Hello Gentle Reader
In this collection of what appears to be essays, or memoires, or short fiction – Giedra Radvilavičiūtė has accomplished an interesting, feat. As a baker takes apples, dough – this is made of eggs and flour and water – and combined it with sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and other ingredients, to create a pie or a pastry. So has Giedra Radvilavičiūtė taken aspects of her own life, and that around her, and combined it with fiction, and satire, to create a book that is very engaging, but ambiguous. As the tongue, slides over the food, the combination of ingredients becomes, difficult to distinguish. It’s an enjoyable pleasure – yet the tongue can’t quite place what it is. The ingredients become a harmonious symphony; played accurately on the taste buds. This is exactly what Radvilavičiūtė has done with, text and language. She has obliterated the normal conventions of a story. Buried them in the garden next to the roses. What is left is something entirely unfamiliar, and engagingly welcoming. What has been, disposed of, has left behind, a new sense of literary freedom; one in which Radvilavičiūtė exploits and excels at. Giedra Radvilavičiūtė takes everyday occurrences and weaves a story that blurs the line between fiction and memory. What, could be read as a columnists autobiographical sketch, on the stories and histories of a life, that the everyday reader can come to engage and sympathize with. These readers are everywhere. The man on the bus, reading the paper on his way to work; if only to pass the time. The woman in the kitchen, who got distracted by the columns heading, rather than the continual search for the crossword puzzle; and the answers of last week’s puzzle. That lonely old man drinking coffee in the cafe, and reading the weather forecast only to stumble on it. Such is the act of communication; and the art of understanding.
Many readers will be unsure of the perspective of this book. Is it, in fact a book of short stories, or are they in fact a book of essays? Even the publisher is unable to fully agree, or completely explain with the utmost clarity, as to exactly what kind of state this book exists. Or is it in fact some alchemical abnormality? Could it be that it’s a chimera of the short story and the essay? Some experiment of breeding two different literary species; or grafting to literary types, into some Frankenstein creation. Whatever they are, they are enjoyable. They are odd little creations. They are a breath of fresh air. Radvilavičiūtėhas burst open the windows. She shoo’s out the dust bunnies, brings forth the sun into the room, and as the stale air of literary claustrophobia glides out the open window; a new day rushes into the room. The palace of dust has blown away in just one gentle brush of an afternoon breeze.
Yet still something about the work itself gnaws away on the reader. Are these narcissistic stories, in the fashion of auto-fiction? Or are they simply essays, which stretch the truth, for the sake of a sentimental punch? It’s hard to say. I wondered myself if Giedra Radvilavičiūtė received a piece of wood, burned with the picture of a house, and a sparrow. Did the young boy grow sick – and did they never see each other again after that. For Radvilavičiūtė had been moved to another school; only to see the boy once again, in his blue jeans as an adult, thumbs in his tight pockets, with his wife. Was this truth? Or was it truly, a dream. A desire; a memory infected with imagination, of how we wish the past was, rather than what it had become.
All of the uncertainties of this collection of essays, memoirs, diary entries, autobiographical columns; do not affect the quality of this work. Radvilavičiūtė’s work is enjoyable.Her prose is well written; lyrical and has a dash of satire to it; combined all the ingredients – one is left with an entertaining book. Radvilavičiūtė may have done away with the normal conventions of, story, but in its place, she has filled the void with the same amount of entertainment. Radvilavičiūtė ponders exile, autumnal people verses their sporting counter parts; the old fashioned versus the modern. She discusses the fears and inabilities, of being unable to feel that she could write a novel. She discusses, being a parent and the difficulties and challenges of being a mother – but also an attempt at being an individual, with the responsibilities of taking care of someone else other than herself. One of the greatest parts of this book by Radvilavičiūtė was her discussion on home and exile. Her childhood curiosity with a place called “America,” – a place of blue jeans, and hot dogs – the kind of fairy-tale kingdom that she was not sure where it existed; but was well aware that it was spoken in nostalgic and dreamy tones. However Radvilavičiūtė also discusses the fears of where she lived. Perhaps not outright but she describes the situation in matter of fact journalistic format. She describes how her mother informed her to speak in a whisper, and that the blinds were shut; when the soldiers came into town. There is the description of how their bayonets ripped her pillows, and the mattress. However Radvilavičiūtė fell into sentimental cliché here – or the translation did. The feathers are described; from the mind’s eye of her childhood herself – to have fallen like snow. The soldiers however are not described as Jack Frost, or like Santa Claus.
The signing revolution that had spread, through the Baltics during the late eighties – from Estonia to Latvia – and to Radvilavičiūtė’s homeland of Lithuania; had been described as stressful and fearful – though a sense of underlying hope was also there. Where people boldly went out into public places, defying the military might whose presence alone, was to quell and subdue the people, into silence. However it did not. The Baltics were some of the first Soviet Satellites, to receive and declare independence. Sąjūdis is what the reform movement was called. During this time, Lithuania was able to change the language laws – having the official language changed to Lithuanian. The other most significant change of this period in Lithuanian history was the ability to fly the former National Flag of the Independent Lithuania. This all eventually led to Lithuania breaking free from the Soviet Union, which in turn, helped dissolve the Soviet Union.
Radvilavičiūtė discusses exile; and what it means to lose your home:
“[. . .] it takes a long to make a stranger one’s own again.”
Radvilavičiūtė continues discussing one’s homeland, as a nostalgic souvenir. The kind of gift shop parting trinket, which one places on their mantle place or on the dresser. Sometimes they wind up, with a tune. Other times they just look delightful. Reminding the beholder, of days that are passed; days that never can be again; that exist in memory alone.
“When you live in exile for a long time (even by choice), your native land becomes a souvenir. A tiny house in water under a glass dome. When you shake the dome, plastic snow falls (like real snow) on the cottage. A souvenir in a room (in memory) should have a strictly assigned spot; otherwise it begins to get in the way. Sometimes people, not knowing how to live in the present tense as animals, do move in under that dome themselves.”
This book is wonderful. However it can come across a bit intimate. For some readers the closeness of this confessional divulgence – maybe uncomfortable. Thankfully satire and humour are used to quell that confessional format. Radvilavičiūtė is not a philosopher. Her essays or stories are more like columns. Thoughts, memories, questions, and characters all appear. She does not question the meaning of life. Radvilavičiūtė looks around at the domestic and microcosm universe of the mundane, and from there is able to relate the most basic duties of daily life, into the scheme of larger issues of the macrocosm of the human condition in general. However, the greatest upset with this book is not that, it’s entertaining and well written. The issue is, that it is not quite clear what kind of book one is expecting. Admittedly this did draw me into the book, in the beginning. After a while the book appeared like it was beginning to repeat itself, running around on ground that had already been crossed on.
In the end the book is good. Radvilavičiūtė is a humorous author. She can write compellingly, and interestingly. Her discussions on the mundane, are startling and revelatory about what the daily actions of our lives, reveal about us. Her high powered, introspective perception is turned on herself and others; in the discussion of people of the autumn and the people of spring. No subject it appears is off limits. She discusses her cat. His skill at playing with the computer mouse. The challenge now: batting the device with his eyes closed. She discusses raising her daughter; living with her daughter. Howe we all age without giving consent; and how the world never slows down, even if we do. In all it’s an empathetic book. Despite its quirks its wroth 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
Thursday, 30 January 2014
Thursday, 23 January 2014
In Literary News -- Translations and Global Literary Culture
Hello Gentle Reader
(I)
Small presses like Archipelago Books, And Other Stories Press, Peirene Press; as well as larger publications like Dalkey Archive Press and New Directions Books; as well as literary publications like Three Percent Review, affiliated with Open Letter Books, and The Best Translated Book Award; are champions of the other languages. English language countries have a cold attitude and distrusting feelings towards, other languages and their literary works. The common argument is what is a book from Finland about artificial intelligence, becoming conscious and aware, have any relevancy towards an English speaking reader; what about a Romanian authors surreal tale of the stifling life under Communism? The truth is this is a small and flawed argument. Global literature is literature surpassing the defined boundaries and borders of cultures, and traversing the confusing world of translation, and becoming available for a new readership, in a new language, in a new country. It’s about the dialogue and sharing of ideas. Yet in today’s world, writers and authors are expected to be like, pop stars and other manufactured forms of people – where their persona and their life is far more important than that of their literary work. People are not interested in a book by an Estonian writer, and his poetic epistolary novel, written with beautiful language and surreal imagery, shows the fall of communism, and the overpowering consumption of a consumerist society. Nor are people interested in, a Lithuanian author’s strange short stories or columns or essays; about autobiographical depictions of life that may have changed from memory to dream to embellished fiction. Quite the contrary. People want the next Nora Roberts book. Some quick read: girl meets boy, boy and girl don’t like each other; then girl loves boy, and boy loves girl. It appears that readers want what they know – what they are comfortable with. They do not want a surprise punch. In a sense publish in English language countries have done away with literary merit, in favour of catering to less serious works of fiction, and passing it off as the next big thing. This was fine at one point. That is why there are publishers like Harlequin Enterprise and Kensington Books. However gone are the days when the fiction of the English language was innovative; such as Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett and James Joyce. This Modernist revolution eventually fell into Postmodernism, which in a lot of cases with American authors has become a bloated satirical caricature of itself; and some author have turned to kitchen sink realism. Other countries continued to develop and move into newer territories in their literary works. Why did the English language publications suddenly go stale? I personally can’t say for certain, when it happened or how it happened; but can be seen is that the works these publishers are doing, is changing the literary landscape of the bloated English language publishing sphere, into something more open to the wider world. It is proving to be no easy task; however, these publishers are finding a way to connect with their readers, and to make their publications more known and heard about, building a reputable reputation; and allowing those readers interested in, international fiction and literature, a chance to experience the wider world.
(II)
At the Jaipur International Literary Festival, a panel of writers that included: Xiaolu Guo, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Jonathan Franzem; discussed the Global Novel. The discussion soon turned to the lack of translation, and the warped reading habits of the general reader. In short Xiaolu Guo has called the work “over rated.” An audacious assertion, but a correct assessment. Guo points out that:
“For example I think Asian literature is much less narrative … but our reading habit is more Anglo-Saxon, more American … Nowadays all this narrative [literature is] very similar, it's so realism, so story-telling driven … so all the poetry, all the alternative things, have been pushed away by mainstream society.”
