Hello Gentle Reader
The Canadian short story writer, and novelist, Alistair MacLeod has recently passed away at the age of seventy-seven. MacLeod is one of those quintessential Canadian authors. Though he like Jacques Poulin, and Nobel Laureate in Literature Alice Munro, often flew under the radar; or were overshadowed more well-known Canadian authors like Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje; MacLeod had found his niche in writing, and in the Canadian literary scene. Much like Huron County was to Alice Munro; so was Cape Breton to Macleod. Though MacLeod taught English and creative writing for forty years, at the University of Windsor; he had always returned to his cabin in Cape Breton every summer – which faced Prince Edward Island; and it was there that he did his writing. MacLeod often chronicled the lives of those that lived in Cape Breton; and for his only novel “No Great Mischief,” won the Impac Literary Dublin award and the Trillium Book Award.
MacLeod was born in the prairies of Canada – Saskatchewan to be exact; not as exotic as it sounds; at the age of ten MacLeod, moved with his family to Nova Scotia. It is at Dunvegan, Inverness County, Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, that a love affair of the landscape was born, and the literary love affair with the culture and the people was formed. To discuss MacLeod in his literary obsessions, and emotional attachments; one had best quote Irene Guilford:
“Alistair MacLeod's birthplace is Canadian, his emotional heartland is Cape Breton, his heritage Scottish, but his writing is of the world.”
I may not have read any of MacLeod’s books, but his writing is something, that many Canadians read, and often admit: he gets what it means to write about a place that is exemplary: ‘Canadian.’ How such a small part of a vast country reflects, the greater whole, only comes to showcase, the literary provinciality of Canadian Literature – and how it communicates with itself throughout its fragmented nature. That is what makes MacLeod a great writer, and a literary champion of this country.
Rest In Peace Alistair MacLeod.
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, 20 April 2014
Friday, 18 April 2014
Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo,” Passes Away
Hello Gentle Reader
One of the giants of the Latin American Boom; and one of the greatest practitioners of the ambiguous literary style ‘magical realism,’ has passed away, at the age of eighty-seven. Marquez is a Nobel Laureate; and most famous for his masterpiece, “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a novel that has gone on to influence a generation of writers. To this day the novel is read, and herald as a fine piece of literary craftsmanship. Marquez (affectionately referred to as Gabo) had written many novels since. Those novels include: “A Chronicle of Death Foretold,” “Love in the Time of Cholera,” as well as “The Autumn of the Patriarch.” However Marquez, was also an accomplished short story writer; find both literary modes of writing, adequate, in order to explore his literary world view. He has been referred to as the greatest, predecessor of Cervantes, according to the late Carlos Fuentes. It is obvious from numerous articles, tweets and speeches; that the literary world is in mourning for this giant of literature, however it has been stated: such giants of literature; never truly die. I suspect this will be proven as true. May Marquez rest in peace, and he will never be forgotten in the Latin American world – or the South American world either. He will be recognized as a writer, not only for his talents in conveying a story, with a style; but also for his political work: befriending Castro; as well as helping shape negations between guerilla’s and the Colombian government. With his work Marquez brought Latin America out of its solitude, and offered the world a glimpse into the identity of the world, often overlooked.
Rest in Peace Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo.”
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
One of the giants of the Latin American Boom; and one of the greatest practitioners of the ambiguous literary style ‘magical realism,’ has passed away, at the age of eighty-seven. Marquez is a Nobel Laureate; and most famous for his masterpiece, “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a novel that has gone on to influence a generation of writers. To this day the novel is read, and herald as a fine piece of literary craftsmanship. Marquez (affectionately referred to as Gabo) had written many novels since. Those novels include: “A Chronicle of Death Foretold,” “Love in the Time of Cholera,” as well as “The Autumn of the Patriarch.” However Marquez, was also an accomplished short story writer; find both literary modes of writing, adequate, in order to explore his literary world view. He has been referred to as the greatest, predecessor of Cervantes, according to the late Carlos Fuentes. It is obvious from numerous articles, tweets and speeches; that the literary world is in mourning for this giant of literature, however it has been stated: such giants of literature; never truly die. I suspect this will be proven as true. May Marquez rest in peace, and he will never be forgotten in the Latin American world – or the South American world either. He will be recognized as a writer, not only for his talents in conveying a story, with a style; but also for his political work: befriending Castro; as well as helping shape negations between guerilla’s and the Colombian government. With his work Marquez brought Latin America out of its solitude, and offered the world a glimpse into the identity of the world, often overlooked.
