion. One does not clearly see the way the characters voice contorts to shock and awe and a humours or comical way. One does not to explicitly see the awkward position in which the characters will find themselves in. This leads to an explicitly difficult sense of writing for an author who wishes to achieve a comical writing. However Italo Calvino does achieve this, in writing’s own special and unique way. It does not make one laugh out loud, with their stomach cramping at the humour, but one does certainly give a slight smirk or even a smile at the way the story unfolds.
Marcovaldo really is the little William Kempe or a happy Pagliacci. Though slightly miserably in his surroundings. Marcovaldo would be more content in the countryside. Paradise would be working on a vineyard. Having the lush green grass surrounding him. However his situation is not that at all. He must endure the fact that he is surrounded, by cement, steel, brick, smoke and other wonders of the man made beehive that he finds himself living in.
To make matters so much more worst Marcovaldo is a poor man. An uneducated general labour simply working at a factory. A job he despises, in a city he despises. To add some more grief upon that, poor Marcovaldo tries his best to improve his situation. He does his best, to allow his family to eat well. He does all he can for them. Though explicitly stated on the back of this collection of short stories: “the results are never the anticipated ones.”
It was fitting to choose this story based on its season. Autumn, the time of harvest. A time of bonfires, Halloween – and in Canada thanksgiving. Autumn (also my favourite season) is also a prelude to what is about to come. Soon there will be the long thin icicle fingers of winter slithering around on the ground. That old breath sighing heavily on windows at night. It’ll soon come to that time when one must take out the snow brush, and scrape off, the frost that had accumulated the night before. Let the car warm up before driving off to one’s destination.
This is also the season of the bird migration. Already it can be seen in the sky the geese flying away. Flocking away squawking and honking their goodbyes, as they head south for the winter – much like lizard like old people do as well. The woodcock bird, is what grabs Marcovaldo’s eye migrating. This almost gets him run over and the scorn of his foreman at his job. However upon retelling his story of his foreman, the foreman remarks that he would head up to the hills and hunt the woodcock like a hunter. Marcovaldo had a different approach in mind. Laying birdlime on the roof, and the laundry lines, Marcovaldo had hoped to catch woodcock, and have the birds for his own greedy purposes of a necessity of devouring them, like a king at a feast. However poor Marcovaldo is left with a bit of a disappointment. Instead of the delicious meaty game bird of woodcock, he is left with more a more meagre scrawny urban pigeon, trapped in his birdlime. However food is still food, to Marcovaldo, and he devours the bird. Though his meal comes a with a bit of a price.
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“Three Popes Walk into a Bar,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section “Reasons to Live”
“Three Popes Walk into a Bar,” first came to my attention after reading an interview that Amy Hempel had done by the “Paris Review,” back in the summer of two thousand and three No. 166. It is in that interview that Amy Hempel had discussed the inspiration of the short story “Three Popes Walk into a Bar.” Amy Hempel had discussed how in order to help her write a memorable short story, and would help her later on, was enjoying the company of stand up comedians. She had informed the interviewer (Paul Winner) that upon watching the stand up comedians, she was able to observe some of the most crucial aspects of a story and stand up comedy itself. Amy Hempel describes how she witnessed “nuance, inflection, timing, how the slightest difference mattered,” all of which can clearly be seen in her work – along with her own traits of leaving right information out. On one such occasion, Amy Hempel had relayed to the interviewer the inspiration or the event that helped shape the short story “Three Popes Walk into a Bar,” when she met Steve Martin at Boarding House in San Francisco, back in the green room he was getting sick. It is there she had confessed that she had admired him, and told him she would not be able to go out there and make people laugh if she were sick. Steve Martin replied “Don’t be silly—you couldn’t do it if you were well.”
This anecdote is used within in the story itself. It is used specifically in the story where the narrator discusses talking with her friend Wesley a standup comedian who is by all means necessary not a humorous funny person, off stage. In fact it could be seen that he himself has grown tired of performing standup comedy and grown quite sick of it – a dark shroud of depression can certainly be sensed forming around him. However the real question is, is Wesley sick of doing comedy on his own choice, that the desire and the dream of it all has come and past or is he growing tired and sick of it because his girl friend Eve a former topless dancer, now a journalist who writes a column about fallen stars – or has been celebrities that is titled “Where Are They Now?” which the female narrator remarks they all called “Why Aren’t They Dead?” Eve wishes Wesley to give up standup comedy and for the two of them to buy a boat and to put it simply “live it up.”
One aspect of Amy Hempel’s writing that I am beginning to understand is that Amy Hempel’s writing deals with powerlessness in relationships, deception, lies, falseness, doubt, and self-deception. All of this can be seen here in this short story. However what Amy Hempel does in these stories though is how the characters try to mend what is broken in their lives. They try to fix those broken aspects of their lives. Mend those bridges. Paint over the bruises. Find a sense of meaning. This is what leads to some form of self-deception. That, the characters are so happy and so easily comfortable with their situations that they cannot accept the fact that the relationship is doing them no good whatsoever.
Part of this can be seen in the scene where Wesley shows the unnamed narrator of the story a commercial film he did for a company, for a product that seals concrete – a sense of sealing or healing what is chipped, cracked and broken. If memory serves correct (and I do not feel like going and searching throughout the story to find it to see if I am right – I read it and lunch time with a bunch of people talking around me.) Wesley cannot bare to watch himself on the video. He covers his eyes. One can take this a sense of Wesley’s inability or desire to change his current situation – to fix it like the cement seal that he himself had helped advertise.
Saki’s sense of humour lies in a twist ending, and a satirising of the upper middle class of the Edwardian period. He wrote about – as it is often distinguished and discussed to the point of repetitive, woodpecker knocking it into one’s skull (and yes I am also guilty of it); the golden afternoon that England had pleasantly enjoyed before the Great War. Filboid Studge is not a person’s name – the odd things people call themselves or what parents name their children these days and even back then, it comes to no surprise to myself that I had even considered the fact that, it could have possibly have been a name at all. Instead Filboid Studge is a breakfast cereal. Previously under the title “Pipenta.”
It is a horrible breakfast really. Something that I can only think to myself reminds me of grits, porridge (how I hated porridge as a child lumpy and warm sitting in a lucrative warm milk), or biscuits drenched in a watery gravy with bits of sausage in it. It all makes me shudder – breakfast has not and remains to this day and probably until I am dead; the most hated meal that I have ever eaten. I despise the cereals (though those children ones with cereal are good) but since I personally was young, breakfast never appeased me. Though there were the odd times of having eggs and toast, with a cup of coffee that I did find enjoyable. But usually I found it all quite disgusting and unfathomable. Who would force their stomach’s I wonder(ed) for such a long period of time, why people could desire to eat such things. Yes the sugary cereals marketed to children is good – but does not sustain the affects of hunger. It does quench that growling monstrosity in my stomach until lunch. Of course now day’s people eat yogurt and fruit for breakfast. But this vile fictional concoction that Saki has created is perhaps the vilest breakfast that I have had both the pleasure and displeasure to read about.
Our protagonist, Mark is a simple artist. He designs posters for products. He makes about two hundred dollars a year. Yes Gentle Reader two hundred dollars a year. It’s messily earnings but life was simpler back then. He wishes to be wed to Leonore an heiress and daughter of a businessman Duncan. Duncan our ill fated, businessman you’ll find if you read this story made a stupid investment in a foul tasting disgusting ruthlessly indigestible breakfast, that no one would buy. However Mark, sensing a way to help Duncan, and secure his proposed marriage to Leonore takes the opportunity to rebrand and redo the advertisement of the breakfast that was so vile and so disgusting that no one wanted it. So Mark does. Soon with his plain poster of the damned in hell, reaching for the now renamed and rebranded Filboid Studge, puritans everywhere are going out to their local grocers and buying the product. The salvation of their soul – at the cost of their stomach’s and the torture of their tongues; become top priority.