Guo is correct. When I go into a bookstore, I read the write up, the first thing that one will notice, is that, a lot of the books are family sagas. The drama or action takes place between the characters interactions as a family unit, and how the past continues to haunt the present. It is always filled with the odd characters – racial grandmother; eccentric world traveling aunt; disappointed mother, drug addict brother; successful sister – the usual archetypes. It’s incredibly boring and it’s over done with, much like young authors trying to be the next Hemmingway. All literary ingenuity is extinct; it appears in Anglo-American fiction – mostly American. The lack of translations that each country (Canada included as Anglo), is surprisingly disappointing; and is noted by Lahiri who noted in Italy, that in a news papers ten books of the year, that seven of them were by American authors. Either this is cultural imperialism or Italy and other countries are more open to foreign fiction in their marketplace.
On the flipside as pointed about the small presses, and the readerships that they are gathering and maintaining are proving to shift the publishing worlds, perspective on translation. Before big named translated book consisted of Stieg Larsson and Haruki Murakami; crime fiction and then a Japanese author, heavily influenced by American culture and pop culture, whose Japan becomes to resemble not a Japan but a shifting state of lacking a identity; and is comfortable for Anglo-American readers to read, because it’s reminiscent of their own home – it’s not too foreign.
However this problem appears to be diagnosed and treatment appears to be on the way. With small publishers, translators, literary publications, and anthologies like “The Best European Fiction,” it’s going to show that, the global literary world is opening up, slowly, but headway is being made.
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
(I)
Small presses like Archipelago Books, And Other Stories Press, Peirene Press; as well as larger publications like Dalkey Archive Press and New Directions Books; as well as literary publications like Three Percent Review, affiliated with Open Letter Books, and The Best Translated Book Award; are champions of the other languages. English language countries have a cold attitude and distrusting feelings towards, other languages and their literary works. The common argument is what is a book from Finland about artificial intelligence, becoming conscious and aware, have any relevancy towards an English speaking reader; what about a Romanian authors surreal tale of the stifling life under Communism? The truth is this is a small and flawed argument. Global literature is literature surpassing the defined boundaries and borders of cultures, and traversing the confusing world of translation, and becoming available for a new readership, in a new language, in a new country. It’s about the dialogue and sharing of ideas. Yet in today’s world, writers and authors are expected to be like, pop stars and other manufactured forms of people – where their persona and their life is far more important than that of their literary work. People are not interested in a book by an Estonian writer, and his poetic epistolary novel, written with beautiful language and surreal imagery, shows the fall of communism, and the overpowering consumption of a consumerist society. Nor are people interested in, a Lithuanian author’s strange short stories or columns or essays; about autobiographical depictions of life that may have changed from memory to dream to embellished fiction. Quite the contrary. People want the next Nora Roberts book. Some quick read: girl meets boy, boy and girl don’t like each other; then girl loves boy, and boy loves girl. It appears that readers want what they know – what they are comfortable with. They do not want a surprise punch. In a sense publish in English language countries have done away with literary merit, in favour of catering to less serious works of fiction, and passing it off as the next big thing. This was fine at one point. That is why there are publishers like Harlequin Enterprise and Kensington Books. However gone are the days when the fiction of the English language was innovative; such as Virginia Woolf, Samuel Beckett and James Joyce. This Modernist revolution eventually fell into Postmodernism, which in a lot of cases with American authors has become a bloated satirical caricature of itself; and some author have turned to kitchen sink realism. Other countries continued to develop and move into newer territories in their literary works. Why did the English language publications suddenly go stale? I personally can’t say for certain, when it happened or how it happened; but can be seen is that the works these publishers are doing, is changing the literary landscape of the bloated English language publishing sphere, into something more open to the wider world. It is proving to be no easy task; however, these publishers are finding a way to connect with their readers, and to make their publications more known and heard about, building a reputable reputation; and allowing those readers interested in, international fiction and literature, a chance to experience the wider world.
(II)
At the Jaipur International Literary Festival, a panel of writers that included: Xiaolu Guo, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Jonathan Franzem; discussed the Global Novel. The discussion soon turned to the lack of translation, and the warped reading habits of the general reader. In short Xiaolu Guo has called the work “over rated.” An audacious assertion, but a correct assessment. Guo points out that:
“For example I think Asian literature is much less narrative … but our reading habit is more Anglo-Saxon, more American … Nowadays all this narrative [literature is] very similar, it's so realism, so story-telling driven … so all the poetry, all the alternative things, have been pushed away by mainstream society.”
Guo is correct. When I go into a bookstore, I read the write up, the first thing that one will notice, is that, a lot of the books are family sagas. The drama or action takes place between the characters interactions as a family unit, and how the past continues to haunt the present. It is always filled with the odd characters – racial grandmother; eccentric world traveling aunt; disappointed mother, drug addict brother; successful sister – the usual archetypes. It’s incredibly boring and it’s over done with, much like young authors trying to be the next Hemmingway. All literary ingenuity is extinct; it appears in Anglo-American fiction – mostly American. The lack of translations that each country (Canada included as Anglo), is surprisingly disappointing; and is noted by Lahiri who noted in Italy, that in a news papers ten books of the year, that seven of them were by American authors. Either this is cultural imperialism or Italy and other countries are more open to foreign fiction in their marketplace.
On the flipside as pointed about the small presses, and the readerships that they are gathering and maintaining are proving to shift the publishing worlds, perspective on translation. Before big named translated book consisted of Stieg Larsson and Haruki Murakami; crime fiction and then a Japanese author, heavily influenced by American culture and pop culture, whose Japan becomes to resemble not a Japan but a shifting state of lacking a identity; and is comfortable for Anglo-American readers to read, because it’s reminiscent of their own home – it’s not too foreign.
However this problem appears to be diagnosed and treatment appears to be on the way. With small publishers, translators, literary publications, and anthologies like “The Best European Fiction,” it’s going to show that, the global literary world is opening up, slowly, but headway is being made.
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, 17 January 2014
T.S Eliot Prize
Hello Gentle Reader
Poetry in some regards is a dying art form. Many would argue that poets, in today’s world no longer write for readers. They write for each other. The belief is that poets sit in their ivory tower, practicing their archaic art form – only to pass it along to their fellow brethren. Yet somehow poetry has its relevancy in today’s literary world. It’s small, elitist, and very exclusive – but there are poetry loves, and poets, who value the line over syntax. That being said, the poets who occasionally turn to prose, often showcase their powers of observation, mastery of language and stylistic ingenuity; and often create the most wonderful books of prose; which can be seen when David Constantine won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award for his collection “Tea at The Midland.” Constantine is known as a poet; and is a commissioning editor of Carcanet Press; which publishes primarily poetry. David Constantine has also been chief judge for the T.S. Eliot Prize; one of the most prestigious poetry awards.
Sinéad Morrissey is the Belfast poet Laureate; and with her collection “Parallax,” joins the likes of Derek Walcott, Seamus Heaney, Sharon Olds and Anne Carson as being a recipient of the T.S. Eliot prize. With this collection of poems, Morrissey explores concepts and ideas, of identity, motherhood, and gender; but goes beyond these themes, to explore the skewed perspectives and different angels in which these subjects can be looked at.
Congratulations to Sinéad Morrissey, as a poet she is in good company with this award.
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
Poetry in some regards is a dying art form. Many would argue that poets, in today’s world no longer write for readers. They write for each other. The belief is that poets sit in their ivory tower, practicing their archaic art form – only to pass it along to their fellow brethren. Yet somehow poetry has its relevancy in today’s literary world. It’s small, elitist, and very exclusive – but there are poetry loves, and poets, who value the line over syntax. That being said, the poets who occasionally turn to prose, often showcase their powers of observation, mastery of language and stylistic ingenuity; and often create the most wonderful books of prose; which can be seen when David Constantine won the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award for his collection “Tea at The Midland.” Constantine is known as a poet; and is a commissioning editor of Carcanet Press; which publishes primarily poetry. David Constantine has also been chief judge for the T.S. Eliot Prize; one of the most prestigious poetry awards.
Sinéad Morrissey is the Belfast poet Laureate; and with her collection “Parallax,” joins the likes of Derek Walcott, Seamus Heaney, Sharon Olds and Anne Carson as being a recipient of the T.S. Eliot prize. With this collection of poems, Morrissey explores concepts and ideas, of identity, motherhood, and gender; but goes beyond these themes, to explore the skewed perspectives and different angels in which these subjects can be looked at.
Congratulations to Sinéad Morrissey, as a poet she is in good company with this award.
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, 9 January 2014
1963 Nominations Revealed
Hello Gentle Reader
As the years go by the Swedish Academy reveals its secret archives, of the nominated authors every slowly. Just as in nineteen-sixty one, it was revealed that J.R.R. Tolkien had been nominated, but was passed over. Then of course the refueled controversy over Steinbeck's accolade; as he was chosen as the best of the worst of all the candidates nominated. The secrecy behind the award, is slowly coming to light, and allows for a fascinating view into the procedures behind the award and the authors chosen. The year nineteen-sixty three has just been revealed. There were eighty individual suggested that year. Out of those eighty individuals, twenty two were new. However nineteen-sixty three was the year of the poet. The eventual winner was the first Greek writer and poet Giorgos Seferis. However on the long list in which Seferis competed it included:
W.H. Auden,
Pabulo Neruda
Samuel Beckett
Yukio Mishima
Aksel Sandemose
Out of these five only Pablo Neruda and Samuel Beckett would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda in nineteen-seventy one and Beckett in nineteen-sixty nine. Auden would die in nineteen-seventy three, and Mishima would commit his famous suicide in nineteen-seventy, two years after his mentor and friend Kawabata became the first Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Aksel Sandemose died two years later. This longlist was quickly shortened into a list of three chosen authors. Yukio Mishima was one of the new candidates and according to the Swedish Academy:
"was one of four Japanese nominees and it was decided that his authorship was not yet to be given preference in comparison with the other four from Japan."
Pushing Mishima out of the running. Aksel Sandemose was also pushed out of the running, because he had not yet fulfilled the requirements in his writing, for such an international prize. Beckett's work, was still misunderstood by some of the academy who worried that his work was more nihilistic, then it was idealistic.
This left three poets: Giorgos Seferis, W.H. Auden, and Pablo Neruda. Out of these three authors, only two would win the award. Auden would never receive the award. Why is currently unknown.
It is an interesting look into the award's history, and the eventual chosen authors. It raises debate for some, who was the better author: Mishima or Kawabata. I personally would chose Yasunari Kawabata over Yukio Mishima; though there is no denying that Mishma was a wonderful talent in his own right.