Rest in Peace Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo.”
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The Impac Literary Dublin Award Shortlist
Hello Gentle Reader
It has been a rather hectic week; and I have not been able to stay on top of the literary news of the world. Because I knew when the Best Translated Book Award Shortlist would be announced, I was able to remember. However I completely missed the most lucrative literary prize for a single piece of fiction: The Impac Literary Dublin Awards shortlist.
A common person with the shortlists right now is one name; the Norwegian autobiographical-fiction writer: Karl Ove Knausgaard. Other writers include, Gerbrand Bakker, going for another win, after his debut novel “The Twin,” had won; as well as two debut novelists Donal Ryan and Patrick Flanery.
The shortlist reads as follows:
Gerbrand Bakker: “The Detour,” also published as: “Ten White Geese,”
Tan Twan Eng: “The Garden of the Evening Mists,”
Donal Ryan: “The Spinning Heart,”
Juan Gabriel Vásquez: “The Sound of Things Falling,”
Marie NDiaye: “The Strong Women,”
David Park: “The Light of Amsterdam,”
Patrick Flanery: “Absolution,”
Michelle de Kretser: “Questions of Travel,”
Andrés Neuman: “Traveller of the Century,”
As, it has always been stated prior to all authors on other shortlists: good luck. Though must wonder, will Knausgaard find himself with a three of a kind, picking up:
The Best Translated Book Award
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize
[and]
The Impac Literary Dublin 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
It has been a rather hectic week; and I have not been able to stay on top of the literary news of the world. Because I knew when the Best Translated Book Award Shortlist would be announced, I was able to remember. However I completely missed the most lucrative literary prize for a single piece of fiction: The Impac Literary Dublin Awards shortlist.
A common person with the shortlists right now is one name; the Norwegian autobiographical-fiction writer: Karl Ove Knausgaard. Other writers include, Gerbrand Bakker, going for another win, after his debut novel “The Twin,” had won; as well as two debut novelists Donal Ryan and Patrick Flanery.
The shortlist reads as follows:
Gerbrand Bakker: “The Detour,” also published as: “Ten White Geese,”
Tan Twan Eng: “The Garden of the Evening Mists,”
Donal Ryan: “The Spinning Heart,”
Juan Gabriel Vásquez: “The Sound of Things Falling,”
Marie NDiaye: “The Strong Women,”
David Park: “The Light of Amsterdam,”
Patrick Flanery: “Absolution,”
Michelle de Kretser: “Questions of Travel,”
Andrés Neuman: “Traveller of the Century,”
As, it has always been stated prior to all authors on other shortlists: good luck. Though must wonder, will Knausgaard find himself with a three of a kind, picking up:
The Best Translated Book Award
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize
[and]
The Impac Literary Dublin 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
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Best Translated Book Award Finalists
Hello Gentle Reader
The Best Translated Book Award, has released its finalists, for both fiction and for poetry. The fiction finalists have omitted, both Nobel Laureates: Elfriede Jelinek, and her hybrid work of fiction or dramatic work: “Her Not All Her.” I presume on the grounds that it is, difficult to define, and its avant-garde style may alienate readers. As jury members, need to consider they needs to consider the works on its literary and artistic integrity; but also on its ability to resonate and create some empathetic bond with the reader. Mo Yan with his novel “Sandalwood Death,” has also been omitted. Here are the lists finalists:
“Horses of God,” by Mahi Binebine
”Blinding,” by Mircea Cărtărescu
