Chinua Achebe Dies

Hello Gentle Reader

The Great African Writer – the Grandfather of African Literature has passed away at the age of Eighty Two, last Friday. Chinua Achebe was away from his homeland of Nigeria when he died. He was in a Boston hospital, battling illness. Unfortunately later that day Achebe died Since the nineties, Chinua Achebe was living in America, after being paralysed in a car accident. He never forgot Nigeria though; and often admitted to missing it. His family has requested privacy in this grieving time. He was not only a beloved and inspirational writer, but also a beloved husband, father, uncle, and grandfather. In his life time, Achebe had written about the colonization of Africa, and the post colonization of Africa. Who could forget his essay in which he called Conrad and his novel “A Heart of Darkness,” a racist piece of work? It was Chinua Achebe that open Africa up to the world, and which other African writers would take after, and follow in his footsteps from Nobel Laureate and fellow Nigerian writer and playwright Wole Soyinka, Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o, Nuruddin Farah and so many others. Even though far from home, Achebe was well informed of the politics of his homeland and twice he refused the attempt of being named a Commander of the Federal Republic. Regardless now though, Nigeria is in mourning at the loss of a great writer; a writer who took the reins of his country and continent and discussed it with the world. It is however unfortunate that Chinua Achebe did not win the Nobel Prize for Literature. An accolade that he would share with fellow writer of Nigeria, Wole Soyinka. If anyone would have deserved it in twenty-thirteen it was Chinua Achebe. However he is a national write of Africa. He is by all means the Grandfather of all contemporary African fiction writing – a writer of national stature.

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

Silent House

Hello Gentle Reader

Youth is a time of reckless behaviour, stupid behaviour, experimentation, and learning – and sometimes that learning and education comes at, some very high costs and prices, with some consequences that are less than kind. It is a time of hedonism, and impulses driven by both pleasure, and a desire to impress – impress for and by standards, as well as impress to show romantic strength and courtship. Falling in and out of love; alcohol and drugs, racing cars, and a feeling of entitlement. It’s a time like no other – and a time that no one can ever have back; and reminiscing one feels that youth is truly wasted on the young; yet in the end secretly we all think back at those time of youthful stupid adventures, with a small smile pulling at the corners of our lips.

This youthful energy is equally placed, in the text that is written on the pages of this book. The use of words, is at times, placed in a manner that reminds one of a young author, yet to reach their mature or prime stage. There is just a vehement feeling, in the use of the words. Not quite polished to perfection, and edited and placed in an order that can be seen in later works (or will be seen in later works), but the words vibrate. The author is doing their best, to contain the excitement of telling the tale, or sharing their ideas – the act of communication is such a new and profound experience for the authors is just difficult for the author to contain and withhold.

Orhan Pamuk, had reminisced about this novel, in his essay collection “The Other Colors,” he points out that of all his books, younger people like this novel out of all his books; and further points out his own place and his youth within this novel:

“Each of the young characters in The Silent House was me. In each of them, I tampered a different aspect of the youth.”

All aspects of youth are completely on display in this novel. Nilgun and Hasan’s political and idealistic convictions – though polished and heartfelt lack wisdom and perception; but are also very clever on how they point out the divide of the time, in Turkey between the Communists and the Nationalists, and a curious love story (however doomed) is played out; again in youthful fashion of impulsiveness and an almost unbearable feeling of passion! There is, Metin’s reckless desires for money and a longing for America, all mixed up in youthful passion and then of course love, and subsequent heartbreak.

Much of what would entertain many of Orhan Pamuk’s later works are, all on display here in their rough forms. At this phrase in the author’s career, one can just see the early obsessions and themes that will haunt the author moving forward. Impossible love affairs; or a dance of courtship that may be difficult; a game of identity being lost or taking on a new identity or persona; enclosed spaces – or rather a short time period that within the authors use of different characters and perspectives allows for a feeling of more time being moved when in reality and subtle hints, it has yet to move past a day ;fragmented narratives and at times a very avant-garde but readable postmodern style – all of which can be seen in Orhan Pamuks later works like “The Black Book,” and “My Name is Red.”
“Silent House,” is also a good example of the author slowly itching his way into his own skin. There are noticeable references and influences of other authors like William Faulkner in this blend of gothic Turkish novel. However the fragmentation of the novel and the delightful play of identity if not yet as extreme as his later works, it is a taste of what is to come; which of course is anti-climactic because one already knows what the author achieved in later years.

The bare bones of this novel takes place over a week, in nineteen-eighty. The air is tense with the oncoming military coup, which would restore balance to the country after the onslaught of anarchy caused by the rival factions of the left leaning Communists and the right leaning Nationalist. The air is thick of this divide; but also the divide of east and west is also displayed. Fatma wrestles with the haunting of her memories and of her late liberal thinking modern doctor Selahattin Bey, and his rotten alcoholism and obsession with his encyclopedia, which has rotted his insides, and tortured his wife dearly. His self-obsession and martyrdom of a scientific and revolutionary thinker in Turkey, takes its toll on Fatma and her jewellery box, and also on her well-being as a human being; and in the form of a dwarf who is also her servant, and in that physical form Fatma is left with the remnants of her husband, and his rotten life, which she continues to wrestle with. His proud proclamations that there is no God like Nietzsche; his desire to free all of mankind of its bondage to the physical world, by traditions, superstitions and values, and open their minds up to rational and analytical thinking of science and theories like Rousseau and Voltaire had attempted. These same heroes, Selahattin admired also allow him and in his own mind persuade him to do aspects that damaged Fatma beyond repair.

The relationship between Fatma and Selahattin comes from Orhan Pamuk’s own life. In the early twentieth century, Orhan Pamuk’s grandfather had travelled to Berlin to study law and constantly wrote to his grandmother. Though his grandfather had already been corrupted by Western ideas and thoughts. This corruption showed up in his letters. This is reflected when Orhan Pamuk reminisces about the novel in the essay collection “Other Colours,”:

“The attitude of these letters are like Selahattin Bey's teachings of Fatma Hanim. I know that my grandmothers' attitude to these letters are of sin, forbidden things and indifference. When I tried to dream about their unhappy relationship I had started to fictionalize ‘The Silent House.’”

The relationship between Fatma and her late husband and the smoothness of the prose, is wonderful and the most experimentation that one gets out of this book in its most bold way of the author. For the most part, Orhan Pamuk played it relatively safe, in his dealings with interior monologues, that came or across as first person narratives with slight of track detours into psychological zones, but only went so far as to point out how one felt or the emotional implications behind a motive or action. So the breath of fresh air of a true bold step, as Selahattin becomes a character in his own right – even though he is dead; and has his ghostly fibres sewn deep into Fatma’s psyche, makes the work delightfully interesting, as the two represent Turkey’s conflict with modernity, and contemporary times, as the air has become blue with television lights; and the melancholy atmosphere of a resort being created from a former port town, and al the disturbances it brings – but silence is ever present.