All in most ways or another turn out just fine for everyone – to a degree. Once money is made it can always provide a new spin on the perspective of life. Which is fortunate for some and rather unfortunate for others. Though in a sense or way everyone is happy after they get what they want. At least for those who get it – and in typical Saki style it’ll come at the price of the stomachs, the tongues, and the mouths of those foolish and puritan – in other words devoted enough to believe what they see in a poster and their thoughts on the salvation of the soul; enough to buy the foul crap that is sold to them.
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“Riding Clothes,” by Yasunari Kawabata Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight – From “The Palm-of-The-Hand: Stores”
“Equinophobia,” or “Hippophobia,” is the clinical term or the more appropriate term for the fear of horses. There has never been a negative experience in my life, about horses. Mind you I have never grown up around horses. Though I look at them as dumb and skittish animals. Odd looking with their legs and heads, and those sad glass marble eyes. What then people ask makes me worry or feel uncomfortable around horses. Maybe it is there strength of those hooves. One kick and your down for the count. Perhaps it’s those teeth. Take your upper lip off, or remove your finger. Either way it does not matter. It does not matter either way. I have no use for horses. Large lumbering creatures, of a skittish attitude, and unpredictable behaviour – much like any animal though or person. When people tell me they are going horseback riding – or trail riding a smile and a good luck wish, and a “have fun,” is all that I can muster. My fear and disgust of horses have what kept me from those creatures, and continue to. What use is a horse to me anyway?
“Riding Clothes,” interests me as a reader for its location first and foremost. Yasunari Kawabata the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight, is Japanese. Some might think of Japan as a nation isolated from the rest of the world. Reclusive to the influence of other countries. Always individual, and always strong. One however does not really think of Japanese people as the traveling type. Yet Yasunari Kawabata shows a different Japan then what some people may traditionally envision. The Japan depicted in Yasunari Kawabata’s fiction is a country in purgatory. A place of traditions, of beautiful and elegant customs, and at the same time, a country that is on the verge of modernization and has come to be influenced by other countries.
The short story “Riding Clothes,” takes place in both Japan – in the present tense; and presently in London, England.
The story is about a woman Nagako, and her unhappy marriage to a man by the name Iguchi, who had since lost his job, forcing Nagako to teach English at a Preparatory School, to support herself and her husband. However Nagako is unhappy in her marriage for the reason that she is married to her husband who reminds her too much of her father. Her father has left her with less than happy memories. She remembers her father sending her to old school mates with a latter. Each one shaking their head at the embarrassment of a grown man sending his daughter to send a letter instead of going there himself. This memory had left her with such an unhappy feeling, and his death only strengthened her feelings of discontent with her father, who she saw as a coward.
The title of this story comes when Nagako see’s an English family riding in Hyde Park, in the appropriate riding clothes. Their faces the epiphany of happiness. Something she herself could only touch and yet not have as her own.
Yasunari Kawabata’s “Palm-of-The-Hand: Stories,” are like small moments. Echoes if you will, of characters, trapped in moments of beauty and moments of the past, whispering and calling; yet like a candle quickly snuffed out by the current situation, or the reality of their lives quickly becomes tears down the moment of nostalgia or fantasy of what could have been, and should have been.
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“A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” by Gabriel García Márquez the Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-eighty two – From “Leaf Storm: and Other Stories.”
When Gabriel García Márquez discusses what Magical Realism is, he stated that: “the most frightful, the most unusual things are told with the deadpan expression.” Which is quite true, in discussing the short stories that I have read by him. For one with the discussion or the reading of “A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings,” it best to say that the above quote “the most frightful, the most unusual things are told with the deadpan expression,” is a great description of the reality of this story. In the simple discussion of the old man – who later is referred to as an angel, with his moulted and tattered wings; discusses with the most simple of deadpan expression, the very way Charles Dickens or Thomas Hardy or Émile Zola, would describe the conditions of the reality of their time. Just like the way when the angel is disturbed with a hot poker, pressed to his side, is described not with a sense of inhumanity or humanity; but instead described with that neutral way that Gabriel García Márquez uses in writing.
What strikes me as interesting in this story is not the way this angel is treated – well yes it is also interesting; but the way that the angel is just a common occurrence almost; or the way that when the crabs walk throughout the house, because of the rains and the consequences of the flooding, that has resulted of the rain. Another interesting aspect of this story is the description of this angel.
The angel has aged like any mortal creature – usually when a celestial being is described, in any narrative or any work of fiction; it is described well as ‘heavenly.’ It is described as beautiful. It’s a majestic being. It is something that mortals could never really comprehend in its aesthetic beauty. However with this angel compromised with this story, it is aged, its wings are tattered and look like a buzzards (no gold wings, or angelic dove like white wings of purity or cleanliness) there are only a few strands of hair on the top of his head, most of his teeth are missing. I assume he is underweight, starved and looks like some creature with an eating disorder. One can tell that this angel is not an individual of heavenly beauty or celestial power. If anything Gabriel García Márquez has invented a creature so pathetic and pitiful, that any predetermined concept of heaven as a paradise shows in some way or another is nothing but just like earth. The angels (the mortals there) age and follow the same concept as human beings.
This poor angel who has – at least according to a neighbour; come for the child who was in sick health; has been so old was beaten down by the gusts and the rain and fell into the mud trapped. This leads to his dual nature of becoming a guest and a prisoner in the chicken coop, of Pelayo and his wife Enlisenda. Pelayo took the angel in out of a sense of fraternity. Not the sense of the two being bond in some brotherhood; but rather that Pelayo is a kind and generous man who would welcome and accept anyone into his home, and help them out as needed – though in all honesty as well he is a little bit reluctant in helping the Old Man but at the same time is willing to. Enlisenda wife and family woman, is the one who comes up with the concept of charging a fee to for people to see this old man and his wings – a prospective angel who Father Gonzana has his own theory and suspicions is a fake. However Enlisenda money making becomes a bit of a problem when she needs to clean up after the crowds of people. However in the long run it pays off.
In the end the old man and his wings – though an ugly, pathetic and pitiful creature; finally loses his lustre and appeal. When a new ‘freak show,’ comes around and adds a new sense of wonder to the work other than that of the old man – who quite frankly did nothing. However with his fame done, his lodgers can now get their due rent.
The ending of the story is perhaps the best part of the story. It is not rushed. There’s a great sense of – not a happy ending, or a pleasant ending; but an ending which one can look back at as one does with their own life and give a slight smile to those wistful moments. For it is when the old man is described like a “senile vulture,” in the story it becomes slightly amusing to picture both a senile vulture, but it also adds to the grotesqueness of the old man himself.
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“Child’s Play,” by Alice Munro – From “Too Much Happiness,” by Alice Munro
Alice Munro’s greatest strength is her foreshadowing. How her pen becomes a brush. How the brush paints the scene. An odd scene. Not even the most friendliest scene. It’s dense with atmospheric emotions, muted in sepia and other olive hue tones. Like that of memory itself. Her stories may not be that far away from the past, and yet there is a sense that they are distances between the reader and even the character and the past. Many praise Alice Munro’s ability to weave a story. Her theme of using both women’s strength’s and their vulnerabilities against them. However for myself, the long shadow her pens casts across the page, as she writes out the scenes, makes the characters react and respond accordingly – though not always appropriately. Accidents, depression, absurd situations, despair, adultery, divorce – all of these aspects of life, lead one to unanswered questions. Yet each of the characters, face them as they like anyone else, is forced to. There is nothing they can do. They cannot hide from them. They cannot runaway. They cannot disappear, or wish them gone. They are part of their lives.