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
As the years go by the Swedish Academy reveals its secret archives, of the nominated authors every slowly. Just as in nineteen-sixty one, it was revealed that J.R.R. Tolkien had been nominated, but was passed over. Then of course the refueled controversy over Steinbeck's accolade; as he was chosen as the best of the worst of all the candidates nominated. The secrecy behind the award, is slowly coming to light, and allows for a fascinating view into the procedures behind the award and the authors chosen. The year nineteen-sixty three has just been revealed. There were eighty individual suggested that year. Out of those eighty individuals, twenty two were new. However nineteen-sixty three was the year of the poet. The eventual winner was the first Greek writer and poet Giorgos Seferis. However on the long list in which Seferis competed it included:
W.H. Auden,
Pabulo Neruda
Samuel Beckett
Yukio Mishima
Aksel Sandemose
Out of these five only Pablo Neruda and Samuel Beckett would go on to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Neruda in nineteen-seventy one and Beckett in nineteen-sixty nine. Auden would die in nineteen-seventy three, and Mishima would commit his famous suicide in nineteen-seventy, two years after his mentor and friend Kawabata became the first Japanese writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Aksel Sandemose died two years later. This longlist was quickly shortened into a list of three chosen authors. Yukio Mishima was one of the new candidates and according to the Swedish Academy:
"was one of four Japanese nominees and it was decided that his authorship was not yet to be given preference in comparison with the other four from Japan."
Pushing Mishima out of the running. Aksel Sandemose was also pushed out of the running, because he had not yet fulfilled the requirements in his writing, for such an international prize. Beckett's work, was still misunderstood by some of the academy who worried that his work was more nihilistic, then it was idealistic.
This left three poets: Giorgos Seferis, W.H. Auden, and Pablo Neruda. Out of these three authors, only two would win the award. Auden would never receive the award. Why is currently unknown.
It is an interesting look into the award's history, and the eventual chosen authors. It raises debate for some, who was the better author: Mishima or Kawabata. I personally would chose Yasunari Kawabata over Yukio Mishima; though there is no denying that Mishma was a wonderful talent in his own right.
Thank-You for Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong*
M. Mary
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
A Year in Review
Hello Gentle Reader
Once again Gentle Reader, here we are. Another year has come to an end. What a year it was. We we’re forced to say goodbye to some great talents – Nobel Laureates Seamus Heaney and then Doris Lessing; the outspoken Scotish writer and science fiction author, Ian Banks, had also perished due to cancer; as well as possible Nobel Laureate Chinua Achebe, also perished. However, we were also awakened to see some great new authors, showcase their talents; in the case of this year’s Booker Prize winner Eleanor Catton. “The Luminaires,” is the longest novel to even win the Booker Prize; and Catton is the youngest recipient to date, to receive the prize. There was some rather tragic news in regards to the Booker Prize as well. Two-thousand and fourteen open the award up to American authors. The criticism of this controversial decision, has died down, but coming years prize, will be under heavy scrutiny; as the judges will be under the pressure to present a fair or at the very least a balanced, longlist and shortlist, showcasing the talents of all qualified countries.
In regards to the personal taste in the books read – some yet to be posted on this blog; it was certainly a exciting year; with the enjoyable pleasure of Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” which was an interesting and fragmented novel, and a real pleasure to read. There was also the enjoyment of reading “Mondo and Other Stories,” a volume of stories by Nobel Laureate in Literature J.M.G Le Clezio that I still come back to, time and time again for a poetically beautiful and adventurous read, that leaves one with a feeling of nostalgia. I became acquainted with László Krasznahorkai, with his first novel “Satantango.” Krasznahorkai showcased his emerging talents that would become clearer in his later works, but also showed his sense of humour. “The Twin,” was also a novel that stands out in its immense pleasure that it was to read, and its understated premise: a novel about a Dutch farm, and an unhappy farmer. However appearances are deceiving; and it certainly proved that point. Then came, the slim and beautiful short novel “Touch,” by the Palestine author Adania Shibli. The novel itself was enjoyable for its lyrical prose, and its impressionistic writing. It certainly goes to show that a slim and slender novel often has more impact than that of a larger novel. Mikhail Shishkin finally had his overdue debut, with his novel “Maidenhair,” a sprawling and often confusing narrative, but it also showed the authors capability of dealing with large and engrossing obsessions, as themes on the human condition. There was “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy a barque piece of work, by one of the greatest prose stylists of the twentieth century by a Cuban writer, who was a perquisite to the eventual Latin American Boom. This list could not be completed without mentioning “Zigzag through the Bitter Orange Tree’s,” by the Greek writer Ersi Sotiropoulos. It’s a novel about four people; who are interconnected through each other, the only slightly. It’s a novel that is filled with Sotiropoulos’s constant disregard for the traditional narrative structure of a beginning or an end. It showcases the author’s lyrical prose and poetic flare without being ornament or decorating the prose with purple dashes of exaggeration.
Other books that have been read and reviews will be posted in the New Year, will be that of Lithuanian author Giedra Radvilavičiūtė and her book of essay like stories “Those Whom I Would Like To Meet Again.” Tõnu Õnnepalu a poet and prose writers novel “Border State,” was a great read, and will most likely be read again, for the sheer enjoyment of its language.
One of the biggest news makers for this year was the announcement that Alice Munro became a Nobel Laureate in Literature. The citation was simple and straightforward: “Master of the contemporary short story.” Even Rob Ford – Toronto’s own proud alcoholic and crack smoking mayor could not overshadow Alice Munro’s achievement.
That’s it for a year in review. The details can only be hinted. The major events, spoken of in one quick breath. Yet it still was a great and amazing year, for literature. Two-thousand and fourteen certainly can deliver, and continue the flare.
Happy New Year 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
Once again Gentle Reader, here we are. Another year has come to an end. What a year it was. We we’re forced to say goodbye to some great talents – Nobel Laureates Seamus Heaney and then Doris Lessing; the outspoken Scotish writer and science fiction author, Ian Banks, had also perished due to cancer; as well as possible Nobel Laureate Chinua Achebe, also perished. However, we were also awakened to see some great new authors, showcase their talents; in the case of this year’s Booker Prize winner Eleanor Catton. “The Luminaires,” is the longest novel to even win the Booker Prize; and Catton is the youngest recipient to date, to receive the prize. There was some rather tragic news in regards to the Booker Prize as well. Two-thousand and fourteen open the award up to American authors. The criticism of this controversial decision, has died down, but coming years prize, will be under heavy scrutiny; as the judges will be under the pressure to present a fair or at the very least a balanced, longlist and shortlist, showcasing the talents of all qualified countries.
In regards to the personal taste in the books read – some yet to be posted on this blog; it was certainly a exciting year; with the enjoyable pleasure of Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Primeval and Other Times,” which was an interesting and fragmented novel, and a real pleasure to read. There was also the enjoyment of reading “Mondo and Other Stories,” a volume of stories by Nobel Laureate in Literature J.M.G Le Clezio that I still come back to, time and time again for a poetically beautiful and adventurous read, that leaves one with a feeling of nostalgia. I became acquainted with László Krasznahorkai, with his first novel “Satantango.” Krasznahorkai showcased his emerging talents that would become clearer in his later works, but also showed his sense of humour. “The Twin,” was also a novel that stands out in its immense pleasure that it was to read, and its understated premise: a novel about a Dutch farm, and an unhappy farmer. However appearances are deceiving; and it certainly proved that point. Then came, the slim and beautiful short novel “Touch,” by the Palestine author Adania Shibli. The novel itself was enjoyable for its lyrical prose, and its impressionistic writing. It certainly goes to show that a slim and slender novel often has more impact than that of a larger novel. Mikhail Shishkin finally had his overdue debut, with his novel “Maidenhair,” a sprawling and often confusing narrative, but it also showed the authors capability of dealing with large and engrossing obsessions, as themes on the human condition. There was “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy a barque piece of work, by one of the greatest prose stylists of the twentieth century by a Cuban writer, who was a perquisite to the eventual Latin American Boom. This list could not be completed without mentioning “Zigzag through the Bitter Orange Tree’s,” by the Greek writer Ersi Sotiropoulos. It’s a novel about four people; who are interconnected through each other, the only slightly. It’s a novel that is filled with Sotiropoulos’s constant disregard for the traditional narrative structure of a beginning or an end. It showcases the author’s lyrical prose and poetic flare without being ornament or decorating the prose with purple dashes of exaggeration.
Other books that have been read and reviews will be posted in the New Year, will be that of Lithuanian author Giedra Radvilavičiūtė and her book of essay like stories “Those Whom I Would Like To Meet Again.” Tõnu Õnnepalu a poet and prose writers novel “Border State,” was a great read, and will most likely be read again, for the sheer enjoyment of its language.
One of the biggest news makers for this year was the announcement that Alice Munro became a Nobel Laureate in Literature. The citation was simple and straightforward: “Master of the contemporary short story.” Even Rob Ford – Toronto’s own proud alcoholic and crack smoking mayor could not overshadow Alice Munro’s achievement.
That’s it for a year in review. The details can only be hinted. The major events, spoken of in one quick breath. Yet it still was a great and amazing year, for literature. Two-thousand and fourteen certainly can deliver, and continue the flare.
Happy New Year 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
Thursday, 26 December 2013
House of Day, House of Night
Hello Gentle Reader
Antonia Lloyd-Jones is an industrious translator. In two-thousand and twelve alone, she had published, seven Polish translations. In two-thousand and eight Lloyd-Jones had won, the Found in Translation Award. Again now in two-thousand and thirteen, Lloyd-Jones finds herself winning the award. With one exception. This award is usually handed out on the basis of a single work. This time Lloyd-Jones won the award, for her seven translations, done in the previous year. Anyone who has read Polish translations will most likely have seen the work of Antonia-Lloyd-Jones. From Paweł Huelle to Olga Tokarczuk; Lloyd-Jones has brought their works to the attention of English readers.
The worst part about reading is the ending. The dreaded final page. After which it’s all over. What has been written and said, now says: au revoir! (Because French language and literature go together like cheese and wine – French cheese and wine, naturally) – The ending breaks the writer, or exemplifies the writer. It tortures the reader with questions and queries; or it leaves the reader wondering if there is much use in going forward. Endings are usually far more acceptable in shorter works. Shorter works often have ambiguous and opaque endings. That leaves the reader, falling or flying in the softness of the air. Large novels, that finally reach the end, will stir two reactions. The slamming of the novel down; followed by the proclamation: “that’s it!” Upon which the book cannot find itself, in a home on the bookshelf, but rather find itself, collecting dust in a used and second hand bookstore, with a discounted price tag attached to it. A milder reaction of this one is: “Well at least that is finished.” The second reaction is that of melancholic pathos. It’s that bittersweet pill to swallow – the realization that it is all over. The story has been paced evenly. The characters were quickly renewed. Nothing was stale. There was a constant brain challenge. Then it’s over. The last page is flipped. It’s all over. This is why it took me so long to read “House of Day, House of Night.” It was the constant, attempt at thwarting the inevitable ending.