Selahattin has both a compatriot and foil in his grandson Farruk a fellow intellectual, and self-loathing intellectual; who unlike his vanity seeking brother of great and grand triumphs as he returns from America. Farruk a historian only sees history and its interesting intellectual facts as fun stories, but other than that and their entertaining value they are ineffectual and do not resonate in reality or have any physical exchange; and so drowns himself with pleasure, in ‘raks’. Though at moments one can see Farruk truly wake from his almost lame slothful alcohol induced slumber, and enjoys the pleasures of history once again, and reading and discovery and contemplates writing much like his grandfather; though this small glimmer of Selahattin’s intellectual curiosity is always pushed to the side, in favour of something more substantial – if only it rots his insides; like the stories in his mind like withering worms.

This is a really interesting piece of work by Orhan Pamuk. It displays a diverse if yet small group of characters, at war with themselves, each other, and others around them. It touches on subjects of the modernization of the east, and its often complicated relationship of the east and west; where idealistic intellectuals like Selahattin failed in awakening the country, and placing it alongside other countries of the west that had achieved such intellectual superiority like Germany, France, the United Kingdom – where the disappearance of God is a openly discussed subject, and not looked upon with disgust or the hushed and almost paranoid whispers of people being ‘infidels,’ or atheist with a negative connotation, but rather simply someone who is not out of the norm, nor in a norm, just an individual lost in a rationalized society. Where superstitions and shamanistic thought process and mystical beliefs are scoffed and looked down upon, as child’s play and imaginative thinking; and concerns with the body and health, and maladies and malaise are tended too by doctors and nurses. In this piece of work Pamuk does not take sides of whether or not people like Selahattin are right in their radical ideals, and trying to change the country through the power of books; nor does he take the side of Fatma who holds on to her raised beliefs, religious traditions and values and has since looked at the work of the modernization with indifference and if looked at all with any keen interest with disgust and contempt. Rather it almost feels like Pamuk takes a step back, away from both and allows the reader, to see both sides of the issue – from both a westerns point of view but also from the easts traditional point of view.

It still cannot compare to “The Black Book,” but it is still a good book of Pamuk’s repertoire. Its short confined space, and small time period, that moved through history and memory and the internal functions of the characters, allowed for a rather neat literary treat. Though the “The Black Book,” has one up on this book, for the authors more comfort with his own style, but also how the city of Istanbul had become a character in its own right, represented by the numerous characters and populated names that came up throughout the book. Still this narrative and book was very interesting. Though anti-climactic if you have already read later works by Orhan Pamuk, it is well worth the read.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*

M. Mary

It’s Getting Later all the Time

My Dearest Gentle Reader

Before his premature death, Antonio Tabucchi was often cited as the successor of Italo Calvino. When Italo Calvino had passed away he was Italy’s foremost writer, of an international standard and reputation. Italo Calvino was known for his modernist and postmodernist fables that often had flights of fantasy; but were always grounded in the real world. When discussing fantasy Italo Calvino had this to say:

“That only a certain prosaic solidity can give birth to creativity: fantasy is like jam; you have to spread it on a solid slice of bread. If not, it remains a shapeless thing, like jam, out of which you can’t make anything.”

Antonio Tabucchi could be said to do a lot in the same fashion. Though were Italo Calvino wrote fables, and often dealt with flights of fantasy, in a dream like fashion with almost modernist and later postmodernist experiments; Tabucchi differed in another way. He was influenced more by an alien culture. A foreign place; west of Italy. It was a place where the white mists and fogs of the harbour, became wraithlike. Ashen and clammy, and blanketing everything in a moist cloud; it is a place, drenched in shadowy obscure mists. A place of nostalgia and wistful melancholia. It was there, that the young author would discover one of the most mysterious writers of Europe. It was in Paris that the world of Pessoa and Portugal were discovered. The aspiring author in the nineteen-sixties took a journey to travel Europe in the footsteps of the literary figures that he admired. While in Paris he discovered a poem by the elusive Pessoa titled “The Tabaco Shop,” or “Tabacaria.” With its mixture of pessimism and measured hope from the line – “I have within me all the world,” – that Antonio Tabucchi had discovered his lifelong obsession. It was because of Pessoa that Antonio Tabucchi began to translate not only Pessoa but other Portuguese authors into Italian, but also why Tabucchi decided to live in Portugal for half of the year. He even wrote “Requiem: A Hallucination,” in Portuguese; and the ghost of Pessoa makes an appearance. On his death the Portuguese culture sectary declared Tabucchi “the most Portuguese of all Italians.” But don’t be deceived so quickly; Antonio Tabucchi was an avid commentator on Italian politics and life. He was especially a harsh critic of former Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi. Whereas after World War II, Italo Calvino distanced himself from politics, and later left the Italian Communist party, over the atrocities that the Soviets had committed.

Pessoa on the other hand from, Italo Calvino; was a mad fiddler. A vessel of different creative voices and personalities; and he simply was the medium in which his fragmented inner world reached the wider public. In his short twenty three year career, Fernando Pessoa went practically unnoticed. He was also well aware of how close he was toeing the line to instability and mental anguish, and falling into the depths of insanity. Like so many others of his family. Yet he persisted; and his heteronyms all got their voice. Each one presented an entirely new aspect of their medium. Each one had a specific voice and tone. A style all their own. Yet it was Pessoa who they talked through. Along with Luís de Camões, Pessoa is often cited as a national poet of Portugal.

Even writing that though makes me feel like, I am talking of madness. When one talks of such matters like Pessoa’s heteronyms, or even how he came to create them, or how his/their different writing styles came to be; one treads a rather ambiguous and answerless space. Yet it is Pessoa’s fragmented identity, his mysterious personality and life, which have all but influenced Antonio Tabucchi – among other authors.

The Epistolary novel is by nature fragmented. It is forced to cycle, and criss-cross and re-cross already explored territory with a new perspective. It is a form that many authors may not actually be able to do right. One of my own pet peeves with this type of form, is when an author interludes, the form with actual dialogue. How can a highly biased form, of literature – a letter is always written from the point of view of the writer; be so clear or objective to remember the conversation word for word, able to transcribe that verbatim? Some will argue that, this is the author’s intention. They are intentionally playing with the concept of objectivity. My argument is that it comes across as forced. It’s out of place. In a minimalist house, one wouldn’t catch something that is overtly decorated – aka something of the arts nouveau. Those clean straight lines, which have done away with ornate styles, would have no use for the nature inspired swirls of curls of a whip. Sometimes the pastiche of complete opposites comes across as gluing wood to metal. It just refuses artistic merit; and therefore loses credibility. This comes with streams of dialogue with an Epistolary novel. It jars the reader. It’s out of place. This is why; I have always had an issue with the Epistolary novel. It appeared that writers were not able to do it correctly. Even when I retell an event to someone I am talking to, it never comes off exactly as may have happened. Sure the description of the tree that was swaying to the right was correct. Oh yes he most certainly was wearing a black scarf around his neck. And if you listened carefully – blocking the sounds of the howling winter wind; one could hear the cold clunky sound of the branches beating against each other. But when it comes to dialogue, the words are always open to the tainted editing of my memory. Depending on the circumstances and feelings toward each other, the dialogue that will be recounted will never be the exact same. They could never be a carbon copy.