“And the name Verna – I dislike that. It doesn’t sound like spring to me, or like green grass or garlands of flowers or girls in flimsy dresses. It sounds more like a trail of obstinate peppermint, green slime.”
That is what there situations are: “obstinate peppermint, green slime.” Slithering into one’s mouth, forcing that sickening taste down one’s throat. Reminds one of those sickening candies their grandparents give them when they are children – some rather enjoy(ed) them; in fact it wouldn’t come to much shock, surprise and awe that most even enjoyed them; however I found (correction still do) find peppermint a sickening creature. Upon reading that quote it became apparent that it needed to be slithered into this review somehow. My utter distaste and dislike – no more like hatred for peppermint (not only the taste for it but also the smell of it!) was just a necessary to fit in. Let it crawl in, and be known.
However this short story by Alice Munro for me was one of her bests. The detachment and foreshadowing was appropriate. It allows for one to realize and see the emotional sterility of the narrator and characters themselves. However what I thoroughly enjoyed by this Alice Munro short story, was a sense of literary academia.
It should come to no surprise that Alice Munro is usually depicted as a former house wife turned writer, whose writing is characterized by the mundane, and the subtleties of text that show the underlying struggles but determination that the modern women must face. Such problems can vary. From the women facing herself against the collective group of society or her own self, and her own mistakes. A woman fighting change or embracing change, but being penalized by those around her for embracing change in an, otherwise oppressive and somewhat fiscally conservative landscape (not conservative in the political sense, but the concept of tradition the ways aspects of life “have been done,” versus the way that aspects of life “should,” or “what is going to be deemed done.”) But it always done through the mundane. The life of these women, which is beyond ordinary to the point of banal – and yet it never become banal. The gothic undertones at times, the ensure there is something darker. More captivating just below the surface. Like a fat juicy earth worm to be eaten, after all that top soil has been sifted thoroughly. Did I ever get a thick fat juicy worm with this story though.
The protagonist Marlene is a university or college educated woman. She has never married, and is childless. She studied anthropology and as a child was greatly paranoid by a rather “special,” kind of person by the name of Verna, whose mental incapability’s were frightening to the narrator as a child. She is a horrible turning point for the narrator as well. Changing her life forever. Her friendship to her ‘twin,’ Charlene, as well as perhaps a sense of an obsession with the fact of mental incapacitated people, and what is deemed normal functioning people – at least in a social sense.
“The words ‘Deficient,’ ‘Handicapped,’ ‘Retarded,’ being of course also consigned to the dustbin and probably for good reason – not simply because such words may indicate a superior attitude and habitual unkindness but because they are not truly descriptive. Those words push aside a good deal that is remarkable even awesome – or at any rate pecuniary, powerful in such people.”
That is what I thought was enjoyable. For such a brief moment was a abandonment of the mundane, and for a second it felt like the narrator was actually quoting an extract from her fictional book “Idols and Idiots,” which dealt with people like Verna. One cannot help but feel a sense of guilt, being confessed, and washed away – or at best an attempt at redemption trying to take place between the narrator and the character Verna through that fictional book.
What came as a real shocker was the ending. At times, it felt like there were two stories being told and run through this one story, but once they had collided, as so, it worked out nicely and adequately. Beware however Alice Munro is not a sentimentalist, or a sensationalist. The narrator discusses the facts with the coldest and at times cruellest of matter of fact way of speaking. All guilt, grief, desire for confession, and redemption had failed, and had long since been abandoned. Reality and the personal history had sunk in. No matter, what she did – be it confess, or flog herself – would ever change that.
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“(Autumn) The municipal pigeon,” by Italo Calvino – From “Marcovaldo or The Seasons in The City.”
There certainly is a sense of sardonic humour – that arguably could be seen as resembling to being irony; in Italo Calvino’s short stories. That being said humour is something that one should always state is quite difficult for an author or writer or anyone for that matter, to communicate or present across through any written text. Humour can be situational. It can become physical. It can become vicious. But one aspect of humour that it truly be stated to become difficult and even next to impossible to do, is provide a substantial humours effort in written text. There is no physical or active proportion. One does not clearly see the way the characters voice contorts to shock and awe and a humours or comical way. One does not to explicitly see the awkward position in which the characters will find themselves in. This leads to an explicitly difficult sense of writing for an author who wishes to achieve a comical writing. However Italo Calvino does achieve this, in writing’s own special and unique way. It does not make one laugh out loud, with their stomach cramping at the humour, but one does certainly give a slight smirk or even a smile at the way the story unfolds.
Marcovaldo really is the little William Kempe or a happy Pagliacci. Though slightly miserably in his surroundings. Marcovaldo would be more content in the countryside. Paradise would be working on a vineyard. Having the lush green grass surrounding him. However his situation is not that at all. He must endure the fact that he is surrounded, by cement, steel, brick, smoke and other wonders of the man made beehive that he finds himself living in.
To make matters so much more worst Marcovaldo is a poor man. An uneducated general labour simply working at a factory. A job he despises, in a city he despises. To add some more grief upon that, poor Marcovaldo tries his best to improve his situation. He does his best, to allow his family to eat well. He does all he can for them. Though explicitly stated on the back of this collection of short stories: “the results are never the anticipated ones.”
It was fitting to choose this story based on its season. Autumn, the time of harvest. A time of bonfires, Halloween – and in Canada thanksgiving. Autumn (also my favourite season) is also a prelude to what is about to come. Soon there will be the long thin icicle fingers of winter slithering around on the ground. That old breath sighing heavily on windows at night. It’ll soon come to that time when one must take out the snow brush, and scrape off, the frost that had accumulated the night before. Let the car warm up before driving off to one’s destination.
This is also the season of the bird migration. Already it can be seen in the sky the geese flying away. Flocking away squawking and honking their goodbyes, as they head south for the winter – much like lizard like old people do as well. The woodcock bird, is what grabs Marcovaldo’s eye migrating. This almost gets him run over and the scorn of his foreman at his job. However upon retelling his story of his foreman, the foreman remarks that he would head up to the hills and hunt the woodcock like a hunter. Marcovaldo had a different approach in mind. Laying birdlime on the roof, and the laundry lines, Marcovaldo had hoped to catch woodcock, and have the birds for his own greedy purposes of a necessity of devouring them, like a king at a feast. However poor Marcovaldo is left with a bit of a disappointment. Instead of the delicious meaty game bird of woodcock, he is left with more a more meagre scrawny urban pigeon, trapped in his birdlime. However food is still food, to Marcovaldo, and he devours the bird. Though his meal comes a with a bit of a price.
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“Three Popes Walk into a Bar,” by Amy Hempel – From “The Collected Stories,” by Amy Hempel – Section “Reasons to Live”
“Three Popes Walk into a Bar,” first came to my attention after reading an interview that Amy Hempel had done by the “Paris Review,” back in the summer of two thousand and three No. 166. It is in that interview that Amy Hempel had discussed the inspiration of the short story “Three Popes Walk into a Bar.” Amy Hempel had discussed how in order to help her write a memorable short story, and would help her later on, was enjoying the company of stand up comedians. She had informed the interviewer (Paul Winner) that upon watching the stand up comedians, she was able to observe some of the most crucial aspects of a story and stand up comedy itself. Amy Hempel describes how she witnessed “nuance, inflection, timing, how the slightest difference mattered,” all of which can clearly be seen in her work – along with her own traits of leaving right information out. On one such occasion, Amy Hempel had relayed to the interviewer the inspiration or the event that helped shape the short story “Three Popes Walk into a Bar,” when she met Steve Martin at Boarding House in San Francisco, back in the green room he was getting sick. It is there she had confessed that she had admired him, and told him she would not be able to go out there and make people laugh if she were sick. Steve Martin replied “Don’t be silly—you couldn’t do it if you were well.”