“House of Day, House of Night,” came after “Primeval and Other Times,” but was published in English before “Primeval and Other Times.” Part of the literary series “Writing From a Unbound Europe.” It introduced Olga Tokarczuk’s unique “episodic consciousness,” writing style, to English language readers. Both “House of Day, House of Night,” share numerous similarities. Both are made up short narratives, and stories, that evolve, mutate and connect with each other in a larger scheme, and whole. Both works, display the tragedies of human existence, the frailties of the individual against history. Yet both are also comical, in their depiction of the mundane, and the ever occurring irony, that pertains to day to day existence. Both are wise, and often focus on the esoteric. Yet where they differentiate, is that “Primeval and Other Times,” had a set of characters, which evolved and mutated, and died within the narrative. Their stories however lived on within the next generation, and their own tales. “Primeval and Other Times,” sought out to tell the history of the small village of Primeval. “House of Day, House of Night,” takes on these themes, but in a different way. Were “Primeval and Other Times,” is told from a wistful omnipresent narrator. A narrator who was objective, and all seeing. This narrator is a grand historian recording the myopic world of Primeval; and seeing its own miniscule events, reflecting the larger events around it, and entering it. “House of Day, House of Night,” has moments where the third person narrator returns. With the utmost natural ease. As if the third person is Tokarczuk’s, more natural writing perspective. For the most part, the novel is a first person account of life in Nowa Ruda. A small town in south-western Poland, bordering the Czech Republic. It once housed Germans, who called the town Neurode; but was later renamed the Polish Nowa Ruda.
The history behind Polish Nowa Ruda and the German Neurode, is hinted at. Though it’s not delved into; via an in-depth process. Nowa Ruda, became a Polish settlement, after the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. The new “Soviet,” Poles, found themselves, forced from their traditional homes, in the east – which had created Belorussia and Lithuania; and settled in the old German homes of Neurode. The Germans expelled, the Poles found themselves, in their new home – aptly renamed to a Polish name Nowa Ruda. The said Germans were expelled from their homes, and sought new homes in Germany, often made treks back; in this novel. Some come back to see their beloved homeland before they die – and in some cases, to die.
Our narrator is a strange, almost new age creature. Constantly on the search for esoteric patterns in life. From dreams, to the stars. She remembers the first encounters of people that are important to her. She can recall each of their details. She’s almost faux pas, mystical it appears. As if somehow the new age, beliefs of the narrator, are paramount, and often seen as earthly wholesome, wisdom. It actually bothered me. How the Tokcarzuk discussed divination methods. Methods via, ash or blood; tea leaves; or throwing knives, and reading their scattered blades. It became bothersome. Like a scratch just beneath the skin. Still Tokcarzuk makes up, for this flaw with her more, primary and delightful character portraits; and subjective observations. The way the narrator is both intrigued and baffled by her neighbour the wigmaker Marta. She also recounts and documents the stories, and the history of the world around her. How the Polish inhabitants have a shortcut that crosses into Czech territory. How the Czech and Poles comical, scenario of finding a dead, on the border, and move it to the others side. She recounts the life of a saint – and her biographer.
What is most special of Tokcarzuk’s writing so far, is that she can write about the most myopic, the most mundane; and banal. And still make it fascinating. She embellishes it with folktales, personal histories, myths, and magic. Dreams mix with reality. Reality mixes with wishes. Past and present, waltz on a clocks cog. Tokcarzuk has captured the absurdities of our lives, and the comical singing blade of irony, that cuts through it all, through and through. Just like the bank’s coffee ritual.
“At about ten the daily coffee – drink ritual began, announced by the clatter of aluminum tea-spoons and the sound of glasses striking softly against saucers – the usual office chimes. The precious ground coffee brought from home in jam jars was shared equally between the glasses, and formed a thick brown skin on the surface, briefly holding up the torrents of sugar. The smell of coffee filled the bank to the ceiling, and the farmers queuing for service kick themselves for having into the sacred coffee hour.”
Some of the interesting things that Tokcarzuk has done are repeat some success with “Primeval and Other Times.” She uses character portraits, to offer interesting twists into the story. Like Marek Marek, the handsome but violent drunk who discovers he has a bird that lives inside of him. His attempts at suicide are much like his life: unsuccessful – until he finds success with his life. Then there is the man who receives thoughts and messages from a newly discovered planet. So he builds himself a helmet made of ash wood. There he finds his thoughts free from the planetary influence. The novel also incorporates some interesting (if a bit deadly) recipes. Antonia Lloyd-Jones, herself writes, that this book should come with a warning: “Do not try these recipes.”
Tokcarzuk has created a wonderful novel. A novel that relies on poetic fragmentation; to allow her narrative, too move with ease, through the lives and homes of the inhabitants (historical and other wise) of Nowa Ruda. She mixes lush descriptions with poetic semantics:
“Anyone who has ever seen the mountains in late autumn, when the last frost-glazed leaves still hang on the trees, when the earth is warmer than the sky and is slowly wasting away breath the first snows, when its strong bones are starting to protrude from the under the withered grass, when the darkness starts to seep from the washed out mornings of the horizon, when sounds finally become sharp and hang in the frost air like knives – he who has seen all this has witnessed the death of the world. But I would say the world is always dying, day after day, though for some reason only in late autumn is the entire mystery of that death laid bare.”
Tokcarzuk achieves once again a sense of artistic purity. Though it does not entirely match “Primeval and Other Times,” it still stands on its own weight and achievement. Though it seems a bit messy somewhat at times, it is still a good novel. It shows Tokcarzuk’s preoccupations; but it’s less contained and structured, and often seems to mosey along into tangents at times, that only later can come to mean something. Still a fascinating novel, something unique and different.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. Hello Gentle Reader, I am still experiencing some technical malfunctions with the computer, but the problem is getting fixed – with the end of the Christmas Season, normalcy should take place, once again, and life will flow in a quiet nature again. Again my apologies for the inconvenience and hope that all of you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.
Antonia Lloyd-Jones is an industrious translator. In two-thousand and twelve alone, she had published, seven Polish translations. In two-thousand and eight Lloyd-Jones had won, the Found in Translation Award. Again now in two-thousand and thirteen, Lloyd-Jones finds herself winning the award. With one exception. This award is usually handed out on the basis of a single work. This time Lloyd-Jones won the award, for her seven translations, done in the previous year. Anyone who has read Polish translations will most likely have seen the work of Antonia-Lloyd-Jones. From Paweł Huelle to Olga Tokarczuk; Lloyd-Jones has brought their works to the attention of English readers.
The worst part about reading is the ending. The dreaded final page. After which it’s all over. What has been written and said, now says: au revoir! (Because French language and literature go together like cheese and wine – French cheese and wine, naturally) – The ending breaks the writer, or exemplifies the writer. It tortures the reader with questions and queries; or it leaves the reader wondering if there is much use in going forward. Endings are usually far more acceptable in shorter works. Shorter works often have ambiguous and opaque endings. That leaves the reader, falling or flying in the softness of the air. Large novels, that finally reach the end, will stir two reactions. The slamming of the novel down; followed by the proclamation: “that’s it!” Upon which the book cannot find itself, in a home on the bookshelf, but rather find itself, collecting dust in a used and second hand bookstore, with a discounted price tag attached to it. A milder reaction of this one is: “Well at least that is finished.” The second reaction is that of melancholic pathos. It’s that bittersweet pill to swallow – the realization that it is all over. The story has been paced evenly. The characters were quickly renewed. Nothing was stale. There was a constant brain challenge. Then it’s over. The last page is flipped. It’s all over. This is why it took me so long to read “House of Day, House of Night.” It was the constant, attempt at thwarting the inevitable ending.
“House of Day, House of Night,” came after “Primeval and Other Times,” but was published in English before “Primeval and Other Times.” Part of the literary series “Writing From a Unbound Europe.” It introduced Olga Tokarczuk’s unique “episodic consciousness,” writing style, to English language readers. Both “House of Day, House of Night,” share numerous similarities. Both are made up short narratives, and stories, that evolve, mutate and connect with each other in a larger scheme, and whole. Both works, display the tragedies of human existence, the frailties of the individual against history. Yet both are also comical, in their depiction of the mundane, and the ever occurring irony, that pertains to day to day existence. Both are wise, and often focus on the esoteric. Yet where they differentiate, is that “Primeval and Other Times,” had a set of characters, which evolved and mutated, and died within the narrative. Their stories however lived on within the next generation, and their own tales. “Primeval and Other Times,” sought out to tell the history of the small village of Primeval. “House of Day, House of Night,” takes on these themes, but in a different way. Were “Primeval and Other Times,” is told from a wistful omnipresent narrator. A narrator who was objective, and all seeing. This narrator is a grand historian recording the myopic world of Primeval; and seeing its own miniscule events, reflecting the larger events around it, and entering it. “House of Day, House of Night,” has moments where the third person narrator returns. With the utmost natural ease. As if the third person is Tokarczuk’s, more natural writing perspective. For the most part, the novel is a first person account of life in Nowa Ruda. A small town in south-western Poland, bordering the Czech Republic. It once housed Germans, who called the town Neurode; but was later renamed the Polish Nowa Ruda.
The history behind Polish Nowa Ruda and the German Neurode, is hinted at. Though it’s not delved into; via an in-depth process. Nowa Ruda, became a Polish settlement, after the Soviet Union’s annexation of most of Eastern Europe. The new “Soviet,” Poles, found themselves, forced from their traditional homes, in the east – which had created Belorussia and Lithuania; and settled in the old German homes of Neurode. The Germans expelled, the Poles found themselves, in their new home – aptly renamed to a Polish name Nowa Ruda. The said Germans were expelled from their homes, and sought new homes in Germany, often made treks back; in this novel. Some come back to see their beloved homeland before they die – and in some cases, to die.
Our narrator is a strange, almost new age creature. Constantly on the search for esoteric patterns in life. From dreams, to the stars. She remembers the first encounters of people that are important to her. She can recall each of their details. She’s almost faux pas, mystical it appears. As if somehow the new age, beliefs of the narrator, are paramount, and often seen as earthly wholesome, wisdom. It actually bothered me. How the Tokcarzuk discussed divination methods. Methods via, ash or blood; tea leaves; or throwing knives, and reading their scattered blades. It became bothersome. Like a scratch just beneath the skin. Still Tokcarzuk makes up, for this flaw with her more, primary and delightful character portraits; and subjective observations. The way the narrator is both intrigued and baffled by her neighbour the wigmaker Marta. She also recounts and documents the stories, and the history of the world around her. How the Polish inhabitants have a shortcut that crosses into Czech territory. How the Czech and Poles comical, scenario of finding a dead, on the border, and move it to the others side. She recounts the life of a saint – and her biographer.