In today’s world the art of writing a letter, has but all disappeared. It has been replaced by text messages, messengers and e-mails – phone calls also had a hand in its destruction. New ways in which people learn to communicate will always push the soon to become obsolete aside. Now day’s people can have a conversation via a computer, no matter how far away they are. As commutation technologies, evolve other forms dye out. Today cursive writing is being debated on whether or not it is useful. When I was growing up, it was one of the very skills that would make you a successful person. It was faster than printing and left your own significant calling card on it. It was personable and intimate way to communicate; just like reading a hand written letter.

Antonio Tabucchi however, has also done something entirely different with his novel of letters. They are not unified letters. They are connected more by thematic overlap, than by any attempt at a conscious attempt at a single narrative. Seventeen different men, write to their long lost lovers; a few are dead. Some are missing. But it becomes apparent that these men are not necessarily writing to the same woman. Most even realize that they are never going to be given a greeting. They recognize their futile attempts at communication. They know that rekindling the love affair is over. The ship has passed, and they are left on the dock waving goodbye, as that shadowy fading memory of her evaporates into time itself.

“I am sending you an impossible greeting, like one who waves vainly from one bank of the river to the other knowing that there are no banks, really, believe me, there are no banks, there is only the river…We worried so much about the banks, and instead there was only the river. But it's too late, what's the point in telling you all this?”

It would be safe to say that most of these senders; these heartbroken men, are in some way or another facing some sort of emotional crisis. In which they turn to her. A better time it must have been when they were with her. These men differ though in many ways. They are a composer, an actor, a theatre director, a Jewish harpist, a widower with two children; and so many more. Yet they are all connected; but not by their lovers; as I had first thought. They are connected by their crises. They are connected by their fall into the present; and look back with nostalgia; when life appeared happier.

Our dear senders also enjoy running into tangents. They discuss the soul. One even went so far as to theorize that the soul is in the blood. One crimson little tear, houses the human soul.

“[ . . . ] One of their heads, rotated by an internal mechanism, has turned to one side so that the public can clearly see the Pierrot-style tear that furrows its cheek, and the lighting engineers spotlight, like a knife point, pierces that tear, the crystal of a trinket that once served as a common woman’s earing that we bought at the flea market to stick on this cheek of the fake actors.”

However Tabucchi’s prose is not always lucid. These dear senders have their own tangents to discuss. Often referencing some obscure arcane source, or philosophy; or even discussing at times in the most banal language, an event, that becomes cryptic. This novel is impressionistic and moves with images both dreamlike and nightmarish; it can fall into poetics, and as a letter they often don’t reveal everything so easily. As a third person reading this letter, the events surrounding it or the past affair are all but shadowy references.

Still it is a good book. One that will certainly need to be re-read countless times. Each time, producing new results. It was an enjoyable read as well; not always entertaining and at times, a bit heavy on self-consciousness and philosophical discussions, but with anything Tabucchi had produced it became a wonderful experience, in looking into the world of a master who sees the world, and realizes that there is more than what meets the eye. Questions of identity are ever apparent in this novel. Each letter is another layer to this work; both individual on its own terms, but also revealing a new secret; answering questions, and asking more.

“Look, dear spectators, these are the real actors, they are mechanical marionette’s with tape recorders inside their wooden bellies, they have no innards, they have no heart, they have no soul, all they have is wood shavings and a magnetic tape that feigns their emotions.”

If one does not like experimental fiction, they will not like this book. That is a guaranteed. It is obscure; it is dense at times, it can become very frustrating. It does not reveal everything and a lot is left in the shadowy world of ignorance, and speculation. But to many degree’s that is what most fun about it. All the speculation, the feeling that there is a life had happened before this letter, and will continue long after it is written; will leave many unsatisfied. Answers are not given to a reader, with a silver spoon. Some questions may never be answered. Yet in the end, that is what makes this piece of work, such an interesting one at that.

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 Best Translated Book Award Fiction Longlist 2013

Hello Gentle Reader

“Three Percent Review,” has released their longlist for the Best Translated Book Award in Fiction for twenty thirteen. Previous winners include the Polish writer Wiesław Myśliwski for his novel “Stone Upon Stone,” “The Confessions of Noa Weber,” by the Israeli author Gail Hareven. Previous poetry accolades are the experimental Japanese poet Kiwao Nomura for his collection of poetry (and first time published and translated in English) “Spectacle and Pigsty,” as well as the Slovenian poet Aleš Šteger “The Book of Things.”

This year’s longlist of fiction has some very interesting authors on its longlist. Some of them have already been read, others were previously unknown or passed in a brief moment of browsing.

Familiar names on this list include “Satantango,” by László Krasznahorkai, a novel about a small collective estate’s eventual demise and collapse and the arrival of a messiah or a con man. Written in Krasznahorkai’s signature prose, of long winding sentences, and a sense of apocalyptic dread, all played out with a bleak sense of humour. “The Hunger Angel,” by Herta Müller, the two-thousand and nine, Nobel Laureate in Literature, whose gulag novel, is not the typical documentary novel. Written in Herta Müller signature prose, of an episodic and fragmented poetically detailed language, Müller brings the experience of the shared experience of exile and homeland painfully alive on the page. It’s a testament for both Müller’s mother and the late poet Oskar Pastior, and all the others who history has left unclaimed and forgotten. The deceased author and great Brazilian modernist Clarice Lispector’s posthumous novel “A Breath of Life,” also has made the longlist. That last novel that Clarice Lispector ever wrote, and was not published in her life time. It is a fragmented novel, which takes the shape of a dialogue between author and creation. Karl Ove Knausgaard makes another appearance on a translated prize longlist. Along with “Satantango,” and “Dublinesque,” by Enrique Villa-Matas, his epic novel of confession and personal experience taking on the problems and universal questions of the human experience. So it’s no surprise that “A Death in the Family: My Struggle Book 1: Vol 1.”

Other books on this longlist that are on the “to read,” list include “Mama Leone,” by Miljenko Jergović and “Maidenhair,” the Russian author Mikhail Shishkin. Frances Michel Houellebecq’s new novel, and also his most distinctly departure from his earlier work.