This anecdote is used within in the story itself. It is used specifically in the story where the narrator discusses talking with her friend Wesley a standup comedian who is by all means necessary not a humorous funny person, off stage. In fact it could be seen that he himself has grown tired of performing standup comedy and grown quite sick of it – a dark shroud of depression can certainly be sensed forming around him. However the real question is, is Wesley sick of doing comedy on his own choice, that the desire and the dream of it all has come and past or is he growing tired and sick of it because his girl friend Eve a former topless dancer, now a journalist who writes a column about fallen stars – or has been celebrities that is titled “Where Are They Now?” which the female narrator remarks they all called “Why Aren’t They Dead?” Eve wishes Wesley to give up standup comedy and for the two of them to buy a boat and to put it simply “live it up.”
One aspect of Amy Hempel’s writing that I am beginning to understand is that Amy Hempel’s writing deals with powerlessness in relationships, deception, lies, falseness, doubt, and self-deception. All of this can be seen here in this short story. However what Amy Hempel does in these stories though is how the characters try to mend what is broken in their lives. They try to fix those broken aspects of their lives. Mend those bridges. Paint over the bruises. Find a sense of meaning. This is what leads to some form of self-deception. That, the characters are so happy and so easily comfortable with their situations that they cannot accept the fact that the relationship is doing them no good whatsoever.
Part of this can be seen in the scene where Wesley shows the unnamed narrator of the story a commercial film he did for a company, for a product that seals concrete – a sense of sealing or healing what is chipped, cracked and broken. If memory serves correct (and I do not feel like going and searching throughout the story to find it to see if I am right – I read it and lunch time with a bunch of people talking around me.) Wesley cannot bare to watch himself on the video. He covers his eyes. One can take this a sense of Wesley’s inability or desire to change his current situation – to fix it like the cement seal that he himself had helped advertise.
Wednesday, 26 October 2011
The Short Story Review No. VII Introduction
Hello Gentle Reader
It is a question, which most writers would probably ask themselves. The Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight, had commented that the true essence of his writing, was to be found in them. In the beginning of her career, it distressed Alice Munro. Some authors can use it to their advantage; others miserably fail. Arguably Edgar Allan Poe had turned it into an ‘art,’ form. Yes Gentle Reader, it is the short story. The bastard cousin or the middle child of the novel. Its constrained. It is like poetry, only it tells a story. It has little room for any complexities of plot. But it can do certain things that the novel cannot do. It is more comprehendible then that of the poetic form of literature. It is less longer, less complex, then that of the novel. It is highly underrated as well. Some of the greatest authors of fiction, of the twentieth century wrote in the short story form. Franz Kafka, Rudyard Kipling, Anton Chekhov, Alice Munro, Angela Carter, Nadine Gordimer, Doris Lessing, Joseph Conrad, Jorge Lois Borges and Naugib Mahfouz, all wrote in this form of literature. It is a complete separation from that of the novel or poetic form of literature.
Where novels have a plot, short stories will have a story. Poetry does not even have either one of those two. Poetry is more of a technical form of literature, with a specific use of form, and an experimentation of language to create a musical or otherwise different use of language. With a novel, the plot can on one more plots, running parallel with each other, before drifting and smearing together to form a consecutive or more coherent, plot. The short story can only have one story running – and sometimes it might all out together get rid of that idea of a short story and move towards the aimlessness, of what real life amounts to. Those moments, of thoughts. Those emotional responses. These reactions in the day to day life like the chemical reaction taken place in the beaker of a chemist’s lab. It might focus on the beautiful atmosphere that is experienced through the character, which gives through an emotional response to the reader, which then connects for the briefest of moments that the short story and the reader share that emotional bond. That slight almost bewildering connection. That is if the short story form is done more correctly. If it is not done correctly that it is failing miserably. That can be seen with Patricia Highsmith’s and Will Self’s collection of stories, where something was left undone. A screw loose. A board out of place. Arguably something was not right. Therefore it failed miserably. While other authors like Yasunari Kawabata, Alice Munro, Amy Hempel – are able to grasp the concept of the short story and using its particular form, its sense of fragmentation, and its ability not to focus on comprehending the entire concept of the universe or society, but rather to simply zero in on those moments. Those moments that touch, to use a single grain of sand, and see the entire concept of the universe there in its very small peculiar way.
Steven Millhauser of the New York Times comprehends the short story form in his following passage from his essay about the ambitions of the short story form:
“A world in a grain of sand": "In that single grain of sand lies the beach that contains the grain of sand. In that single grain of sand lies the ocean that dashes against the beach, the ship that sails the ocean, the sun that shines down on the ship, the interstellar winds, a teaspoon in Kansas, the structure of the universe. And there you have the ambition of the short story, the terrible ambition that lies behind its fraudulent modesty: to body forth the whole world.”
Steven Millhauser is right in what he describes. The short story, who views the world at the miniaturist form of that tiny grain of sand, does not wish to devour it like the novel, but more expertly, it see’s the world in just these little details. These moments, are grasped in the short story form. The molecules of the grain of sand are not just the molecules, atoms, and particles of the single grain of sand, it is the database the building block of what all life is, in just that speck of almost nihilistic nothingness. A grain of sand that in the void and incomprehensible universe of the world, laughs at it all, and understands that the world cannot be comprehended in just a singular way but more expectedly it is built up of just moments. Moments upon moments. Rather than being the novel that wishes to make the universe more comprehendible, or grasp all the moments and all the greatness of the world; the short story takes one single grain of sand and see’s the world, in all its miniature moments. As if creating an epiphany with subtle beauty and modesty. That is what the short story is.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
P.S. Gentle Reader, I came across the Steven Millhauser quote from this blog:
http://may-on-the-short-story.blogspot.com/2011/02/steven-millhauser-getting-closer.html
It is a question, which most writers would probably ask themselves. The Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-sixty eight, had commented that the true essence of his writing, was to be found in them. In the beginning of her career, it distressed Alice Munro. Some authors can use it to their advantage; others miserably fail. Arguably Edgar Allan Poe had turned it into an ‘art,’ form. Yes Gentle Reader, it is the short story. The bastard cousin or the middle child of the novel. Its constrained. It is like poetry, only it tells a story. It has little room for any complexities of plot. But it can do certain things that the novel cannot do. It is more comprehendible then that of the poetic form of literature. It is less longer, less complex, then that of the novel. It is highly underrated as well. Some of the greatest authors of fiction, of the twentieth century wrote in the short story form. Franz Kafka, Rudyard Kipling, Anton Chekhov, Alice Munro, Angela Carter, Nadine Gordimer, Doris Lessing, Joseph Conrad, Jorge Lois Borges and Naugib Mahfouz, all wrote in this form of literature. It is a complete separation from that of the novel or poetic form of literature.
Where novels have a plot, short stories will have a story. Poetry does not even have either one of those two. Poetry is more of a technical form of literature, with a specific use of form, and an experimentation of language to create a musical or otherwise different use of language. With a novel, the plot can on one more plots, running parallel with each other, before drifting and smearing together to form a consecutive or more coherent, plot. The short story can only have one story running – and sometimes it might all out together get rid of that idea of a short story and move towards the aimlessness, of what real life amounts to. Those moments, of thoughts. Those emotional responses. These reactions in the day to day life like the chemical reaction taken place in the beaker of a chemist’s lab. It might focus on the beautiful atmosphere that is experienced through the character, which gives through an emotional response to the reader, which then connects for the briefest of moments that the short story and the reader share that emotional bond. That slight almost bewildering connection. That is if the short story form is done more correctly. If it is not done correctly that it is failing miserably. That can be seen with Patricia Highsmith’s and Will Self’s collection of stories, where something was left undone. A screw loose. A board out of place. Arguably something was not right. Therefore it failed miserably. While other authors like Yasunari Kawabata, Alice Munro, Amy Hempel – are able to grasp the concept of the short story and using its particular form, its sense of fragmentation, and its ability not to focus on comprehending the entire concept of the universe or society, but rather to simply zero in on those moments. Those moments that touch, to use a single grain of sand, and see the entire concept of the universe there in its very small peculiar way.