“The Story of a New Name,” by Elena Ferrante
“Tizra,” by Arnon Grunberg
“Seiobo There Below,” by László Krasznahorkai
“A True Novel,” by Minae Mizumura
“The African Shore,” by Rodrigo Rey Rosa
“Leg Over Leg Vol 1,” by Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq
“The Forbidden Kingdom,” by Jan Jacob Slauerhoff (J. Slauerhoff)
“My Struggle Book Two,” by Karl Ove Knausgaard
Now the poetry contenders. I may not being a adamant reader of poetry, I do however, recognize some of the poetry collections listed below:
“The Guest In The Wood,” by Elsa Biagini
“Relocations: 3 Contemporary Russian Women Poets,” by Polina Barskova, Anna Glazova, and Maria Stepanova
“The Unknown University,” by Roberto Bolano
“White Piano,” by Nicole Brossard
“Murder,” by Danielle Collobert
“In the Moremarrow,” by Oliverio Girondo
“Paul Klee’s Boat,” by Anzhelina Polonskaya
“Four Elemental Bodies,” by Claude Royet-Journaud
“The Oasis of Now,” by Sohrab Sepehri
“His Days Go By the Way Her Years,” by Ye Mim
The poetry collections I do recognize are: “The Guest In The Wood,” by Elsa Biagini; ““Four Elemental Bodies,” by Claude Royet-Journaud; as well as “The Oasis of Now,” by Claude Royet-Journaud. I had heard of “The Unknown University,” by Roberto Bolano. Every time one of Bolano’s back catalogue books are released, there seems to be a stir in the wind; and a ripple in the water.
What will it be Gentle Reader? Will László Krasznahorkai go for a second consecutive win? Perhaps, it will be the Norwegian Proust: Knausgaard; whose confessional books; have become a literary firestorm; as he plays with fire in his books, of personal struggles and achievements. Really it is anyone’s guess Gentle Reader. It truly is.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The Best Translated Book Award, has released its finalists, for both fiction and for poetry. The fiction finalists have omitted, both Nobel Laureates: Elfriede Jelinek, and her hybrid work of fiction or dramatic work: “Her Not All Her.” I presume on the grounds that it is, difficult to define, and its avant-garde style may alienate readers. As jury members, need to consider they needs to consider the works on its literary and artistic integrity; but also on its ability to resonate and create some empathetic bond with the reader. Mo Yan with his novel “Sandalwood Death,” has also been omitted. Here are the lists finalists:
“Horses of God,” by Mahi Binebine
”Blinding,” by Mircea Cărtărescu
“The Story of a New Name,” by Elena Ferrante
“Tizra,” by Arnon Grunberg
“Seiobo There Below,” by László Krasznahorkai
“A True Novel,” by Minae Mizumura
“The African Shore,” by Rodrigo Rey Rosa
“Leg Over Leg Vol 1,” by Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq
“The Forbidden Kingdom,” by Jan Jacob Slauerhoff (J. Slauerhoff)
“My Struggle Book Two,” by Karl Ove Knausgaard
Now the poetry contenders. I may not being a adamant reader of poetry, I do however, recognize some of the poetry collections listed below:
“The Guest In The Wood,” by Elsa Biagini
“Relocations: 3 Contemporary Russian Women Poets,” by Polina Barskova, Anna Glazova, and Maria Stepanova
“The Unknown University,” by Roberto Bolano
“White Piano,” by Nicole Brossard
“Murder,” by Danielle Collobert
“In the Moremarrow,” by Oliverio Girondo
“Paul Klee’s Boat,” by Anzhelina Polonskaya
“Four Elemental Bodies,” by Claude Royet-Journaud
“The Oasis of Now,” by Sohrab Sepehri
“His Days Go By the Way Her Years,” by Ye Mim
The poetry collections I do recognize are: “The Guest In The Wood,” by Elsa Biagini; ““Four Elemental Bodies,” by Claude Royet-Journaud; as well as “The Oasis of Now,” by Claude Royet-Journaud. I had heard of “The Unknown University,” by Roberto Bolano. Every time one of Bolano’s back catalogue books are released, there seems to be a stir in the wind; and a ripple in the water.