Others on this list are:

“Prehistoric Times,” by Eric Chevillard
“The Planets,” by Sergio Chejfec
“The Colonel,” by Mahmoud Dowlataba
“Atlas,” by Dung Kai-Cheung
“Kite,” Dominique Eddé
“We, The Children of Cats,” by Tomoyuki Hoshino
“Basti,” by Intizar Husain
“Awakening to the Great Sleep War,” by Gert Jonke
“Autoportrait,” by Edouard Levé
“The Lair,’ by Norman Manea
“Traveler of The Century,” by Andrés Neuman
“Happy Moscow,” by Andrey Platonov
“With the Animals,” by Noëlle Revaz
“Joseph Walser’s Machine,” by Gonçalo M. Tavares
“Island of Second Sight,” by Albert Vigoleis
“Transit,” by Abdourahman A. Waberi
“My Father’s Book,” by Urs Widmer

Good luck to all the authors’ longlisted. There is certainly a wide variety of themes and topics here, with these novels, and it looks to be an exciting shortlist. On a personal note it adds more to the reading list, with excitement raised, and double looks taken.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize

Hello Gentle Reader

The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Longlist has been announced. Thirteen different languages and sixteen very different novels. Each work tackles different themes. From the political, to the personal and the historical. From Norwegian to Arabic, to Afrikaans, and back around to Dutch and Spanish; the list encompasses well-known names, like those of Nobel Prize Laureate Orhan Pamuk, to the Nobel Prize Perennial nominee Ismail Kadare; to a confessional prose writer Karl Ove Knausgaard; also an IMPACT Dublin Award winner and gardener by trade Gerrband Bakker also makes the list.

The Longlist are as follows:

“A Death in the Family: My Struggle Book 1: Vol 1,” by Karl Ove Knausgaard
“Satantango,” by Laszlo Krasznahorkai
“Bundu,” by Chris Barnard
“The Detour,” by Gerrband Bakker
“Black Bazaar,” by Alain Mabanckou
“Cold Sea Stories,” by Pawel Huelle,
“Dublinesque,” by Enrique Villa-Matas
“HHhH,” by Laurent Binet
“In Praise of Hatred,” by Khalid Khalifa
“The Last of the Vostyachs,” by Diego Marani
“The Sound of things Falling,” by Juan Gabriel Vasquez,
“Traveler of the Century,” by Andrés Neuman
“Trieste,” by Dasa Drndic
“Silent House,” by Orhan Pamuk
“The Murder of Halland,” by Pia Juul
“The Fall of the Stone City,” by Ismail Kadare

There you have them Gentle Reader, the longlist. Ten will be eliminated by April 11th, leaving a six fictional strong short list. From the obscure, to the literary all-stars, the work compromises some of the best fiction. – On a personal note, two of the books that have been longlisted, I have already read. Their reviews coming shortly.

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

Mo Yan Speaks

Hello Gentle Reader

His pen name may mean “Don’t Speak,” but Mo Yan the twenty twelve Nobel Laureate in Literature has decided to speak out against the dismissal of his Nobel accolade. The greatest criticism from journalists, fellow Laureates (Herta Müller), writers (Salman Rushdie), and fellow Chinese artist and writer Ai Weiwei and Liao Yiwu, have all been unanimous in Mo Yan’s Nobel. Even I have been less than kind – and maintain my criticism, and will continue to abstain from his work. Throughout his interview with the German newspaper, “Der Spiegel,” Mo Yan had made it continuously clear that he is not a political writer. However he has been state honoured by the Chinese government, with the honorary title of Deputy President of China’s Writers Association. One of the largest issues, that Mo Yan has been attacked about, is his refusal to discuss the wish for freedom of the imprisoned political activist and Peace Laureate, of Liu Xiaobo. When pressed again for his comments and thoughts Mo Yan had refused to answer. Many immediately were left with the impression of not a Chinese political Messiah, but of a Chinese controlled patsy (as Salman Rushdie had called him) in which he spoke out of turn, much to the Wests and democratic worlds applause; and was reprimanded for it. Though he compliments Gunter Grass, for dealing with the political turmoil of the twentieth century, he himself has avoided in political commentating. Stating he is not a political writer.

That is where Mo Yan is wrong though. As a contemporary Chinese writer, there is no middle. You are either support the Communist government or you are a dissident writer opposed to the government. Though it is a unfair generalization, of China and Chinese writers literary merit, put alongside their political convictions; though a English writer or a French writers political stances would not be so equally scrutinized; it would be the same for a Israeli writer or Syrian writer. This same scrutiny is applied to other Chinese writers such as the Misty Poet Bei Dao, or fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature Gao Xingjian.

If one wanted to use Mo Yan’s literary talents as, game for the criticism than, then one should look at such articles like “The New York Review of Books,” article “Why We Should Criticize Mo Yan,” by Perry Link; or “The Kenyon Review,” article “The Diseased Language of Mo Yan,” by Anna Sun; or look to Doctor Wolfgang Kubin’s interview, in which he discusses Mo Yan’s work.

From “The New York Review of Books,” – Perry Link, finds fault in Mo Yan’s way of presenting twentieth century history by satire, as a way of avoiding, the actual issue presented by history. Perry Link calls this “daft satire,” in which Mo Yan lessens the blow; or avoids it entirely, by relieving the catastrophe with humour – and very low brow humour at that. From the article:

“I noted that when he arrives at catastrophic episodes like the Great Leap famine, he deflects attention by resorting to what I call “daft hilarity”—shooting sheep sperm into rabbits or forcing someone to eat a turnip carved to be a “fake donkey dick”—while making no mention of starvation that cost 30 million or more lives.”

Mister Link further, points out that Mo Yan furthers the political indoctrination, of the young and uneducated of China; by avoiding such issues. Their education, is state controlled and when it comes to events in history that may shake the unwavering belief and ideological support of the one party system – again using the Great Leap famine as an example; they are to be blatantly ignored or denied – or at the very least recognized as historical fact, but important details changed.

“How does “daft hilarity” affect them [the actual readers]? I hope Laughlin will agree with me that Mo Yan’s actual readers are numerous, mostly young, and not very well schooled in Chinese history. To reach the level of what Laughlin sees as Mo Yan’s ideal “intended reader,” a young Chinese must leap a number of intellectual hurdles that Communist Party education has put in place: first, that there was no famine, because the story is only a slander invented by foreigners; second, that if there really was a famine, it was “three years of difficulty” caused by bad weather; third, that if the famine indeed was man-made, it still wasn’t Mao-made, because Mao was great; fourth, that if it was Mao-made, people died only of starvation, not beatings, burnings-alive (called “the human torch”), or brain-splatterings with shovels (called “opening the flower”), as Yang Jisheng’s book Tombstone documents.”

Doctor Wolfgang Kubin himself points out that Mo Yan writes a very sensationalist writing style. Not something that is modern or contemporary in the least. It is usually a “Saga,” – rural setting and takes place over generations. It is easier to read; especially the uneducated, and is a popular entertainment model.