What is most special of Tokcarzuk’s writing so far, is that she can write about the most myopic, the most mundane; and banal. And still make it fascinating. She embellishes it with folktales, personal histories, myths, and magic. Dreams mix with reality. Reality mixes with wishes. Past and present, waltz on a clocks cog. Tokcarzuk has captured the absurdities of our lives, and the comical singing blade of irony, that cuts through it all, through and through. Just like the bank’s coffee ritual.
“At about ten the daily coffee – drink ritual began, announced by the clatter of aluminum tea-spoons and the sound of glasses striking softly against saucers – the usual office chimes. The precious ground coffee brought from home in jam jars was shared equally between the glasses, and formed a thick brown skin on the surface, briefly holding up the torrents of sugar. The smell of coffee filled the bank to the ceiling, and the farmers queuing for service kick themselves for having into the sacred coffee hour.”
Some of the interesting things that Tokcarzuk has done are repeat some success with “Primeval and Other Times.” She uses character portraits, to offer interesting twists into the story. Like Marek Marek, the handsome but violent drunk who discovers he has a bird that lives inside of him. His attempts at suicide are much like his life: unsuccessful – until he finds success with his life. Then there is the man who receives thoughts and messages from a newly discovered planet. So he builds himself a helmet made of ash wood. There he finds his thoughts free from the planetary influence. The novel also incorporates some interesting (if a bit deadly) recipes. Antonia Lloyd-Jones, herself writes, that this book should come with a warning: “Do not try these recipes.”
Tokcarzuk has created a wonderful novel. A novel that relies on poetic fragmentation; to allow her narrative, too move with ease, through the lives and homes of the inhabitants (historical and other wise) of Nowa Ruda. She mixes lush descriptions with poetic semantics:
“Anyone who has ever seen the mountains in late autumn, when the last frost-glazed leaves still hang on the trees, when the earth is warmer than the sky and is slowly wasting away breath the first snows, when its strong bones are starting to protrude from the under the withered grass, when the darkness starts to seep from the washed out mornings of the horizon, when sounds finally become sharp and hang in the frost air like knives – he who has seen all this has witnessed the death of the world. But I would say the world is always dying, day after day, though for some reason only in late autumn is the entire mystery of that death laid bare.”
Tokcarzuk achieves once again a sense of artistic purity. Though it does not entirely match “Primeval and Other Times,” it still stands on its own weight and achievement. Though it seems a bit messy somewhat at times, it is still a good novel. It shows Tokcarzuk’s preoccupations; but it’s less contained and structured, and often seems to mosey along into tangents at times, that only later can come to mean something. Still a fascinating novel, something unique and different.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. Hello Gentle Reader, I am still experiencing some technical malfunctions with the computer, but the problem is getting fixed – with the end of the Christmas Season, normalcy should take place, once again, and life will flow in a quiet nature again. Again my apologies for the inconvenience and hope that all of you had a Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year.
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Technical Difficulties
Hello Gentle Reader
Due to technical difficulties, with the computer, there may be a prolonged absence, of reviews and other such material from this blog; until the problem is rectified. However, I do promise to be diligent and quick in the response to this unwarranted and unexpected malfunction of my computer, and its terminal access to you Gentle Reader.
In the meantime: Have a Merry Christmas my Dear Gentle Reader!
And if I do not have the issue, resolved, by the New Year. I wish you the best celebrations in welcoming in the New Year, and hope the coming New Year will be as wonderful as it has the previous one!
Again Gentle Reader, I would like to apologise for this inconvenience, and disruption of this blogs routine. However, it should be fixed in due time; and everything will be back on track.
Just to reiterate, though, Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year!
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
Due to technical difficulties, with the computer, there may be a prolonged absence, of reviews and other such material from this blog; until the problem is rectified. However, I do promise to be diligent and quick in the response to this unwarranted and unexpected malfunction of my computer, and its terminal access to you Gentle Reader.
In the meantime: Have a Merry Christmas my Dear Gentle Reader!
And if I do not have the issue, resolved, by the New Year. I wish you the best celebrations in welcoming in the New Year, and hope the coming New Year will be as wonderful as it has the previous one!
Again Gentle Reader, I would like to apologise for this inconvenience, and disruption of this blogs routine. However, it should be fixed in due time; and everything will be back on track.
Just to reiterate, though, Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year!
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, 13 December 2013
The Detour
Hello Gentle Reader
Emily Dickinson is the epitome of the poet. A reclusive and hermetic creature, who appears to survive on writing. Writing became the existential exercise of bringing conscious meaning to life. Besides that, the facts of Dickinson’s life are minimal. There is only one authenticated portrait of the poetess. Dickinson is one of America’s most beloved poets. Though she published very little in her life time – and what was published, was often edited and revised, to fit into the poetic tradition of the time. It was not until the nineteen-fifties with the publication of “Complete Poems,” by the publisher Thomas H Johnson, that Dickinson’s poems were published in their manuscript form. Furthermore, Dickinson had published most of her poems, anonymously. The few that she had ever published during her life time. Less than a dozen of her eighteen hundred poems had been published. The poetess style is, known for its unusual syntax and extensive use of dashes; as well as unconventional capitalization, and a use of half rhymes. As an individual, she is known – even in her time as an eccentric. She had a love of gardening. Gardens and flowers often populate her poems. Some of her poems were often sent to her correspondence with, posies. One of the legendary facts of Dickinson; was her hermetic and reclusive behaviour. She only left the homestead when absolutely necessary. She communicated with visitors, from the other side of doors, never face to face. She was rarely seen; and when she was, she was always dressed in white. Still, despite her seclusion and retirement from an immediate public life; she was known for her prolific socialisation via correspondence. It was with letters that Dickinson was able, to be expressive and socially active. When visitors did visit the homestead, she was known to leave or send posies and poems to the guests. Despite her seclusion, she was not intolerant of other people or social tendencies.
Dear Emily Dickinson was more renowned in her life time as a gardener, more than she was a poet. Most likely because her poetic, interests, were not common knowledge. Her classical Victorian education, included botany; and Dickinson and her sister, often tended the garden on the homestead. The garden of the Dickinson homestead was admired and revered locally – in its time. Unfortunately, the garden has not survived. Furthermore Emily did not leave any, list of plants that were in the garden; or any notebook of the garden layout or plans. However she did have a herbarium, which contained four hundred and twenty four pressed flowers.
Emily Dickinson is very important to the novel: “The Detour,” also published as “Ten White Geese.” The main character takes the name ‘Emilie,’ – and is an Emily Dickinson scholar, and professor of translation studies at a university within the Netherlands. Dickinson also makes repeated visits within the novel, with lines of her verse, populating it. This often gives the novel a poetic flare. The fact that the main character, is a Dickinson scholar, and is often reminded of lines of her verse, gives the main character an often interesting characterization. One line of verse that stood out for me was, from the poem “These Are the Days When Birds Come Back,” and the lines:
“These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.”
The line: “a blue and gold mistake,” is a striking image, mixed with the mild weather of Wales, in which ‘Emilie,’ finds herself. The way Bakker provided the line, in comparison to the November was poignant. Bakker’s prose is cool. It’s minimal and it is detached. It moves not by action, but by its own pace, which is based around daily activities; that along with the constant, threat of an underlying menace.
Bakker’s previous and debut novel “The Twin,” won the IMAPAC Literary Dublin Award; the most lucrative prize for a single piece of fiction (novel). The two novels share common similarities with style, Bakker’s trademark; cool and unadorned prose. Yet his sense of detail is precise. It is with these details that Bakker can create the most interesting tale. Bakker’s acute sense of environment and its relation to its characters is also a key component of both novels. With “The Twin,” the farm is both home, and hell. A constant reminder of poor memories, a troubled past, and a failed future, and depleted present. Helmers life abruptly ended, with the death of his twin, Henk. Helmer is then forced to abandon his own future, to take up the one destined for Henk. The Welsh countryside, in “The Detour,” achieves the same purpose. Wales becomes a strange and foreign land. A place populated by elusive living badgers and dead badgers. It’s scarcely populated. With many local residents, remarking that in the future all that will remain are badgers. That along with a stone circle, grazing sheep, and strange if somewhat incompetent residents, give the impression that Emilie is truly in a foreign land. Daily life is also paramount of these novels. Neither one of the novels, are filled with magical quests, or anything out of the ordinary. Both novels are filled with daily meditations and transactions. Strangely enough Bakker is able to; imbue these chores with a sense of rhythm. The novels begin to be pulled along by this rhythmic repetition of images and actions. Putting wood on the fire, cooking supper, walking, exploring, feeding the geese. All of these begin to carry their own weight. They eventually begin to hint at larger pictures.
“The Detour,” is not a novel that one reads, and is done with. This alone makes it difficult to review. It appears that any shred of information let lose, or given prematurely will upstart the delicate balance that Bakker has strived to achieve. This novel is far more opaque, then “The Twin,” was. It’s ethereal and compact. It leaves a lot unsaid, a lot of red herrings, and questions unanswered. Bakker gives hints to what is going on, but that is about, all that Bakker gives in regards to this novel. You do not know what is killing the geese, other than presumed fox or badger. The relationship between Rhys Jones and his estranged son Bradwen is not entirely clear. Neither is their reason for their estrangement. Then there is of course, ‘Emilie,’ fleeing her, husband and the Netherlands, after an abrupt end to an affair. This leaves her husband unsure about the relationship between himself and his wife; and his own strange relationship that forms, after he tries to set her office on fire, after learning about the affair and her abrupt disappearance. Then of course comes the, menace that lurks behind every page of the novel. What is wrong with ‘Emilie,’? She pops pain killers as if they were candy; and smells things, that rationally are not produced within the environment. After seeing two badgers – quiet shy and lumbering animals; fight, and retreat back into the bush; she smells coconut in the air. Then the fact that, her husband realises something medically is wrong with ‘Emilie;’ though their doctor is not sharing the information. Though it is safe to presume, that whatever it is, is terminal. This explains ‘Emilie’s,’ inability to pay much mind to time itself. Openly disregarding its presence entirely.