What will it be Gentle Reader? Will László Krasznahorkai go for a second consecutive win? Perhaps, it will be the Norwegian Proust: Knausgaard; whose confessional books; have become a literary firestorm; as he plays with fire in his books, of personal struggles and achievements. Really it is anyone’s guess Gentle Reader. It truly is.
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, 8 April 2014
The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize: Shortlist
Hello Gentle Reader
Karl Ove Knausgaard is a name one will recognizes a lot when discussing translated novels, and other works of written works. He is the contemporary Proust in some regards. His literary saga – confessing everything of a tumultuous life; of highs and lows, has gripped the literary scene not only in his native Norway, but also through the rest of the world. Knausgaard has become something of a literary pop celebrity. Now he finds himself on the shortlist for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, alongside other authors ranging from Europe to Iraq to Japan.
The shortlisted reads as follows:
Karl Ove Knausgaard “A Man in Love,”
Hassan Blasim “The Iraqi Christ,”
Yoko Ogawa “Revenge,”
Birgit Vanderbeke “The Mussel Feast,”
Hubert Mingarelli “A Mean in Winter,”
Hiromi Kawakam “Strange Weather in Tokyo.”
Good luck to all the authors, on the shortlist. The Best Translated Book Award, will be announced come this Friday, and will include the poetry finalists as well. My hope is that we will see “Her Not All Her,” by Elfriede Jelinek on the shortlist as well as “The African Shore,” by Rodrigo Rey Rosa and “The End of Love,” Marcos Giralt. I hope that László Krasznahorkai makes the shortlist as well; but I do not think the book warrants it to win again. As much as “Seiobo There Below,” had its moments of glint and true beauty, it also became monotonous in its reading as well. I hope that Mo Yan’s “Sandalwood Death,” also is omitted all together. Of course that’s just personal held beliefs. In the end the shortlist for both awards, should be interesting and the winner, will hopefully be well deserved, after debates and deliberations.
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
Karl Ove Knausgaard is a name one will recognizes a lot when discussing translated novels, and other works of written works. He is the contemporary Proust in some regards. His literary saga – confessing everything of a tumultuous life; of highs and lows, has gripped the literary scene not only in his native Norway, but also through the rest of the world. Knausgaard has become something of a literary pop celebrity. Now he finds himself on the shortlist for the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, alongside other authors ranging from Europe to Iraq to Japan.
The shortlisted reads as follows:
Karl Ove Knausgaard “A Man in Love,”
Hassan Blasim “The Iraqi Christ,”
Yoko Ogawa “Revenge,”
Birgit Vanderbeke “The Mussel Feast,”
Hubert Mingarelli “A Mean in Winter,”
Hiromi Kawakam “Strange Weather in Tokyo.”
Good luck to all the authors, on the shortlist. The Best Translated Book Award, will be announced come this Friday, and will include the poetry finalists as well. My hope is that we will see “Her Not All Her,” by Elfriede Jelinek on the shortlist as well as “The African Shore,” by Rodrigo Rey Rosa and “The End of Love,” Marcos Giralt. I hope that László Krasznahorkai makes the shortlist as well; but I do not think the book warrants it to win again. As much as “Seiobo There Below,” had its moments of glint and true beauty, it also became monotonous in its reading as well. I hope that Mo Yan’s “Sandalwood Death,” also is omitted all together. Of course that’s just personal held beliefs. In the end the shortlist for both awards, should be interesting and the winner, will hopefully be well deserved, after debates and deliberations.