“The Kenyon Review,” certainly agrees with the above statement. Mo Yan maybe compared to Faulkner or Gabriel Garcia Marquez; but where they differentiate, for sure is that Mo Yan lacks a unified aesthetic conviction. “The Kenyon Review,” goes on to say the following:

“The discontent lies in Mo Yan’s language. Open any page, and one is treated to a jumble of words that juxtaposes rural vernacular, clichéd socialist rhetoric, and literary affectation. It is broken, profane, appalling, and artificial; it is shockingly banal. The language of Mo Yan is repetitive, predictable, coarse, and mostly devoid of aesthetic value. The English translations of Mo Yan’s novels, especially by the excellent Howard Goldblatt, are in fact superior to the original in their aesthetic unity and sureness.”

In the end, Mo Yan makes no apologies. He dismisses the criticism, and says if one wants to know his politics they only need to read his books. The writer also went on to continue, to justify his actions specifically, hand copying part of Mao’s speech. He further reiterates that he criticizes everyone, including the ruling party; though he states he does it on the sly. This may or may not be true. In the end Mo Yan did not clear the air. If anything he blatantly stuck to his previous manner of speaking – or rather not speaking. Not revealing anything, and repeating continuously over and over what has already been stated. In a sense, pseudonym is well picked. Even when Mo Yan does speak, it is coarse and without meaning or real context. It’s a jumble of repetitive statements, rehearsed and ready for staging.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

In Literary News

Hello Gentle Reader

(I)

It is the twenty first century. Consumerism and technology has driven itself to newer and stronger heights in the advent of the popularization of the internet, and its revolutionary way of looking at the mail order business. At the same time, as much as this may seem to be great for the consumer – and it really is; bigger businesses are suffering. What does that mean than for smaller businesses than? Independent book sellers, already competing against large book store chains like Indigo-Chapters with its addition of Coles, or that of Barnes & Noble, and now the Amazon franchise which has repeatedly had to verify its claim as a business and its validation as competition, against other large name book sellers; who (like Indigo-Chapters) have denounced Amazon; for its interruption of the company in its nationwide monopoly of book selling. Three independent book sellers in America have filed a class action law suit against Amazon and the “Big Six,” publishers (Random House, Penguin, Hachette, Simon & Schuster, Harper Collins, and Macmillan), for contract deals that “unreasonably restrain trade and commerce in the market for ebooks.” Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, Posman Books and Fiction Addiction; independent book sellers, are taking the charge against the publishers and Amazon, for what they see as the destruction of not only their livelihood but the whole concept of book culture, of independent book sellers, and has/is leading to a lack of choice for consumers, and has damaged their sales.

This however is just the latest battle, of the book and ebook trade. Earlier, five of the Big Six publishers and Apple, faced accusations and a law suit of price fixing, and monopolisation. Many sympathize with the independent book stores, and their law suit against big business, that have many fearing that it will eventually out right destroy their livelihoods, the culture, and the trade of books but also the consumers right to choose where they get the book from; many feel that the law suit, may not do anything. Yet it is the principle, of the law suit that carries most of the weight.

(II)

The two time Booker Winning author (the first English writer to do so and first female) has found herself in a bit of hot water, in regards to a lecture she had made. In the “Royal Bodies Lecture,” Hilary Mantel the author of the trilogy of historical English Tudor novels; has made her opinion known that the Duchess of Cambridge Princess Kate, was doomed to follow the footsteps of predecessors Anne Boleyn, Marie Antoinette, and Princess Diana. Each of these women suffered untimely deaths. The last being, the most potential for a bomb shell eruption – considering The Duchess is married and is carrying the child of the son of the late Princess Diana. This has put both Mantel on the hot seat, for her comments, but also “The London Review of Books,” which has made it quite clear that it authors should be encouraged to deal with front page issues. However many are attacking “The London Review of Books,” because it itself, is hiding its true self behind, academic pretensions; where as of late it has blanketed attacks, in literary musings and discussions on historical value, in which it is just a better tabloid magazine, disguised. – For More information please see “The Guardian,” Books Blog.

(III)

That is all that I was able to scrounge up Gentle Reader. Lately Gentle Reader, I thought the blog needed a break from all the book reviews. Though of course in the Literary World, nothing much has happened. At least nothing truly worth noting – of that is also my own humble opinion. However some more books, that I ordered have come in Gentle Reader. Some more Archipelago Books, by such authors like Pierre Michon, Elisabeth Rynell; to other books like “Woman As Lovers,” by Elfriede Jelinek – once one has a taste of some truly provocative prose, there is a feeling that one just can’t let go or get enough of; to “Zig Zag Through the Bitter Orange Trees,” by Ersi Sotiropoulos – which I have been meaning to get for quite some time. And of course as a special treat I did go out and buy two of the “Best European Fiction,” anthologies – twenty thirteen and twenty twelve respectively. So there are a few books to be read; and a few surprises not mentioned.

Though in the long run, February has one more blog to be posted on it. So there are hopeful moments where 2013 starts off on a bigger and better note; even though two months have already passed, and in a few months – or two; spring will upon us. The evenings will be less dank and dark with the bluish grey twilights or the indigo dusk. Soon the evenings will be lighter. A faint sheet of pink linen will be stretched across the sky before darkness of the cool damp spring nights will encompass the earth.

For now though 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

Mondo and Other Stories

Hello Gentle Reader

Jean Marie Gustav Le Clezio must be one of the most interesting authors, which have gained notoriety from the Nobel Prize for Literature. Along with such other names like Herta Müller, Kenzaburo Oe, Tomas Transtromer, Wisława Szymborska – in all their Nobel accolades, owe to some degree the Nobel Prize for Literature for their further renowned reputation as a world class author. Though, in many ways Tomas Transtromer and Wisława Szymborska would have had that recognition regardless of the formality of the Nobel. In the case of Herta Müller and Kenzaburo Oe, however the Nobel accolade, allowed for a larger audience to become aware of their works. Both authors have turned personal experiences of tragedy into new ways of expressing the human condition; Herta Müller through political oppression and censorship; and Kenzaburo Oe, expresses mankind’s continual outlook for freedom in a universe and world that has, at times already set out an ambiguous and lenient fate to obstruct the path. Both authors write about the enduring and resilient human soul; and yet both are well aware of its tendency and open possibility that it may break. Be it they are writing about the landscape of the disposed, or a fathers personal struggle and existential choices with a son who is brain damaged, and which act of cruelty is the merciful one; both repetitively take the task of writing of the condition of the true test of endurance of the human will to be free. This is where Jean Mari Gustav Le Clezio fits in; for his characters and novels deal with the individual attempt to escape the, confides of modern day life and realities, and seek freedom.