Steven Millhauser of the New York Times comprehends the short story form in his following passage from his essay about the ambitions of the short story form:
“A world in a grain of sand": "In that single grain of sand lies the beach that contains the grain of sand. In that single grain of sand lies the ocean that dashes against the beach, the ship that sails the ocean, the sun that shines down on the ship, the interstellar winds, a teaspoon in Kansas, the structure of the universe. And there you have the ambition of the short story, the terrible ambition that lies behind its fraudulent modesty: to body forth the whole world.”
Steven Millhauser is right in what he describes. The short story, who views the world at the miniaturist form of that tiny grain of sand, does not wish to devour it like the novel, but more expertly, it see’s the world in just these little details. These moments, are grasped in the short story form. The molecules of the grain of sand are not just the molecules, atoms, and particles of the single grain of sand, it is the database the building block of what all life is, in just that speck of almost nihilistic nothingness. A grain of sand that in the void and incomprehensible universe of the world, laughs at it all, and understands that the world cannot be comprehended in just a singular way but more expectedly it is built up of just moments. Moments upon moments. Rather than being the novel that wishes to make the universe more comprehendible, or grasp all the moments and all the greatness of the world; the short story takes one single grain of sand and see’s the world, in all its miniature moments. As if creating an epiphany with subtle beauty and modesty. That is what the short story is.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
P.S. Gentle Reader, I came across the Steven Millhauser quote from this blog:
http://may-on-the-short-story.blogspot.com/2011/02/steven-millhauser-getting-closer.html
Friday, 21 October 2011
A Booker Prize Crisis?
Hello Gentle Reader
The more I read into the Booker Prize train wreck/car crash – the more it becomes certain that its far from over, or may take a while for the prize to rise out of the smouldering ashes that has become of its reputation. It (could be argued) first started with the outrage one judge had over Philip Roth winning the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand and eleven. However John Le Carre upon finding out that he had been shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand and eleven, had actually requested that he be removed from the prize shortlist because he does not compete for awards and prizes. The chair of the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand eleven, declined to fill out the request. Then there was the chairman of the Booker Prize Foundation, had thrown gas on the fire, with his remarks about the Nobel Prize for Literature, stating that the Nobel Prize for Literature was “political at best,” and further boasting the Man Booker International Prize as a “ever more competent component.” Not to mention that this year’s winner of the Man Booker International Prize Philip Roth had declined to even go to the banquet held in his honour – much like the judge who in a fit of outrage and decline refused to be there as well.
Just when one thinks, that the Booker Prize could not have gotten any worst after such mishaps, outrages, slamming of doors, and outright refusal to see each other, it became more of a circus show then before. Yet even before that, even before the outrage of the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand eleven. Back in the nineties apparently some “undeserving,” novels won the prize. However if one looks back into the archives of the prize, some of the novels did deserve to win. Though that past has since become something of a disgrace for the current events happening now, surrounding the prize. In fact it’s becoming apparent by some that the Man Booker Prize is not really about literature at all, but more about self-promotion.
Then with the annual Man Booker Prize taking place, there was slight outrage that Ali Smith did not even make the long list. The fact that Alan Hollinghurst did not even make the shortlist – though he did make the long list. Then of course there was the recently departed Beryl Bainbridge often referred to as the Booker Prize Bridesmaid – she could finally win a Booker Prize herself, with readers voting for one of her five novels that were shortlisted for the Booker, and the winner would be announced. Though in all honesty it could be it be said, that it bothered to do much of anything? Poor Dame Beryl Bainbridge however is deceased. What could the prize really do for her? Though perhaps it is more of an apology for never awarding the prize to the author. However a Nobel Laureate for Literature Doris Lessing never won the Man Booker Prize either, though she was shortlisted three times.
Once the shortlist of this year’s Man Booker Prize was announced there was criticism, which the chair of this year’s award Dame Stella Rimington fought back with. The Dame and the chair this year, fought back, stating that the Publishing world was like the KGB. Andrew Motion former Poet Laureate, gave a horrible review of A.D. Miller’s shortlisted novel “Snowdrops,” stating that it could barely keep his “eyebrows level.” Quite frankly though, this year’s Man Booker Prize had stated quite frankly that it had been the worst in decades. Though its popularity with the general reading public has been rather high.
Then of course came the announcement that Andrew Kidd and his friends and colleagues were going to open a new prize to rival that of the Man Booker Prize, and call it the “Literature Prize.” It’s a Literary Dispute, that has become quite an enjoyable spectacle after a while – and now it’s just becoming slightly awkward. Of course I am not hurt by either statements. If the “Literature Prize,” comes to pass, that just gives me more authors to look into reading. But the comments, the snide remarks, the criticism, the public tantrums, it all proves that this year’s Man Booker Prize (both International and the English/Common Wealth award) was more entertaining out of how it all was handled, rather than the Book that was awarded, or what amounts to good Literature.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
To read all the articles in which this information was found please use the following links:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/13/man-booker-prize-fresh-challenger
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/20/booker-narrative-arc-robert-mccrum
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/19/stella-rimington-booker-diatribe-kgb
http://londonersdiary.standard.co.uk/2011/06/booker-bigger-than-nobel-says-chairman.html
http://www.themanbookerprize.com/news/stories/1490
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/19/stella-rimington-booker-diatribe-kgb
The more I read into the Booker Prize train wreck/car crash – the more it becomes certain that its far from over, or may take a while for the prize to rise out of the smouldering ashes that has become of its reputation. It (could be argued) first started with the outrage one judge had over Philip Roth winning the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand and eleven. However John Le Carre upon finding out that he had been shortlisted for the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand and eleven, had actually requested that he be removed from the prize shortlist because he does not compete for awards and prizes. The chair of the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand eleven, declined to fill out the request. Then there was the chairman of the Booker Prize Foundation, had thrown gas on the fire, with his remarks about the Nobel Prize for Literature, stating that the Nobel Prize for Literature was “political at best,” and further boasting the Man Booker International Prize as a “ever more competent component.” Not to mention that this year’s winner of the Man Booker International Prize Philip Roth had declined to even go to the banquet held in his honour – much like the judge who in a fit of outrage and decline refused to be there as well.
Just when one thinks, that the Booker Prize could not have gotten any worst after such mishaps, outrages, slamming of doors, and outright refusal to see each other, it became more of a circus show then before. Yet even before that, even before the outrage of the Man Booker International Prize of two thousand eleven. Back in the nineties apparently some “undeserving,” novels won the prize. However if one looks back into the archives of the prize, some of the novels did deserve to win. Though that past has since become something of a disgrace for the current events happening now, surrounding the prize. In fact it’s becoming apparent by some that the Man Booker Prize is not really about literature at all, but more about self-promotion.
Then with the annual Man Booker Prize taking place, there was slight outrage that Ali Smith did not even make the long list. The fact that Alan Hollinghurst did not even make the shortlist – though he did make the long list. Then of course there was the recently departed Beryl Bainbridge often referred to as the Booker Prize Bridesmaid – she could finally win a Booker Prize herself, with readers voting for one of her five novels that were shortlisted for the Booker, and the winner would be announced. Though in all honesty it could be it be said, that it bothered to do much of anything? Poor Dame Beryl Bainbridge however is deceased. What could the prize really do for her? Though perhaps it is more of an apology for never awarding the prize to the author. However a Nobel Laureate for Literature Doris Lessing never won the Man Booker Prize either, though she was shortlisted three times.