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, 3 April 2014
Border State
Hello Gentle Reader
Confessions, they are a act of trust. It’s divulgence. It is something we dare not do even with ourselves. We cannot admit our failings our shortcomings, our crimes to our own reflections. However in the end each of us finds someone in who we can deposit our crimes with. Someone who will place them in a box, or a case. That very person will then take them away. We dream of them burying that box in the backyard. Though each of us know that is unlikely. We suspect that these boxes are placed in attics. In the hollowed skulls of homes. There they age and yellow; amongst family photographs and unpolished silverware. When they are rediscovered the contents have all but dissolved to ash. Such is the Estonian authors Tõnu Õnnepalu’s novel, “Border State.” A book of confessions and observations.
Tõnu Õnnepalu has one of the greatest, distinctions as a writer. His novel “Border State,” is a small and short, but poetically intense narrative; and is one (if not the most) translated title from Estonia. Upon its original publication “Border State,” garnered the author, international recognition, and received the Baltic Assembly Prize for Literature in nineteen-ninety four. In two thousand six Tõnu Õnnepalu was voted the best author of Estonia, since the restoration of the Estonian Republic.
“Border State,” is interesting that it was not originally published under Tõnu Õnnepalu’s own name. It was written under the pseudonym Emil Tode. This is not Õnnepalu only, other name. He has also written under the name: Anton Nigov. It is only recently with his novels “Paradise,” in two-thousand and nine that he has started to publish under his own name. Õnnepalu first came to attention in the Estonia literary scene with his poetry, in nineteen-eighty five. After three collections of poems, he wrote “Border State,” his debut work in prose. One can clearly see Õnnepalu poetic flare for language and unique sing song desire in verbosity. This is what makes the novel so interesting. The intensity of its scope is microcosm, and introspective search for what is fleeting.
“You’re nobody special, no one in particular. That’s the only reason I dare turn to you.”
So would begin Tõnu Õnnepalu’s novel in a sense. In a series of one sided letters, by an unnamed Baltic man, to his acquaintance, who we only know by the name of Angelo. In these letters we, learn of our unnamed narrators uncertain past; from a place that appears to be not only countries away, but metaphorically centuries away, lost in an era of stagnant seconds and minced minutes, in forgotten hours, in a neglected country. This very place our narrator despises, and yet does not deny that it is his home. The small apartment where the windows remained shut, by order of his grandmother. This homeland, forgotten and without a name in this novel – though one could presume Estonia; at times comes off in a fairy-tale like fashion. A place that is so forgotten and bizarre that its existence is brought into question.
“When a person senses death nearing, he gathers his last strength and drags himself into the woods to lie down on the hardened roots of spruce trees, where even lichen doesn’t grow. Pounced needles cover the ground and keep the iciness of winter alive through the summer. Decomposing slowly, they exude a bitter cold smell of death. It’s said that out here human souls turn into tiny birds called tomthumbs. They are always chirping away, faintly, in the spruce trees. But no one has seen them. What happens to the physical remains is never mentioned. Does it matter? Animals probably drag them away.”
As details become clearer about our unreliable narrator, we learn that he is living in Paris, but is well aware of his outsider status. This narrator translates works of French literature into his own native language. Something that Õnnepalu has done. From there our narrator takes on an introspective journey through museums, café’s, streets, and rooms – to offer his own commentary on the world around him. A world surrounded in excess. A world that shines with light and glass. But glass can never be perfectly cleaned. Our cynical narrator observes early on:
“All Eastern Europe has become a prostitute. From governments and university professors on, to the last paper boy, they are all ready to listen to wonderful speeches about democracy, equality, whatever you please, whatever the customer wishes! As long as he pays.”