The novel thrives off this menacing atmosphere. The atmosphere gripes the reader, the daily transactions move the narrator, and the strand relationships of the characters, keep the drama intact. No matter how quiet it is. It is no wonder why it won the “The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.” It’s a quiet novel. A novel that thrives on its desolate landscape that is strikingly beautiful, and ridden with despair. The characters hold more to themselves then they do share. Their relationships strained or their contact and knowledge of each other, minimal to non-existent. The judges themselves were won over by its themes of exile, infidelity, and isolation – seen through misted windows; making sure that not all secrets are entirely shared. It moves swiftly. It does not waste a word. Everything is carefully chosen. The words are precise and the imagery lush and spare. The book itself lingers. It lingers in the mind like unswept corners and dusty chinks of the house. They are there. They are out of sight. Yet their existence is there. That existence alone is what lingers in the mind. Such is what “The Detour,” is like. A mistaken turn, that leads one down a foreign and beautiful, desolate world.
“The Detour,” is a striking novel. A novel of mundane oddities. Geese that go missing. A dead former owner whose scent fills the house. Strange residences, who know more then they let on. To compare “The Detour,” and “The Twin,” is unable to do either justice. Bakker has delivered a novel that is readable, mysterious and extremely opaque. It’ll take some re-reading to understand, and see the hints and the hints that are missed the first time around, in order to fully understand the novel. It’s a quiet read; but not entirely straightforward. Incredibly atmospheric; and rather interesting. Bakker delivered what he offered in “The Twin,” in a repackaged novel, which is a bit more eccentric, in its literary tastes.
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
Emily Dickinson is the epitome of the poet. A reclusive and hermetic creature, who appears to survive on writing. Writing became the existential exercise of bringing conscious meaning to life. Besides that, the facts of Dickinson’s life are minimal. There is only one authenticated portrait of the poetess. Dickinson is one of America’s most beloved poets. Though she published very little in her life time – and what was published, was often edited and revised, to fit into the poetic tradition of the time. It was not until the nineteen-fifties with the publication of “Complete Poems,” by the publisher Thomas H Johnson, that Dickinson’s poems were published in their manuscript form. Furthermore, Dickinson had published most of her poems, anonymously. The few that she had ever published during her life time. Less than a dozen of her eighteen hundred poems had been published. The poetess style is, known for its unusual syntax and extensive use of dashes; as well as unconventional capitalization, and a use of half rhymes. As an individual, she is known – even in her time as an eccentric. She had a love of gardening. Gardens and flowers often populate her poems. Some of her poems were often sent to her correspondence with, posies. One of the legendary facts of Dickinson; was her hermetic and reclusive behaviour. She only left the homestead when absolutely necessary. She communicated with visitors, from the other side of doors, never face to face. She was rarely seen; and when she was, she was always dressed in white. Still, despite her seclusion and retirement from an immediate public life; she was known for her prolific socialisation via correspondence. It was with letters that Dickinson was able, to be expressive and socially active. When visitors did visit the homestead, she was known to leave or send posies and poems to the guests. Despite her seclusion, she was not intolerant of other people or social tendencies.
Dear Emily Dickinson was more renowned in her life time as a gardener, more than she was a poet. Most likely because her poetic, interests, were not common knowledge. Her classical Victorian education, included botany; and Dickinson and her sister, often tended the garden on the homestead. The garden of the Dickinson homestead was admired and revered locally – in its time. Unfortunately, the garden has not survived. Furthermore Emily did not leave any, list of plants that were in the garden; or any notebook of the garden layout or plans. However she did have a herbarium, which contained four hundred and twenty four pressed flowers.
Emily Dickinson is very important to the novel: “The Detour,” also published as “Ten White Geese.” The main character takes the name ‘Emilie,’ – and is an Emily Dickinson scholar, and professor of translation studies at a university within the Netherlands. Dickinson also makes repeated visits within the novel, with lines of her verse, populating it. This often gives the novel a poetic flare. The fact that the main character, is a Dickinson scholar, and is often reminded of lines of her verse, gives the main character an often interesting characterization. One line of verse that stood out for me was, from the poem “These Are the Days When Birds Come Back,” and the lines:
“These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, -
A blue and gold mistake.”
The line: “a blue and gold mistake,” is a striking image, mixed with the mild weather of Wales, in which ‘Emilie,’ finds herself. The way Bakker provided the line, in comparison to the November was poignant. Bakker’s prose is cool. It’s minimal and it is detached. It moves not by action, but by its own pace, which is based around daily activities; that along with the constant, threat of an underlying menace.
Bakker’s previous and debut novel “The Twin,” won the IMAPAC Literary Dublin Award; the most lucrative prize for a single piece of fiction (novel). The two novels share common similarities with style, Bakker’s trademark; cool and unadorned prose. Yet his sense of detail is precise. It is with these details that Bakker can create the most interesting tale. Bakker’s acute sense of environment and its relation to its characters is also a key component of both novels. With “The Twin,” the farm is both home, and hell. A constant reminder of poor memories, a troubled past, and a failed future, and depleted present. Helmers life abruptly ended, with the death of his twin, Henk. Helmer is then forced to abandon his own future, to take up the one destined for Henk. The Welsh countryside, in “The Detour,” achieves the same purpose. Wales becomes a strange and foreign land. A place populated by elusive living badgers and dead badgers. It’s scarcely populated. With many local residents, remarking that in the future all that will remain are badgers. That along with a stone circle, grazing sheep, and strange if somewhat incompetent residents, give the impression that Emilie is truly in a foreign land. Daily life is also paramount of these novels. Neither one of the novels, are filled with magical quests, or anything out of the ordinary. Both novels are filled with daily meditations and transactions. Strangely enough Bakker is able to; imbue these chores with a sense of rhythm. The novels begin to be pulled along by this rhythmic repetition of images and actions. Putting wood on the fire, cooking supper, walking, exploring, feeding the geese. All of these begin to carry their own weight. They eventually begin to hint at larger pictures.
“The Detour,” is not a novel that one reads, and is done with. This alone makes it difficult to review. It appears that any shred of information let lose, or given prematurely will upstart the delicate balance that Bakker has strived to achieve. This novel is far more opaque, then “The Twin,” was. It’s ethereal and compact. It leaves a lot unsaid, a lot of red herrings, and questions unanswered. Bakker gives hints to what is going on, but that is about, all that Bakker gives in regards to this novel. You do not know what is killing the geese, other than presumed fox or badger. The relationship between Rhys Jones and his estranged son Bradwen is not entirely clear. Neither is their reason for their estrangement. Then there is of course, ‘Emilie,’ fleeing her, husband and the Netherlands, after an abrupt end to an affair. This leaves her husband unsure about the relationship between himself and his wife; and his own strange relationship that forms, after he tries to set her office on fire, after learning about the affair and her abrupt disappearance. Then of course comes the, menace that lurks behind every page of the novel. What is wrong with ‘Emilie,’? She pops pain killers as if they were candy; and smells things, that rationally are not produced within the environment. After seeing two badgers – quiet shy and lumbering animals; fight, and retreat back into the bush; she smells coconut in the air. Then the fact that, her husband realises something medically is wrong with ‘Emilie;’ though their doctor is not sharing the information. Though it is safe to presume, that whatever it is, is terminal. This explains ‘Emilie’s,’ inability to pay much mind to time itself. Openly disregarding its presence entirely.
The novel thrives off this menacing atmosphere. The atmosphere gripes the reader, the daily transactions move the narrator, and the strand relationships of the characters, keep the drama intact. No matter how quiet it is. It is no wonder why it won the “The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize.” It’s a quiet novel. A novel that thrives on its desolate landscape that is strikingly beautiful, and ridden with despair. The characters hold more to themselves then they do share. Their relationships strained or their contact and knowledge of each other, minimal to non-existent. The judges themselves were won over by its themes of exile, infidelity, and isolation – seen through misted windows; making sure that not all secrets are entirely shared. It moves swiftly. It does not waste a word. Everything is carefully chosen. The words are precise and the imagery lush and spare. The book itself lingers. It lingers in the mind like unswept corners and dusty chinks of the house. They are there. They are out of sight. Yet their existence is there. That existence alone is what lingers in the mind. Such is what “The Detour,” is like. A mistaken turn, that leads one down a foreign and beautiful, desolate world.
“The Detour,” is a striking novel. A novel of mundane oddities. Geese that go missing. A dead former owner whose scent fills the house. Strange residences, who know more then they let on. To compare “The Detour,” and “The Twin,” is unable to do either justice. Bakker has delivered a novel that is readable, mysterious and extremely opaque. It’ll take some re-reading to understand, and see the hints and the hints that are missed the first time around, in order to fully understand the novel. It’s a quiet read; but not entirely straightforward. Incredibly atmospheric; and rather interesting. Bakker delivered what he offered in “The Twin,” in a repackaged novel, which is a bit more eccentric, in its literary tastes.
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
Sunday, 8 December 2013
Dear Life
( My Dearest Gentle Reader: Due to some unforeseen circumstances -- in regards to personal illness, I was unable to post these past few weeks. I greatly apologize, and plan on getting back to the usual routine. In honour of Alice Munro's Nobel Lecture I post this review of her latest and possibly last short story collection: "Dear Life." )
Hello Gentle Reader
The title of the new Nobel Laureate in Literature, Alice Munro’s, latest and possibly last collection, brings to mind, two thoughts: an exasperated burst of resentment of one’s own life of regret. On the other hand, the title brings to mind, a formal letter one would write to their own life – a letter that one may write, and tuck away for years, only to come back to it, later and look back on it. When Alice Munro was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature, there was no sarcastic “who?” or complaint, that the Swedish Academy is Eurocentric. With Alice Munro, the Swedish Academy had awarded the prize to a Canadian – the first time the accolade, was given to a Canadian writer; but also a woman. However, to say that Alice Munro achieved the accolade, solely because she was a Canadian and a woman would be patronizing. Mrs. Alice Munro won the award on her own merit. Alice’s career spans six decades; and is comprised completely of short stories. A form often looked down upon. It is often seen as the poor cousin or compatriot of the novel; which is something that more serious authors write. However Alice Munro has shown the capacity for the short story to reflect on the human condition. The only difference between the short story and novel is length. Alice’s stories share the same breadth, as the novel. The only difference is that they are paired down, and stripped of unessential ornamentation, and get to the point in the most essential details. What is not necessary is implied. Along with Chekhov, Munro has shown her ability to reflect, and understand the human condition. Focusing her stories on epiphany moments, Munro shows the extraordinary in the mundane lives of people, trapped in small backwater communities, of south eastern Ontario. These people do their best to navigate their lives. Their lives are riddled with mistakes, missed opportunities and regrets. Yet their lives are theirs alone; and for that, they are left to navigate them alone.