There is something about these works (some more so than others) that resonated with my inner core and being. A piece of them, struck a chord, or the right note in my memory; that something resonates, a part of me reminisces, a fragment is dug up from the past. From another time, that is so far. A place where the summers were longer and never ending; when the winters were bitter and cold, but still had warm hearths in every home; where hearts were the homes of the body. Now the world has taken on such a stranger appearance. Ashen and gray; deprived of hope and life. Chained and shackled. Why were we in such a rush to grow up? School a prison of childhood (and legal obligation) had simply been replaced by another. Who is to blame for the direction my life has taken? Where have all my childhood friends gone?

Reading these stories transports one back to the days when life was simpler. It transports one back to a time when life didn’t need to make sense; when rationality was put on hold for flights of fantasy. Dreamscapes were explored, on a plane that mirrored that of reality. When flowers became more than just flowers. When childish acts of violence, were ingrained a sense of territorial breach and defense; chivalry, protecting that code of honor – there was never a sense of immorality to them; violence was not something that either one had a penchant for. It was common ground. It came easily; and without a second thought – it was applauded by our peers and punishable by our parents. In each of us raged a beast.

All old people lament however, the lack of enjoyment that the present youth will enjoy. Today’s parents are not finding themselves in a middle ground. On one side there are the tiger moms and other over achieving parents. Taking a strict stance modeled after the highly completive culture of Japan and China; it grooms and prepares children for roles that will find them in a high placed job, which pays well; therefore they would be able to take care of their parents; as they were groomed for similar success. Their children are planned for a musical instrument courses; learning a second language, and of course there is always a need for sport and competiveness; not to mention that there also comes the educational requirements. Those high grades, come at hard work and constant studying. To be the best, one must out do their fellow students. Then comes the other extreme parent. They want to be their child’s friend. They do not bother to teach their children proper etiquette or table manners. Their children become wildings at best. They run uncontrolled, scream and become impenitent and are impertinent. They become problems, which others look at with such disgust. Which people must remind themselves that it is not their fault that they are that way; it is the parents fault. They are allowed to be rotten; as if it is expected of them. In my time, parents raised their children to have responsibility but also to have freedom. Chores were an expectation; and freedom to run free (with limitations) never caused anyone any problems. Exploration was a pastime – and one didn’t have to travel far to find something new and exciting. On a personal note, I grew up in a small town. For me traversing the fields, and finding a cow bone, was like finding gold.

Maybe that is why these stories may (or may not) resonate with someone. They are elegies; and end in fault and failure in some way or another – but they traverse the landscape of ambient atmospheres and dreamscapes. Crossing the thin lines between innocence and wisdom. Which is why these stories (apart from their visual and beautifully descriptive language) will please and bring adults and children (older children to young adults) to this collection alike; for its ability to resonate with both age groups. The language used in these stories are poetic, and sensual, but by no means are they cryptic. The images, the semiotics are all lush and beautiful. It is a universal language. An experience that in many ways almost anyone can empathize with.

“The vast blue, the vast light, the wind, the sound of the waves, violent or gentle, and the sea resembled a huge beast swaying its head whipping the air with its tail.”

“Lullaby,” for example is told from the perspective of a young girl. She escapes the confides of her school and decides that she will run free, and be free. She is from Iran, where her father (we are left to presume) still resides. Her mother is absent; not necessarily physically (though she does not appear in the story, she is mentioned) but one is left to assume she is a busy woman or absent emotionally form her daughter. Regardless Lullaby is able to enjoy life, freely. She goes off exploring, the seaside town.

She discovers a house which is called XAPIΣMA. It’s abandoned, and left alone and decrepit. Its walls are covered in graffiti and obscene massages. Yet it is here, in this isolated and lonely house, with the beautiful name, that Lullaby finds peace and transcendence in her new surroundings and nature.

“Lullaby was like a cloud, a vapor; she mingled with whatever surrounded her. She was like the scent of pine trees. Warmed by the sun on the hills, like the scent of the grass that smelt of honey. She was like the spindrift of the waves where quicksilver rainbow shines. She was the wind, the cold breath that comes from the sea, the bushes. She was the salt, the salt that shines like frost on the old stones, or the salt of the sea, the heavy acrid salt of undersea ravines.”

This is where people come and say that the prose often comes close to the bordering overtly spiritual goals. Becoming as a hindrance, new age ridden – like something Enya would sing about. Yet it works. Upon first reading, I was not under that impression in the least bit. I found the poetics of the language alone, a feat that few authors ever achieve throughout their life time. The ecstasy of reading such a passage is an invigorating experience. The spiritual pursuits (if any) were not apparent to me. What I did find though, was that the story did come to take on a feeling that it was aimed at both high and low reading types. Children and adults – literary or not. This was the first point that I began to realize that these stories were meant to be interchangeable for adults and children. At first there was a feeling of slight betrayal. How could I be conned so easily into buying a book of stories for children – but then after thinking about the resonance that the collection was able to bring forth in me, it was for both children and adults, so that one can be entertained, and another can remember and look back with fondness on a time that was simpler. Full of failures. Full of difficulties. A time that was more complicated, than any time could possibly. Of contradicting emotional extremes. Yet there was something about them, which was beautiful. Much like Mondo, these stories connect us to our younger generations and to our past selves. The different stages of ourselves, from our life, come to meld and melt into each other. Like salt dissolving in water.

Flights of fantasy are not uncommon.

“She moves slowly when the clouds are upon her, not to frighten them. The local people don't really know how to talk to clouds. They make too much noise, they wave their arms, and the clouds stay high in the sky.”

But they are placed against at times philosophical poetically posed questions and statements, that often lead one to understand how they fit into the world around us.

“Old Bahati and the school teacher, Jasper, told Little Cross: white is the colour of snow, the colour of salt, of clouds and of the north wind. It is the colour of bones and teeth, too. Snow is cold and melts in your hand, and the wind is cold and no one can grasp it. Salt burns your lips, bones are dead, and teeth are like stones in your mouth. But that is because white is the colour of emptiness, for there is nothing after white, nothing that remains.”

“Mountain of the Living God,” is the most apparent tale of spirituality and religious themes. To a fault, somewhat, of course. But there was something about it. A emphatic link was made. My body had got warm from the core of my solar plexus and radiated throughout my body. The lush descriptions and the passage into adult hood that overcomes the protagonist in the end was evocative and thrilling high point of the story.

“Jon had never seen a stream like this one, it was limpid, the colour of the sky, gliding slowly as it wound its way through the green moss. Jon went closer, slowly, feeling the soil with the tips of his toes. So as not to sink into a bog. He knelt by the edge of the stream.”

Stories of passages into adulthood. Stories of exploration, and self-discovery; of growing up and of failing and learning. Attempts at escaping the confides of society and being free. The stories, are whimsical and poetically evocative.