Once the shortlist of this year’s Man Booker Prize was announced there was criticism, which the chair of this year’s award Dame Stella Rimington fought back with. The Dame and the chair this year, fought back, stating that the Publishing world was like the KGB. Andrew Motion former Poet Laureate, gave a horrible review of A.D. Miller’s shortlisted novel “Snowdrops,” stating that it could barely keep his “eyebrows level.” Quite frankly though, this year’s Man Booker Prize had stated quite frankly that it had been the worst in decades. Though its popularity with the general reading public has been rather high.
Then of course came the announcement that Andrew Kidd and his friends and colleagues were going to open a new prize to rival that of the Man Booker Prize, and call it the “Literature Prize.” It’s a Literary Dispute, that has become quite an enjoyable spectacle after a while – and now it’s just becoming slightly awkward. Of course I am not hurt by either statements. If the “Literature Prize,” comes to pass, that just gives me more authors to look into reading. But the comments, the snide remarks, the criticism, the public tantrums, it all proves that this year’s Man Booker Prize (both International and the English/Common Wealth award) was more entertaining out of how it all was handled, rather than the Book that was awarded, or what amounts to good Literature.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
To read all the articles in which this information was found please use the following links:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/13/man-booker-prize-fresh-challenger
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/20/booker-narrative-arc-robert-mccrum
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/19/stella-rimington-booker-diatribe-kgb
http://londonersdiary.standard.co.uk/2011/06/booker-bigger-than-nobel-says-chairman.html
http://www.themanbookerprize.com/news/stories/1490
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/oct/19/stella-rimington-booker-diatribe-kgb
Thursday, 20 October 2011
Julian Barnes No Longer the Best Man for the Booker Prize
Hello Gentle Reader
“The Sense of an Ending,” written by Julian Barnes, is a short little novella. Julian Barnes had been nominated for the Booker Prize numerous times before for his past novels: “Flaubert’s Parrot,” in nineteen-eighty five; “England, England,” in nineteen-ninety eight; “Arthur and George,” in two thousand and five. Finally however the long time favourite to win a Booker Prize has finally picked up the prize in two thousand and eleven for his short little novel (often called a novella) “The Sense of an Ending.”
This year’s (as in this year of two thousand and eleven) has been one of the most interesting years for the Man Booker Prize. Under heavy scrutiny and criticism, by many of the literary establishment, for the question that this year’s Man Booker Prize Judges, had chosen readability over ‘artistic,’ quality – or in a more preferred terms (at least my more preferred terms) it choose a sense of readability or a less complex prose over prose that are more literary in merit and are a bit more challenging and reading.
The former poet laureate, Andrew Motion was the one who had (at least from my knowledge) had brought the attention of criticism of the concept that this year’s Booker Prize, was choosing more readable products of novels, over more complex novels, that presented a more substantial literary view. Immediately it becomes clear that Andrew Motion and Andrew Kidd (a literary agent) have both been more or less unimpressed with the works of those (besides Julian Barnes) on the shortlist of this year’s Booker Prize, as snubbing the artistic achievements of other novelists who were not even bothered to be included on the Long List of this year’s Booker Prize. The fact of the matter is many found the selection of two debut novelists (A.D. Miller and Stephan Kelman) where included on the list, along with obscure novelists Patrick deWitt and Esi Edugyan, which was followed by the UK Carol Birch and the critically favourite to win the Booker Prize this year Julian Barnes.
Even though homosexual author Allan Hollinghurst the two thousand and four winner of the Booker Prize, with his novel “The Line of Beauty,” had made it on this year’s Long list with “The Stranger’s Child,” many were disappointed with the fact that he did not make the Shortlist. Many were quite outraged that Ali Smith a Booker Prize bridesmaid (much like Julian Barnes) with her new novel “There but for the,” was not even placed on the Long list. Others though that the International IMPAC Literary Dublin Award winner in nineteen-ninety nine Andrew Miller and his new novel “Pure,” should have also been placed on the Long list and should have seriously been considered for the prize. Others thought that the Edward St Aubyn new novel and semi-autobiographical novel that ends the Melrose saga should also have been placed on it. Others declared that “Wish You Were Here,” by Graham Swift should have also have been considered. Some even petitioned for China Mieville and his new novel “Embassytown,” though it was clearly a utopian thought, and most likely not going to happen.
Even though the Literary Establishment has made it quite clear that this year’s Booker Prize, felt “dumb downed,” the public became quite interested to see who won. With reports stating that the shortlist has been the most popular since the prize had first formed. The Guardian had even reported that a publisher who decided to remain off the record, had also agreed with the established consensus of the literary world and had said that this year’s Booker Prize judges were “lacking in authority,” not to mention “a bit confused about what the prize is for.” The best quote however the Guardian provided though came from a poet by the name of Jackie Kay who said:
“We desperately need a prize which shows off the best writers writing in English. It is a sad day when even the Booker is afraid to be bookish … People want to think. They don't want to be patronised. People are excited by books doing different things with structure, like Ali Smith – it's really shocking she wasn't even on the longlist.”
What I agreed with the statement above is that: “People want to think. They don’t want to be patronised.” Which quite frankly is quite true. The serious reader wants to have a piece of fiction that makes them think, not something that wastes their time. Of course others were quick to come to the defense of the Booker Prize judges. Saying that it wasn’t readability over quality, but readability and a novel of excellence. Others went on to state that they wanted readability and quality. No one wants a novel that is unreadable. Which is true – Virginia Woolf still pisses me off, but I still enjoy her as an author – no idea why but I do – maybe for me the thrill of reading Virginia Woolf is the openness of her work, the form of her work, and the difficulty.
However it does become more and more interesting when one thinks about it. The only author that was truly recognizable on this list was Julian Barnes. All the others were unknown. So it comes into question if the Booker Prize. Did the authors actually focus on the sense of excellence in the work? The way the prose of the author got the message across, while being entertaining? Who could forget in the year of two thousand and ten, when I had gotten a bit disappointed (anger would be more sufficient word) that David Mitchell and his novel “The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet,” did not make the shortlist but Peter Carey did – not to mention that Peter Carey had won the Booker Prize two times before that. In two thousand and nine that two former winners Dame A.S. Byatt for her novel “The Children’s Book,” and J.M. Coetzee also a former (twice the other novelist who had only won the prize twice along with Peter Carey) was shortlisted for his novel “Summertime.”
Looking at it now, maybe the Booker Prize is more of a old gentlemen’s club recently, rather than a prize to be awarded to the excellencies of the individual novel. However that is up for you Gentle Reader to decide. Is the Booker Prize just another old gentlemen’s club? Another form of “class boundary,” based on literary reputation? Or is it awarded to deserving novelists who had achieved a sense of excellent ‘artistic,’ temperament in their novel?
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
To see the above referenced article please follow the link presented below:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/16/booker-prize-cricitism-andrew-motion?newsfeed=true
To read about Julian Barnes snagging the Booker Prize please follow the following link below:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/18/booker-prize-julian-barnes-wins
“The Sense of an Ending,” written by Julian Barnes, is a short little novella. Julian Barnes had been nominated for the Booker Prize numerous times before for his past novels: “Flaubert’s Parrot,” in nineteen-eighty five; “England, England,” in nineteen-ninety eight; “Arthur and George,” in two thousand and five. Finally however the long time favourite to win a Booker Prize has finally picked up the prize in two thousand and eleven for his short little novel (often called a novella) “The Sense of an Ending.”
This year’s (as in this year of two thousand and eleven) has been one of the most interesting years for the Man Booker Prize. Under heavy scrutiny and criticism, by many of the literary establishment, for the question that this year’s Man Booker Prize Judges, had chosen readability over ‘artistic,’ quality – or in a more preferred terms (at least my more preferred terms) it choose a sense of readability or a less complex prose over prose that are more literary in merit and are a bit more challenging and reading.