The stories in the collection “Dear Life,” are the stories of women. The stories of men revolve around women. This is not a slight on Alice Munro’s part. She herself empathises with the lives of girls and women, as that is the life she herself has lived. One often writes about what they know. However do not expect to find Alice Munro in the romance section of some bookstore. She’s not a sentimental author. She does not gush or idealise the world her characters inhabit. She does not write of passion. Sex and love, happens like a daily occurrence; much like peeling potatoes or chopping carrots. Romance and sex, is simply the trajectory of the lives of the characters. However Alice Munro is not interested in romance or sex as intimate communication. Munro is far more interested in human companionship. Infidelity and heartbreak happens. But they happen like breaking a dish. It’s an unfortunate occurrence, which one just quickly picks up the large pieces, before sweeping up the shards and fragments.
The stories of “Dear Life,” are pared down. Many critics have praised Alice Munro’s past work, for their long, detailed naturalist style. The work of “Dear Life,” is far more expressionist in their style. Backstories are sketched, if necessary – leaving a lot for the reader to ponder and theorize. The stories are also built with abrupt departures, reversals, and moments of poor judgement and coincidence. Like Greta whose lapse in judgement allowed her to leave her daughter sleeping alone in train carriage, while she slipped off for tryst with a stranger. The outcome makes our stomachs slightly lurch, and our minds believe that such actions have consequences. Yet despite the pared down, style of these stories; as readers, each of us gets quite comfortable with our strange and shadowy travelers. They sit next to us on the train; or the bus. These people sit on the bus stop bench with us. We walk away from them in the morning. We stand behind them at the till in the evening. They quietly read their newspaper, or their book. Perhaps they play Sudoku. They mind themselves; as we keep to ourselves. Still their ordinary; if a bit banal lives, are just as extraordinary as any other. Theirs stories of past family indiscretions. How a child born out of wedlock, was given to an aunt, or distant relative to be raised; and be ignorant and unaware of its origins. Secret youthful engagements; when we thought we could love not another; only to be turned down at the last minute. These are our secrets. They are the secrets of fellow passengers, and our own. Each of us keeps to ourselves, out of politeness and a secret desire to be invisible. In these regards, we become shadows, faceless and transparent. When our stops arrive, each of us gets up. Our eyes are downcast as each of us get off at the designated stop. Yet one amongst us – Alice Munro; see’s the secrets of our lives, and turns them into her stories. That is why Alice Munro stories are cherished and loved by so many. She writes of the mundane and the banal; but also the secrets that tie each of us together. Hidden transgressions, which we would rather, not reveal even to ourselves. This is what makes Alice Munro a finely tuned story teller. She can write about the ordinary; but make it appealing and interesting; and on the flip side; she can make the extraordinary tame; putting it in its place, amongst the cutlery, the dishes or the inherited china.
Though Munro often could be seen as reusing her material continuously – and therefore would be called a master of variations on the same theme; it does appear to work for her. Each story holds the weight of the sliver of a life we are observing. At the same time, the story, tell us of the different paths and variations the story could have gone. Just like how Greta’s husband Peter and his mother “Too Reach Japan,” escape Soviet Occupied Czechoslovakia. Though Greta cannot remember the name of the mountains that Peter was carried over, it shows the ambiguity of life itself, and how decisions birth or destroy our futures:
‘“I’ve read stories like that,” Greta said, when Peter first told her about this. She explained how in the stories the baby would start to cry and invariably had to be smothered or strangled so that the noise did not endanger the whole illegal party.”
Though Peter states he never heard such stories, and cannot believe his mother would do such an act; it goes to prove that if such stories did exist, the act itself, would have meant children like Peter would not have survived; and therefore would not go on to marry Greta. Greta then would have found another – or perhaps she would not have married at all. What would come of their daughter Katy then? It is these unanswered questions these variations, these bends and forks in the roads that Munro thrives on.
“Amundsen,” is one of my personal favourites. The title itself, made me think of some small community or village in the Netherlands. Curiously enough it also brought to mind Knut Hamsun to mind as well. Still both thoughts were completely irrelevant, and based solely on the title. However the description that Alice gives, to match this strange world, that our heroine is about to enter, shows the brutality of the weather of the countryside; as well as World War II haunting behind the story itself.
“Then there was silence, the air like ice. Brittle-looking birch trees with black marks on their white bark, and some kind of small untidy evergreens rolled up like sleepy bears. The frozen lake not level but mounded along the shore, as if the waves had turned to ice in the act of falling.”
“Leaving Maverley,” is one such story that Alice Munro has a male characters story orbit around a woman. It is a story of a police officer, who cares for his ailing wife – and becomes obsessed with a religiously obsessed young woman; who in tragic circumstances goes missing in a blizzard. This woman becomes the man’s obsession. By happenstance or extraordinary circumstances, when our police officer, now working as a janitor in a hospital he once again encounters the lost blizzard bible clutching girl. Once again Munro focuses on companionship between men and women that appear to transcend time itself. That being said, Munro is not an author who makes her punches bold and aware. The drama of these stories creeps up and slips by. Munro is a poet of the understatement, and completely, makes sure nothing appears campy or over the top. Everything comes and falls down, and settles; like snow in place.
The last four pieces of this work are perhaps the most enlightening and interesting. As Alice points out to us in the short forward:
“The final four works in this book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last—and the closest—things I have to say about my own life.”
These following reflections, at the end of this book, are revelatory but at the same time inhabit a land in fiction, not entirely truthful, and not entirely fictitious. They are reflections, from memory that through process, went through the imagination – though not explicitly so. In the one memory fragment “Dear Life,” we see the protestant moral code of conduct take center stage. Alice, our reflective narrator, informs us, of how she went to another school – after war had been declared on Germany, and the old school house, where she was tormented, and threatened with being beaten up, and her lunch stolen. There she meets Diane; someone who would have become a friend. When Alice’s mother finds out where her daughter was, she honks the horn to summon her from the house. When Diane’s grandmother waves, Alice’s does not return the gesture. It is revealed that yes Diane’s mother was dead. But she was a prostitute; a crime that most likely haunted Diane through her more aware years. Alice’s mother in turn – much like all the others; we presume, shuns this house, and the daughter. They wish to keep their own children away from something tainted – or what they think is tainted, by immoral behaviour. Yet there are other more odd and gothic descriptions within “Dear Life,” the fragment. Such as the deranged and poor mad Mrs. Netterfield; who in some form or another always haunted Alice, ever since she spooked her own mother.
The fragments are some of Alice’s most tender writing, carefully constructed, and reflected upon. Their memories, are almost poetic, and their first person narration, offer that slight empathetic feeling of one’s ability to comprehend the world in which Alice has come from, and how much has changed since then.
In the beginning of Alice’s career, her work was often feared because it was ‘rough,’ for a women writer. The language was often seen as violent for the time; and even vulgar. That perception has changed a lot. As the years rolled on, Alice came be to seen more as a writer of lives lived, but lives filled with regrets and guilt. These were the lives, much like our own, full of naturalist storytelling and acute psychological realism; all written in a simple and clear way. As the age old prudishness has died down and died away, Alice’s stories showed themselves for being gentle in their depiction of sad and hardened lives, and the resilient nature of the people that live them. In person she is proper, quiet and much like her stories understated. It is this humility and modesty – and even shyness that makes, Munro a fascinating author, as well as person. When the Nobel was announced there was a collective sigh of relief of finally, and great cheers of excitement and happiness. The award will bring her attention to newer readers, who will travel down the back gravel roads of Huron County Ontario; sit in country stations waiting for the train or tram to come – and it may never come. They will see old farmsteads falling down; barns crumbling away; after such hard work had been put into it. Empty fields and bitter snowstorms. This is the world Alice inhabits; as well as her characters. They come from genteel poverty or lower middle class at best. Their communities are stifled with protestant morality. It’s a provincial and unique world all her own; and in those same regards, Alice Munro has brought them to the attention of the world.
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
Hello Gentle Reader
The title of the new Nobel Laureate in Literature, Alice Munro’s, latest and possibly last collection, brings to mind, two thoughts: an exasperated burst of resentment of one’s own life of regret. On the other hand, the title brings to mind, a formal letter one would write to their own life – a letter that one may write, and tuck away for years, only to come back to it, later and look back on it. When Alice Munro was announced as the Nobel Laureate in Literature, there was no sarcastic “who?” or complaint, that the Swedish Academy is Eurocentric. With Alice Munro, the Swedish Academy had awarded the prize to a Canadian – the first time the accolade, was given to a Canadian writer; but also a woman. However, to say that Alice Munro achieved the accolade, solely because she was a Canadian and a woman would be patronizing. Mrs. Alice Munro won the award on her own merit. Alice’s career spans six decades; and is comprised completely of short stories. A form often looked down upon. It is often seen as the poor cousin or compatriot of the novel; which is something that more serious authors write. However Alice Munro has shown the capacity for the short story to reflect on the human condition. The only difference between the short story and novel is length. Alice’s stories share the same breadth, as the novel. The only difference is that they are paired down, and stripped of unessential ornamentation, and get to the point in the most essential details. What is not necessary is implied. Along with Chekhov, Munro has shown her ability to reflect, and understand the human condition. Focusing her stories on epiphany moments, Munro shows the extraordinary in the mundane lives of people, trapped in small backwater communities, of south eastern Ontario. These people do their best to navigate their lives. Their lives are riddled with mistakes, missed opportunities and regrets. Yet their lives are theirs alone; and for that, they are left to navigate them alone.
The stories in the collection “Dear Life,” are the stories of women. The stories of men revolve around women. This is not a slight on Alice Munro’s part. She herself empathises with the lives of girls and women, as that is the life she herself has lived. One often writes about what they know. However do not expect to find Alice Munro in the romance section of some bookstore. She’s not a sentimental author. She does not gush or idealise the world her characters inhabit. She does not write of passion. Sex and love, happens like a daily occurrence; much like peeling potatoes or chopping carrots. Romance and sex, is simply the trajectory of the lives of the characters. However Alice Munro is not interested in romance or sex as intimate communication. Munro is far more interested in human companionship. Infidelity and heartbreak happens. But they happen like breaking a dish. It’s an unfortunate occurrence, which one just quickly picks up the large pieces, before sweeping up the shards and fragments.