 
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

An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter

Hello Gentle Reader

As one gets older, there is this incomprehensible urge to view and admire the landscape; from viewing the backyard (or garden), to the park or even to looking at scenes and photographs of the natural landscapes of the world, via the internet. Cesar Aira’s novel follows or at least at the beginning traces the life of the German landscape painter Johann Maritz Rugendas. The very beginning of this novel has the wording and appearance of a non-fiction piece of work (something that is echoed throughout the novel, along with philosophical discussion, meditation on art and fantasy):

“Western art can boast few documentary painters of true distinction. Of those who lives and work we know in detail, the finest was Rugendas, who two visits to Argentina. The second, in 1847, gave him an opportunity to record the landscapes and physical types of the Rio de la Plata [the Plata River] – in such abundance that an estimated two hundred paintings remained in the hands of local collectors – and to refuse his friends and admirer Humboldt, or rather a simplistic interpretation of Humboldt’s theory, according to which painter’s talent should have been exercised solely in the more topographically and botanically exuberant regions of the New World.”

So begins a novel that in itself is a recordation of the experience of Rugendas; but by no means is documenting Rugendas life. His back story may be filled in, with recounts of his family’s tradition from being a clock maker to, evolution into painters:

“It was Johann Moritz’s great-grandfather, Georg Philip Rugendas (1666-1742) who founded the dynasty of painters. And he did so as a result of losing his right hand as a young man. The mutilation rendered him unfit for the family trade of clock-making, in which he had been trained since childhood. He had to learn to use his left hand, and to manipulate pencil and brush. He specialized in the depiction of battles, with excellent results, due to the preternatural precision of his draughtsmanship, which was due in turn to his training as a clockmaker and the use of his left hand, which, not being his spontaneous choice, obliged him to work with methodical deliberation. An exquisite contrast between the petrified intricacy of the form and the violent turmoil of the subject matter made him unique.”

Rather Rugendas as the painter and his life; which is weaved and knitted throughout this novel, becomes more of a vehicle or the eyes or filters that the reader views the world through. It is not a report that recounts Rugendas life. It is not some fictional biography that finds some mystical or hidden meaning in the life of Rugendas that can enlighten the reader. It is a meditation on art but also at times it felt like a love letter to Argentina from César Aira from an outsider’s perspective. An outsider who with Alexander von Humboldt’s theory:

“An all-embracing scholar, perhaps the last of his kind: his aim was to apprehend the world in its totality; and the way to do this, he believed, in conformity with a long tradition, was through vision.”

Is able to depict: “the mysterious emptiness to be found on the endless plains at a point equidistant from the horizons. Only there, he thought, would he be able to discover the other side of his art[. . .]”

Getting past the first bit of this dwarfish but well imagined and miniaturized novel, one experiences some great language and lush descriptions. As well as the German’s Rugendas and Krause (his friend, fellow compatriot as well as companion on his journey to Argentina) wonder and awe at the New World. His paintings and documentations (which would eventually be taken over by photographs) show an exotic world. One free of the polite society of Europe. A world that is run by unseen anarchic forces, mysticism alien culture. A place free of the constraints of enlightened Europe.

While traveling across the Pampas for Buenos Aires, it is revealed that Rugendas hopes to witness an earthquake and an Indian raid. However both are unpredictable, and the likeness of witnessing either was small and sat next to impossible. One of the greatest moments was when Rugendas and Krause think that they have reached the Pampas. How could it be possible to get even flatter? Though once San Luis is reached the true expansive nature of the word flat is seen. Locusts destroyed and tore apart the green colour of nature as is their brutal nature. The horses dehydrated and exhausted, and the mules perpetually cantankerous; that allow one to see the savagery viciousness of the land. The painters could not decide what to do; and so Rugendas suggested splitting up. Krause however had reservations about the idea; but Rugendas could not or rather would not take no for answers and quickly sped off on his panic and nerve wracked horse. As he cleared the mountain, Rugendas’s horse was frightened further by a thunderstorm. This is the climactic scene which brutally maims Rugendas described in vivid detail.

To be struck by lightning is the feeling of a quick flash; but in that quick flash time is disrupted. Where it once flows in a continual flowing river, when the electric current flows through the body it severs and divides the spliced and braided molecules of the river of time. It splinters off into small streams, while the energizing current of electricity courses through the body. In that electrifying shock of a flash, moments become life times. So is this novella.

It is a flash. A snap of the fingers novella. One of two that the author César Aira writes yearly. The author is known for his productivity, at the most he writes three novels yearly; but usually keeps a steady supply of writing two novellas a year. The late Chilean author Roberto Bolaño expressed great admiration for César Aira, even warmly comparing him to the Spanish author Enrique Vila-Matas.

With atmospheric prose and very evocative; and brilliant descriptive language there is a justifiable need to concur with Mister Bolaño on this consensus of the authors talent and his truly literary outstanding originality. It is truly one of the most wonderful novella’s that personally I have read, as well as a novella that truly shows the novella’s capability as a literary art form separate from both the short story and the novel.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

The Ninth

Hello Gentle Reader

Hungarian literature, of late has garnered quite the following and success in the western literary world. Its reputation as a literary canon of (post)-Soviet nightmares, and holocaust grief and guilt, as well as World War II survivors dreams shattered; of disturbing and often violent images; a constant prevalence of a rather bleak outlook, have all subjected the reading population to being moved and awe inspired, by its bleak landscapes and serious inclination for a honest depiction of the human condition in a cold world. There is no socialist realism; nothing that honours the proletariats struggle, in beautiful images and often utopian concepts. However the working class has removed the shackles of bourgeois or the aristocracy is not praised; because it never happened. The social injustices were still prevalent, if not amplified under communist rule. It is gritty and grim; but also metaphysical and abstract; as well as grounded in the constant struggle of the everyday. The consistent conflict of the mundane. Questions that are grounded in reality – such as where ones next meal is coming from; often at times become questions of metaphysical stasis – or lack thereof.

Fernec Barnás novel “The Ninth,” opens with a violent dream that our main protagonist has dreamt of:

“Last night I had a dream, and in it I was brave: three boys were coming toward me as I stood in a clearing. At first I didn’t recognize them, but then I saw that it was Perec and his pals. The shortest one had a hatchet in his hand. I thought they wanted to do that again. Just how I took away the hatchet I do not know, but take it away I did, and then I did what I’d done in my other dream. It happened so fast that this time I didn’t even see any blood, though they must have spilled a lot. Then I waited for the police. . . . When one of the policemen put a hand on my shoulder, the hatchet was still in my hand. Holding it felt good.”

“The Ninth,” is narrated by a child. The ninth child of a family of ten children, and two parents; a mother and a father. This however does work toward the author’s advantage. Writing from the perspective of a child is never easy. It often fails; especially when writing from the perspective of a child, for adults. With a use of simple language and subjectivity of the first person, that often borders on the stream of consciousness; and a clever use of dramatic irony and understatement, Fernec Barnás succeeds, in writing a novel about the true miseries of life under the communist regime from the perception of a young child, who tries to express understanding of a world that resents understanding; all the while not truly be condescending to the narrator.