The former poet laureate, Andrew Motion was the one who had (at least from my knowledge) had brought the attention of criticism of the concept that this year’s Booker Prize, was choosing more readable products of novels, over more complex novels, that presented a more substantial literary view. Immediately it becomes clear that Andrew Motion and Andrew Kidd (a literary agent) have both been more or less unimpressed with the works of those (besides Julian Barnes) on the shortlist of this year’s Booker Prize, as snubbing the artistic achievements of other novelists who were not even bothered to be included on the Long List of this year’s Booker Prize. The fact of the matter is many found the selection of two debut novelists (A.D. Miller and Stephan Kelman) where included on the list, along with obscure novelists Patrick deWitt and Esi Edugyan, which was followed by the UK Carol Birch and the critically favourite to win the Booker Prize this year Julian Barnes.
Even though homosexual author Allan Hollinghurst the two thousand and four winner of the Booker Prize, with his novel “The Line of Beauty,” had made it on this year’s Long list with “The Stranger’s Child,” many were disappointed with the fact that he did not make the Shortlist. Many were quite outraged that Ali Smith a Booker Prize bridesmaid (much like Julian Barnes) with her new novel “There but for the,” was not even placed on the Long list. Others though that the International IMPAC Literary Dublin Award winner in nineteen-ninety nine Andrew Miller and his new novel “Pure,” should have also been placed on the Long list and should have seriously been considered for the prize. Others thought that the Edward St Aubyn new novel and semi-autobiographical novel that ends the Melrose saga should also have been placed on it. Others declared that “Wish You Were Here,” by Graham Swift should have also have been considered. Some even petitioned for China Mieville and his new novel “Embassytown,” though it was clearly a utopian thought, and most likely not going to happen.
Even though the Literary Establishment has made it quite clear that this year’s Booker Prize, felt “dumb downed,” the public became quite interested to see who won. With reports stating that the shortlist has been the most popular since the prize had first formed. The Guardian had even reported that a publisher who decided to remain off the record, had also agreed with the established consensus of the literary world and had said that this year’s Booker Prize judges were “lacking in authority,” not to mention “a bit confused about what the prize is for.” The best quote however the Guardian provided though came from a poet by the name of Jackie Kay who said:
“We desperately need a prize which shows off the best writers writing in English. It is a sad day when even the Booker is afraid to be bookish … People want to think. They don't want to be patronised. People are excited by books doing different things with structure, like Ali Smith – it's really shocking she wasn't even on the longlist.”
What I agreed with the statement above is that: “People want to think. They don’t want to be patronised.” Which quite frankly is quite true. The serious reader wants to have a piece of fiction that makes them think, not something that wastes their time. Of course others were quick to come to the defense of the Booker Prize judges. Saying that it wasn’t readability over quality, but readability and a novel of excellence. Others went on to state that they wanted readability and quality. No one wants a novel that is unreadable. Which is true – Virginia Woolf still pisses me off, but I still enjoy her as an author – no idea why but I do – maybe for me the thrill of reading Virginia Woolf is the openness of her work, the form of her work, and the difficulty.
However it does become more and more interesting when one thinks about it. The only author that was truly recognizable on this list was Julian Barnes. All the others were unknown. So it comes into question if the Booker Prize. Did the authors actually focus on the sense of excellence in the work? The way the prose of the author got the message across, while being entertaining? Who could forget in the year of two thousand and ten, when I had gotten a bit disappointed (anger would be more sufficient word) that David Mitchell and his novel “The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet,” did not make the shortlist but Peter Carey did – not to mention that Peter Carey had won the Booker Prize two times before that. In two thousand and nine that two former winners Dame A.S. Byatt for her novel “The Children’s Book,” and J.M. Coetzee also a former (twice the other novelist who had only won the prize twice along with Peter Carey) was shortlisted for his novel “Summertime.”
Looking at it now, maybe the Booker Prize is more of a old gentlemen’s club recently, rather than a prize to be awarded to the excellencies of the individual novel. However that is up for you Gentle Reader to decide. Is the Booker Prize just another old gentlemen’s club? Another form of “class boundary,” based on literary reputation? Or is it awarded to deserving novelists who had achieved a sense of excellent ‘artistic,’ temperament in their novel?
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
To see the above referenced article please follow the link presented below:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/16/booker-prize-cricitism-andrew-motion?newsfeed=true
To read about Julian Barnes snagging the Booker Prize please follow the following link below:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/18/booker-prize-julian-barnes-wins
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Old News Is Stills New News
Hello Gentle Reader
This may be old to news to some who have already be informed about the entire ordeal, but it is new news to me, about hearing about this more the miraculous freedom that a now surely exiled writer and Chinese Communist Party/Communist China, author Liao Yiwu and his newly acquired freedom he has obtained when he left China in the early summer of two thousand and eleven. He left China and arrived at Berlin in Germany the sixth of July two thousand and eleven. Liao Yiwu has further made headlines when he read at the eleventh Berlin Literature Festival. There Liao Yiwu met a writers in arms just like himself, who had escaped communist, and oppression and discovered what it means to be an individual. He met a friend and an ally in Herta Müller the two thousand nine Nobel Laureate in Literature; who though a quiet and shy author, even borderline hermetic and reclusive as some have described her, made headlines and composed herself with grace and a very dignified demeanour in the face of flashing bulbs of camera’s as she greeted another Chinese Communist Party/Communist China dissident author Bei Ling at the Frankfurt Book Fair. Herta Müller has been very active with these Chinese authors, and also an avid supporter of the two thousand and ten Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Liu Xiaobo. However her support for these three authors and fellow Laureate has also caused Herta Müller less than a welcome response, by others; however Herta Müller has been championed for her criticism and voice for those who suffer and suffered as she had under Nicolae Ceaușescu and his Communist Romanian Regime.
Herta Müller had stated:
“I am happy to be able to somehow support them in one way or another. If I could use the [Nobel] prize to somehow offer them sanctuary…I know, all dictatorships are alike in their dealings with human beings. Individuality is immaterial; no individual is permitted his or her own say.”
The Nobel Laureate in Literature has also been applauded for her note and observations of how many totalitarian governments have killed many individuals to maintain absolute power:
“Next to China is Cuba, for instance, or Iran or North Korea. One needs to have courage, guts and responsibility.”
But Herta Müller also does more than just discuss the horrors and her absolute contempt and disgust for totalitarian governments and dictatorships, when presented with a petition to free the Chinese Human Rights attorney Gao Zhisheng (which has been reported that the attorney who has disappeared in two thousand and nine, has been subjected to torture), the Nobel Laureate in Literature signs her name.
However as it had been stated above Herta Müller has not been met with kindness and applause over the entire affair, over Liu Xiaobo. Published by Siebenbürgische Zeitung a Romanian newspaper for the German-speaking minority in Romania, published an open letter, written by a group of Chinese democracy advocates had stated:
“She is certainly entitled to voice her support for Liu Xiaobo," the signatories wrote. "However, she used abusive language against those who criticized Liu.”
And continued to say:
“This assertion and attack of her style was just like that of the propaganda during the era of Nicolae Ceausescu in Romania.”
Herta Müller also went on to state that she had received some unpleasant e-mails from some of the signatories. However the Nobel Laureate in Literature received support from the head of the PEN center in Taipei Tienchi Martin-Liao, who had criticized the letter, calling it offensive. Yet I cannot help that this is all irritating, and slightly adolescent, Herta Müller a Nobel Laureate in Literature, a communist survivor, who had witnessed the horrors and absurdities of communism and what it means to live under a dictatorship, this all must be both frustrating and laughable. Herta Müller morals are in the right place. Her views are solid in their evidence witnessed, and her ethics, are strong. For anyone to say that her “attacks,” (views are much more appropriate and no biased view) are “like that of the propaganda during the era of Nicolae Ceausescu in Romania,” is also a comment that is certainly undignified and insulating.