The stories of “Dear Life,” are pared down. Many critics have praised Alice Munro’s past work, for their long, detailed naturalist style. The work of “Dear Life,” is far more expressionist in their style. Backstories are sketched, if necessary – leaving a lot for the reader to ponder and theorize. The stories are also built with abrupt departures, reversals, and moments of poor judgement and coincidence. Like Greta whose lapse in judgement allowed her to leave her daughter sleeping alone in train carriage, while she slipped off for tryst with a stranger. The outcome makes our stomachs slightly lurch, and our minds believe that such actions have consequences. Yet despite the pared down, style of these stories; as readers, each of us gets quite comfortable with our strange and shadowy travelers. They sit next to us on the train; or the bus. These people sit on the bus stop bench with us. We walk away from them in the morning. We stand behind them at the till in the evening. They quietly read their newspaper, or their book. Perhaps they play Sudoku. They mind themselves; as we keep to ourselves. Still their ordinary; if a bit banal lives, are just as extraordinary as any other. Theirs stories of past family indiscretions. How a child born out of wedlock, was given to an aunt, or distant relative to be raised; and be ignorant and unaware of its origins. Secret youthful engagements; when we thought we could love not another; only to be turned down at the last minute. These are our secrets. They are the secrets of fellow passengers, and our own. Each of us keeps to ourselves, out of politeness and a secret desire to be invisible. In these regards, we become shadows, faceless and transparent. When our stops arrive, each of us gets up. Our eyes are downcast as each of us get off at the designated stop. Yet one amongst us – Alice Munro; see’s the secrets of our lives, and turns them into her stories. That is why Alice Munro stories are cherished and loved by so many. She writes of the mundane and the banal; but also the secrets that tie each of us together. Hidden transgressions, which we would rather, not reveal even to ourselves. This is what makes Alice Munro a finely tuned story teller. She can write about the ordinary; but make it appealing and interesting; and on the flip side; she can make the extraordinary tame; putting it in its place, amongst the cutlery, the dishes or the inherited china.
Though Munro often could be seen as reusing her material continuously – and therefore would be called a master of variations on the same theme; it does appear to work for her. Each story holds the weight of the sliver of a life we are observing. At the same time, the story, tell us of the different paths and variations the story could have gone. Just like how Greta’s husband Peter and his mother “Too Reach Japan,” escape Soviet Occupied Czechoslovakia. Though Greta cannot remember the name of the mountains that Peter was carried over, it shows the ambiguity of life itself, and how decisions birth or destroy our futures:
‘“I’ve read stories like that,” Greta said, when Peter first told her about this. She explained how in the stories the baby would start to cry and invariably had to be smothered or strangled so that the noise did not endanger the whole illegal party.”
Though Peter states he never heard such stories, and cannot believe his mother would do such an act; it goes to prove that if such stories did exist, the act itself, would have meant children like Peter would not have survived; and therefore would not go on to marry Greta. Greta then would have found another – or perhaps she would not have married at all. What would come of their daughter Katy then? It is these unanswered questions these variations, these bends and forks in the roads that Munro thrives on.
“Amundsen,” is one of my personal favourites. The title itself, made me think of some small community or village in the Netherlands. Curiously enough it also brought to mind Knut Hamsun to mind as well. Still both thoughts were completely irrelevant, and based solely on the title. However the description that Alice gives, to match this strange world, that our heroine is about to enter, shows the brutality of the weather of the countryside; as well as World War II haunting behind the story itself.
“Then there was silence, the air like ice. Brittle-looking birch trees with black marks on their white bark, and some kind of small untidy evergreens rolled up like sleepy bears. The frozen lake not level but mounded along the shore, as if the waves had turned to ice in the act of falling.”
“Leaving Maverley,” is one such story that Alice Munro has a male characters story orbit around a woman. It is a story of a police officer, who cares for his ailing wife – and becomes obsessed with a religiously obsessed young woman; who in tragic circumstances goes missing in a blizzard. This woman becomes the man’s obsession. By happenstance or extraordinary circumstances, when our police officer, now working as a janitor in a hospital he once again encounters the lost blizzard bible clutching girl. Once again Munro focuses on companionship between men and women that appear to transcend time itself. That being said, Munro is not an author who makes her punches bold and aware. The drama of these stories creeps up and slips by. Munro is a poet of the understatement, and completely, makes sure nothing appears campy or over the top. Everything comes and falls down, and settles; like snow in place.
The last four pieces of this work are perhaps the most enlightening and interesting. As Alice points out to us in the short forward:
“The final four works in this book are not quite stories. They form a separate unit, one that is autobiographical in feeling, though not, sometimes, entirely so in fact. I believe they are the first and last—and the closest—things I have to say about my own life.”
These following reflections, at the end of this book, are revelatory but at the same time inhabit a land in fiction, not entirely truthful, and not entirely fictitious. They are reflections, from memory that through process, went through the imagination – though not explicitly so. In the one memory fragment “Dear Life,” we see the protestant moral code of conduct take center stage. Alice, our reflective narrator, informs us, of how she went to another school – after war had been declared on Germany, and the old school house, where she was tormented, and threatened with being beaten up, and her lunch stolen. There she meets Diane; someone who would have become a friend. When Alice’s mother finds out where her daughter was, she honks the horn to summon her from the house. When Diane’s grandmother waves, Alice’s does not return the gesture. It is revealed that yes Diane’s mother was dead. But she was a prostitute; a crime that most likely haunted Diane through her more aware years. Alice’s mother in turn – much like all the others; we presume, shuns this house, and the daughter. They wish to keep their own children away from something tainted – or what they think is tainted, by immoral behaviour. Yet there are other more odd and gothic descriptions within “Dear Life,” the fragment. Such as the deranged and poor mad Mrs. Netterfield; who in some form or another always haunted Alice, ever since she spooked her own mother.
The fragments are some of Alice’s most tender writing, carefully constructed, and reflected upon. Their memories, are almost poetic, and their first person narration, offer that slight empathetic feeling of one’s ability to comprehend the world in which Alice has come from, and how much has changed since then.
In the beginning of Alice’s career, her work was often feared because it was ‘rough,’ for a women writer. The language was often seen as violent for the time; and even vulgar. That perception has changed a lot. As the years rolled on, Alice came be to seen more as a writer of lives lived, but lives filled with regrets and guilt. These were the lives, much like our own, full of naturalist storytelling and acute psychological realism; all written in a simple and clear way. As the age old prudishness has died down and died away, Alice’s stories showed themselves for being gentle in their depiction of sad and hardened lives, and the resilient nature of the people that live them. In person she is proper, quiet and much like her stories understated. It is this humility and modesty – and even shyness that makes, Munro a fascinating author, as well as person. When the Nobel was announced there was a collective sigh of relief of finally, and great cheers of excitement and happiness. The award will bring her attention to newer readers, who will travel down the back gravel roads of Huron County Ontario; sit in country stations waiting for the train or tram to come – and it may never come. They will see old farmsteads falling down; barns crumbling away; after such hard work had been put into it. Empty fields and bitter snowstorms. This is the world Alice inhabits; as well as her characters. They come from genteel poverty or lower middle class at best. Their communities are stifled with protestant morality. It’s a provincial and unique world all her own; and in those same regards, Alice Munro has brought them to the attention of the world.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Monday, 18 November 2013
Doris Lessing Passes Away
Hello Gentle Reader
Doris Lessing is best known for her novel “The Golden Notebook.” A novel that’s impact on the women’s liberation movement is still discussed. However Ms. Lessing herself had called the novel an albatross. As it was adopted and waved around by feminists, as an icon of what it means to be a woman. The novel itself dealt with many subjects that at the time were considered taboo. Subjects like menstrual cycles, orgasms, and other parts of the female body, that many would find unflattering or to frank to discuss. Doris Lessing however, lived an exciting life; one that can be traced in her novels. Born in Persia, her family and she eventually moved to Rhodesia (now Iran and Zimbabwe). Lessing’s childhood was marked and overshadowed by The Great War (World War I) something that Lessing herself had dealt with in her last published novel “Alfred & Emily.” Throughout her life Lessing saw histories lack of compassion. She witnessed World War II, and in her younger ideal days was a member of the communist party. Something that Lessing scoffed at in her later years. Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature in two-thousand and seven. Her reaction to the award was seen by many as classic Lessing: scathing, sarcastic and brutally honest. However Lessing was happy that she won the Nobel, though she was confused by it at the same time. She had heard in the nineteen-sixties – the years that Lessing writing career was cemented; that the Swedish Academy did not like her. When she received the prize, she was confused in the sudden change in the Academy attitude towards her. Lessing to date has been the oldest Laureate in Literature, when announced she was eighty-eight years old – she has no passed away at ninety-four years old.
Rest in Peace Doris Lessing, and may your work continue to thrive and expand with new readers. She is the last great writer of the twentieth century. One that experienced firsthand, the collapse of the empires, saw the tragedies of a second world war, and whose childhood was marked by the first. Lessing saw the rise of communism; the fall of communism; women’s freedom movement, and the civil rights movement. Throughout it all Lessing has been a chronicler of her time.
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
Doris Lessing is best known for her novel “The Golden Notebook.” A novel that’s impact on the women’s liberation movement is still discussed. However Ms. Lessing herself had called the novel an albatross. As it was adopted and waved around by feminists, as an icon of what it means to be a woman. The novel itself dealt with many subjects that at the time were considered taboo. Subjects like menstrual cycles, orgasms, and other parts of the female body, that many would find unflattering or to frank to discuss. Doris Lessing however, lived an exciting life; one that can be traced in her novels. Born in Persia, her family and she eventually moved to Rhodesia (now Iran and Zimbabwe). Lessing’s childhood was marked and overshadowed by The Great War (World War I) something that Lessing herself had dealt with in her last published novel “Alfred & Emily.” Throughout her life Lessing saw histories lack of compassion. She witnessed World War II, and in her younger ideal days was a member of the communist party. Something that Lessing scoffed at in her later years. Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature in two-thousand and seven. Her reaction to the award was seen by many as classic Lessing: scathing, sarcastic and brutally honest. However Lessing was happy that she won the Nobel, though she was confused by it at the same time. She had heard in the nineteen-sixties – the years that Lessing writing career was cemented; that the Swedish Academy did not like her. When she received the prize, she was confused in the sudden change in the Academy attitude towards her. Lessing to date has been the oldest Laureate in Literature, when announced she was eighty-eight years old – she has no passed away at ninety-four years old.
Rest in Peace Doris Lessing, and may your work continue to thrive and expand with new readers. She is the last great writer of the twentieth century. One that experienced firsthand, the collapse of the empires, saw the tragedies of a second world war, and whose childhood was marked by the first. Lessing saw the rise of communism; the fall of communism; women’s freedom movement, and the civil rights movement. Throughout it all Lessing has been a chronicler of her time.
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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