The term ‘border state,’ perfectly describes the situation of the narrator. That peculiar person lost into a wider world; and who in the process lost his own home.The narrator is a homosexual man, and leads too many thoughts on such discussions as loneliness, for it seems gay men are to be forever alone. Other discussions are the homoeroticism of the relationships, the power of the relationships, as well as their exploitive nature. Yet from this small shred and shard of our narrators identity; it brings to mind questions and thoughts on what identity is, and how it is conceived. The homeland of our narrator is discussed in the briefest of passages, in the quickest passing glances. Õnnepalu reveals by ways of a mysterious priest, the thoughts of nations and our inability to escape them.
“Nations are born and destroyed, and there are many world, and you pass through them all, for is no escape anywhere.”
What is revealed about this old and lost country is that, it was under communism. That the young narrator; read a magazine of communist propaganda out loud, to his domineering grandmother. As the narrator explains to Angelo, he was expected to believe what was written – and his grandmother had him read it out loud so she could pretend to believe what was written, in order to avoid another stint in Siberia. This is as political as the work gets in regards to its reference to the purges or Stalin or to former communist states of Eastern Europe. However, our narrator has a lot to say and contemplate in regards to the new world that has been opened up to him, and which he explores; no longer with delight, but with tedium. Our narrator is a self-interested creature. Easily bored, and quickly amused, only to be bored once again – he finds ways to amuse himself. From a flirtatious exploit, to daydreaming, to even these letters, that one questions whether or not they are sent to the designated receiver; who may or may not exist. In the end these letters form a dairy. A mismatched, diary of fantasy and reality. Of existential boredom, and philistine commentary. This narrator remarks on daydreams. He recounts journeys of no importance, and reveals his own emotional crippled condition. This emotional strain is what awaits all Eastern Europeans, who eagerly go out to taste the fruits denied to them. This escape from a Soviet paradise, in turn becomes plagued by nostalgia, and yet a bitter desire not to return.
The novel in its initial publication asked a lot of existential questions in regards to the former Soviet bloc states. The novel asks questions that many at the time of the political upheaval, asked themselves. One of the most important questions of the time was that of identity. Who was one from the former communist east, and their own place in the world; but also how the wider world saw you.
“When they hear you’re from Eastern Europe they look on you with pity and speak with hollow words, as if you were a dead relative.”
Õnnepalu’s novel is a collage of fictional letters that may never have been sent. They pave a narrative that is abstract, and formless. Yet all the same, this novel is appears to be written by a poetic madman, or a prose genius. It’s lyrical and strange. The novel does not move with action or with a traditional narrative plot. It moves with language, ideas and imagery. This in many ways is why it is thankful that the novel clocks into just one hundred pages; and why it is successful. Õnnepalu knew the limitations to his narrator. No one would tolerate a self-centered aimless, wanderer of a narrator for six hundred pages. Nor would the general reader, tolerate the languages – however beautiful; for six hundred pages either. Õnnepalu was wise enough to ensure that he was able to call it quits with this book without making it feel rushed. The book is full of questions, lush imagery, beautiful lyricism, and acute observations of a political climate, that was changing, and a world that was moving to a newer world; whose future seemed bright; like a retail display case – with its finger print smeared glass. Sill what is challenging about “Border State,” is that it defies conventional descriptions. It’s not an epistolary novel. It’s not a monologue. It’s not a fragmented prose poem either. It’s a novel that works, based on its own ideas. It’s lyrical and profound. But there is no plot in which to speak of. It borders fantasy and reality. It borders madness and genius. In a sense the entire novel is one mans, testimony. The story that the testimony involves may or may not be true. Angelo may never receive the confession or the observations. It’s a beautiful testament of one man striving to realize his own existence, despite himself being invisible, because he exists in two worlds – neither being full heartedly in one or the other; and in the process becoming lost in the space between.