Herta Müller had presented a speech about Liao Yiwu and his new, which will be published in English as “Testimonials.” Herta Müller’s speech titled “Torment and Blessings,” and praises Liao Yiwu and all that the author has accomplished and torment that he has endured.
Though as she states in the end: “Dear Yiwu, rest assured that your bitter fortune will be joined by plain good fortune. Actually, it is already there today.” With this I too hope that Liao Yiwu finds good fortune away from his homeland, and that someday that the political atmosphere in China changes. I strongly support Herta Müller and her cause, and her strength to help freedom of speech and individuals prevail in times of horror.
To read the full speech please visit this website:
http://www.signandsight.com/features/2168.html
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
All References and Information was collected from these sources:
http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/23997/
http://www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,,6504868,00.html
http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/8KVfuMmeP4U/Liao+Yiwu+Reads+11th+Berlin+Literature+Festival/Y-shDFrXCqh
This may be old to news to some who have already be informed about the entire ordeal, but it is new news to me, about hearing about this more the miraculous freedom that a now surely exiled writer and Chinese Communist Party/Communist China, author Liao Yiwu and his newly acquired freedom he has obtained when he left China in the early summer of two thousand and eleven. He left China and arrived at Berlin in Germany the sixth of July two thousand and eleven. Liao Yiwu has further made headlines when he read at the eleventh Berlin Literature Festival. There Liao Yiwu met a writers in arms just like himself, who had escaped communist, and oppression and discovered what it means to be an individual. He met a friend and an ally in Herta Müller the two thousand nine Nobel Laureate in Literature; who though a quiet and shy author, even borderline hermetic and reclusive as some have described her, made headlines and composed herself with grace and a very dignified demeanour in the face of flashing bulbs of camera’s as she greeted another Chinese Communist Party/Communist China dissident author Bei Ling at the Frankfurt Book Fair. Herta Müller has been very active with these Chinese authors, and also an avid supporter of the two thousand and ten Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Liu Xiaobo. However her support for these three authors and fellow Laureate has also caused Herta Müller less than a welcome response, by others; however Herta Müller has been championed for her criticism and voice for those who suffer and suffered as she had under Nicolae Ceaușescu and his Communist Romanian Regime.
Herta Müller had stated:
“I am happy to be able to somehow support them in one way or another. If I could use the [Nobel] prize to somehow offer them sanctuary…I know, all dictatorships are alike in their dealings with human beings. Individuality is immaterial; no individual is permitted his or her own say.”
The Nobel Laureate in Literature has also been applauded for her note and observations of how many totalitarian governments have killed many individuals to maintain absolute power:
“Next to China is Cuba, for instance, or Iran or North Korea. One needs to have courage, guts and responsibility.”
But Herta Müller also does more than just discuss the horrors and her absolute contempt and disgust for totalitarian governments and dictatorships, when presented with a petition to free the Chinese Human Rights attorney Gao Zhisheng (which has been reported that the attorney who has disappeared in two thousand and nine, has been subjected to torture), the Nobel Laureate in Literature signs her name.
However as it had been stated above Herta Müller has not been met with kindness and applause over the entire affair, over Liu Xiaobo. Published by Siebenbürgische Zeitung a Romanian newspaper for the German-speaking minority in Romania, published an open letter, written by a group of Chinese democracy advocates had stated:
“She is certainly entitled to voice her support for Liu Xiaobo," the signatories wrote. "However, she used abusive language against those who criticized Liu.”
And continued to say:
“This assertion and attack of her style was just like that of the propaganda during the era of Nicolae Ceausescu in Romania.”
Herta Müller also went on to state that she had received some unpleasant e-mails from some of the signatories. However the Nobel Laureate in Literature received support from the head of the PEN center in Taipei Tienchi Martin-Liao, who had criticized the letter, calling it offensive. Yet I cannot help that this is all irritating, and slightly adolescent, Herta Müller a Nobel Laureate in Literature, a communist survivor, who had witnessed the horrors and absurdities of communism and what it means to live under a dictatorship, this all must be both frustrating and laughable. Herta Müller morals are in the right place. Her views are solid in their evidence witnessed, and her ethics, are strong. For anyone to say that her “attacks,” (views are much more appropriate and no biased view) are “like that of the propaganda during the era of Nicolae Ceausescu in Romania,” is also a comment that is certainly undignified and insulating.
Herta Müller had presented a speech about Liao Yiwu and his new, which will be published in English as “Testimonials.” Herta Müller’s speech titled “Torment and Blessings,” and praises Liao Yiwu and all that the author has accomplished and torment that he has endured.
Though as she states in the end: “Dear Yiwu, rest assured that your bitter fortune will be joined by plain good fortune. Actually, it is already there today.” With this I too hope that Liao Yiwu finds good fortune away from his homeland, and that someday that the political atmosphere in China changes. I strongly support Herta Müller and her cause, and her strength to help freedom of speech and individuals prevail in times of horror.
To read the full speech please visit this website:
http://www.signandsight.com/features/2168.html
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
All References and Information was collected from these sources:
http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/23997/
http://www.dw-world.de/dw/article/0,,6504868,00.html
http://www.zimbio.com/pictures/8KVfuMmeP4U/Liao+Yiwu+Reads+11th+Berlin+Literature+Festival/Y-shDFrXCqh
The Winner of the German Book Prize
Hello Gentle Reader
The winner of the German Book Prize of two thousand and eleven was announced recently. But first here is a vide of about the shortlisted novels by Deutsche Welle.
http://mediacenter.dw-world.de/english/video/#!/276779/We_ve_read_them_for_you_The_German_Book_Prize_shortlist
The Winner of this years German Book Prize 2011 was Eugen Ruge and his novel ""In Zeiten des abnehmenden Lichts," translated into English "In Times of Fading Light."
The author Eugen Ruge, is fifty seven years old, and his novel "In Times of Fading Light," is his debut novel. The German Book Prize Jury had praised the author and his novel for "the experiences of four generations across 50 years in a dramatic, refined composition," the Jury made sure to add that the novel also adds: "socialist utopia, the price it exacts on the individual and its gradual disappearance." The novel is filled with humour and engaging as it traces the history and story of a family.
An English translation of the novel, is planned -- though only time willb e able to tell.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The winner of the German Book Prize of two thousand and eleven was announced recently. But first here is a vide of about the shortlisted novels by Deutsche Welle.
http://mediacenter.dw-world.de/english/video/#!/276779/We_ve_read_them_for_you_The_German_Book_Prize_shortlist
The Winner of this years German Book Prize 2011 was Eugen Ruge and his novel ""In Zeiten des abnehmenden Lichts," translated into English "In Times of Fading Light."
The author Eugen Ruge, is fifty seven years old, and his novel "In Times of Fading Light," is his debut novel. The German Book Prize Jury had praised the author and his novel for "the experiences of four generations across 50 years in a dramatic, refined composition," the Jury made sure to add that the novel also adds: "socialist utopia, the price it exacts on the individual and its gradual disappearance." The novel is filled with humour and engaging as it traces the history and story of a family.
An English translation of the novel, is planned -- though only time willb e able to tell.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 6 October 2011
The Nobel Prize for Literature for 2011
Hello Gentle Reader
The Nobel Prize for Literature for 2010 has been awarded too the Swedish poet Tomas Transtromer. For the reason of:
"because, through his condensed, translucent images, he gives us fresh access to reality."
Congratulations to Tomas Transtromer for winning this Nobel Prize for Literature.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The Nobel Prize for Literature for 2010 has been awarded too the Swedish poet Tomas Transtromer. For the reason of:
"because, through his condensed, translucent images, he gives us fresh access to reality."
Congratulations to Tomas Transtromer for winning this Nobel Prize for Literature.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
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