The stories bones, describes the life of an impoverished large family. With a very cold and distant religiously devote mother, and an entrepreneurial father; who is at his wits end and in direct conflict with the ruling communist regime, because of his ‘capitalist,’ venture, of making devote and sacred religious items, in secret; all of which happens during the Goulash Communist regime in Hungary during the nineteen-sixties. Alienation is furthered by mental as well as learning disabilities, with physical disabilities.

The Goulash Communist Regime of Hungary received its name, from the namesake dish, and symbol of the country. Goulash is known as a hodgepodge, stew or soup – depending on the thickness of the broth; it is a mixture of meat (beef and pork are sometimes used simultaneously), a large assortment of vegetables (potatoes are most frequent used) and noodles; among with a variety and varying different spices; paprika though is often cited as a must have for this particular dish. Of course there are variations of the Goulash dish. Gulyás à la Székely for example, calls for reduction of the potatoes and added sauerkraut and sour cream. Fake Goulash also called Mock Gulyás substitutes beef bones for the meat and add vegetables. Bean Gulyás (Bean Goulash) has potatoes and caraway seeds omitted, and added kidney beans. Csángó Gulyás uses sauerkraut and rice in lieu of potatoes and pasta.

All the varieties of the Goulash dish all represent the Goulash Communist Regime. It was a hodgepodge of free market economics and communist ideals. During its time, the human rights record of the country improved; which most likely improved living conditions, and the general wellbeing of the general population of Hungary. Its quiet reforms, and deviations away from the interpretations of the yeti Stalin, allowed the people of Hungary to experience freedoms and pleasures that other countries of the Eastern Bloc were not allowed. If one were to compare this novel to that of Herta Müller’s “The Passport,” one would see a notable difference in how the government’s creeping shadow in the shape of a long and large spider, is portrayed. In Herta Müller’s novella it is everywhere: from the eyes of the death owl on the roofs of the village, to the government officials building. There is a piece of its tainted crookedness in everyone. No one was immune to the corrosive touch, in Herta Müller’s novels because the temptation and corruption of the government was everywhere; and was a simple common place reality of day to day life. Compared with Fernec Barnás novel, one can see a lighter tone to the Communist Regime that had taken its hold of Hungary. One such example is that the neighbours of the main protagonist offer the children to go over, and watch the football game; though their father (a tyrant in his own right) pushes such charity aside, and remarks that the children will have electricity in the “big house,” a dream the narrator thinks about often. The fact that electricity was so abundant, led me to some complete misunderstanding, of what I had expected. Electricity in abundance was a shock; but television and satellite, truly sent me for a loop. Such ‘western,’ items in the part of the world so isolated and alienated, by the Soviet Communist regime, truly showed the variations – and what they entailed; in the former Eastern Bloc.

But do not be deceived, hardships, and the ever present creeping shadow throughout the novel. Though the narrator does not understand or even recognize it, let alone comprehend it, there is certainly a feeling of dread, which is played alongside the characters innocence.

When using a child as a narrator, innocence is always going to be present. There will always be innocence used within the narrative. For that is part of the character to truly exist. Such examples include, the narrators understand why his brother Priest is so thin, and does not have any excess body or skin, is certainly acute to him reading all the time. He also comes up with excesses for why his mother is so distant:

“Maybe one effect of all her spiritual sustenance is that she can’t go touching bodies left and right.”
Which would explain the narrator’s sense that his mother is “outright scared of touching us.”

But the novel changes in its childhood innocence and ignorance rather quickly. Were once wisdom was presented in the context of “kids say the darndest things,” context, entering the darker dimensions, of childhood innocence being stripped away; by a rite of passage that is brought on by stealing. It is than that the child’s subconsciousness tries to comprehend and understand the conflict of desire and guilt over his actions. His hands are heavy; and guilt wracks throughout his body; he no longer is able to be just a child any longer. He had crossed the threshold into the adult world – not saying that crime or stealing is exclusively an adult action; but recognition of right and wrong, and choosing to engage in the later, is seen as an adult concept. Where children are free as butterflies; adults are chained to the ground, and are forced to deal with a morally ambiguous and often cantankerous world. It is one thing to fight as children; as scraps are always known to happen. It is another entirely to commit a crime that actually is in direct violation of the law; which show its severity as a crime rather than a simple misbehaviour.

Yet somehow our narrator a constant silent observer; because of his lack of speech skills. He does not experience anger. His survival in school is done only because of his reluctance, but dutiful bow at taking the shoves and attacks of his classmates. He does not understand a lot of the world. Though he offers his own take on the world, and comes up with reasons for the world around him. Why the belly is fat, why his mother is the way she is, why his father is the way he is – everything is open to his subjectivity; and though his answers are at times wrong, they provide him with the comfort of fighting off the unknown. Though nothing fights off his yearning for food, and his hunger. All forms of hunger are depicted, from the deep down burning sensation of starvation; right down to the moral crumbs that his family – especially his father; spreads out around his family. There is a lot of abuse in this novel as well. A, joyless and hapless childhood is brought on by Catholicism’s often lack of pleasure and devote puritan stance and spiritual sustenance over any concept of human or earthly sustenance; which goes as far as deriving a mother away from any actual emotional and loving tender physical contact with her children. But there is also a commercial and capitalist side to the act of religion – at least for his father. The children make rosaries and make the quota of the evenings rosaries as set down by their father, to make the money necessary to build “the big house,” until than all deprivation such as a flushable toilet; running water, electricity – it is all deprived; even food is deprived, as the mother is forced to sell her engagement ring to provide for her children. All of this though for the narrator is just life – for he knows nothing better.

The narrator’s abuse has become so extreme that he cannot even understand let alone recognize anger or hatred; which may explain the feeling of a second self in his body; when he commits certain actions that are less than appropriate.

In the end, it is an interesting novel. One that uses a child’s voice to render the complexities of life under the Communist Regime in Hungary. This must not have been an easy task. Writing in a child’s voice has plenty of pit falls; and heavy scrutiny is always placed on the believability of the story itself. Though suspension of disbelief is always something that must be done – regardless of what narrative or genre; the suspension of rationality and disbelief, is a rewarding reading, in its depiction of Hungary during this period in history. With dark humour, dramatic irony, and a compelling narrator, Fernec Barnás truly did achieve something. The author was able to achieve the harsh realities of life under Communist Regime, the inhumane conditions that presided over this family and their alienation; but also of the hypocrisy of the faith, the devote and the capitalist microcosm of the father, in his suckling off of the Communists countries resources and social programs in order to fund his own ambitions (in secret). Truly a fascinating and gritty portrait of a part of history. Full of complexities and a simple language, it is a novel that is wroth recommending.

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