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
Confessions, they are a act of trust. It’s divulgence. It is something we dare not do even with ourselves. We cannot admit our failings our shortcomings, our crimes to our own reflections. However in the end each of us finds someone in who we can deposit our crimes with. Someone who will place them in a box, or a case. That very person will then take them away. We dream of them burying that box in the backyard. Though each of us know that is unlikely. We suspect that these boxes are placed in attics. In the hollowed skulls of homes. There they age and yellow; amongst family photographs and unpolished silverware. When they are rediscovered the contents have all but dissolved to ash. Such is the Estonian authors Tõnu Õnnepalu’s novel, “Border State.” A book of confessions and observations.
Tõnu Õnnepalu has one of the greatest, distinctions as a writer. His novel “Border State,” is a small and short, but poetically intense narrative; and is one (if not the most) translated title from Estonia. Upon its original publication “Border State,” garnered the author, international recognition, and received the Baltic Assembly Prize for Literature in nineteen-ninety four. In two thousand six Tõnu Õnnepalu was voted the best author of Estonia, since the restoration of the Estonian Republic.
“Border State,” is interesting that it was not originally published under Tõnu Õnnepalu’s own name. It was written under the pseudonym Emil Tode. This is not Õnnepalu only, other name. He has also written under the name: Anton Nigov. It is only recently with his novels “Paradise,” in two-thousand and nine that he has started to publish under his own name. Õnnepalu first came to attention in the Estonia literary scene with his poetry, in nineteen-eighty five. After three collections of poems, he wrote “Border State,” his debut work in prose. One can clearly see Õnnepalu poetic flare for language and unique sing song desire in verbosity. This is what makes the novel so interesting. The intensity of its scope is microcosm, and introspective search for what is fleeting.
“You’re nobody special, no one in particular. That’s the only reason I dare turn to you.”
So would begin Tõnu Õnnepalu’s novel in a sense. In a series of one sided letters, by an unnamed Baltic man, to his acquaintance, who we only know by the name of Angelo. In these letters we, learn of our unnamed narrators uncertain past; from a place that appears to be not only countries away, but metaphorically centuries away, lost in an era of stagnant seconds and minced minutes, in forgotten hours, in a neglected country. This very place our narrator despises, and yet does not deny that it is his home. The small apartment where the windows remained shut, by order of his grandmother. This homeland, forgotten and without a name in this novel – though one could presume Estonia; at times comes off in a fairy-tale like fashion. A place that is so forgotten and bizarre that its existence is brought into question.
“When a person senses death nearing, he gathers his last strength and drags himself into the woods to lie down on the hardened roots of spruce trees, where even lichen doesn’t grow. Pounced needles cover the ground and keep the iciness of winter alive through the summer. Decomposing slowly, they exude a bitter cold smell of death. It’s said that out here human souls turn into tiny birds called tomthumbs. They are always chirping away, faintly, in the spruce trees. But no one has seen them. What happens to the physical remains is never mentioned. Does it matter? Animals probably drag them away.”
As details become clearer about our unreliable narrator, we learn that he is living in Paris, but is well aware of his outsider status. This narrator translates works of French literature into his own native language. Something that Õnnepalu has done. From there our narrator takes on an introspective journey through museums, café’s, streets, and rooms – to offer his own commentary on the world around him. A world surrounded in excess. A world that shines with light and glass. But glass can never be perfectly cleaned. Our cynical narrator observes early on:
“All Eastern Europe has become a prostitute. From governments and university professors on, to the last paper boy, they are all ready to listen to wonderful speeches about democracy, equality, whatever you please, whatever the customer wishes! As long as he pays.”
The term ‘border state,’ perfectly describes the situation of the narrator. That peculiar person lost into a wider world; and who in the process lost his own home.The narrator is a homosexual man, and leads too many thoughts on such discussions as loneliness, for it seems gay men are to be forever alone. Other discussions are the homoeroticism of the relationships, the power of the relationships, as well as their exploitive nature. Yet from this small shred and shard of our narrators identity; it brings to mind questions and thoughts on what identity is, and how it is conceived. The homeland of our narrator is discussed in the briefest of passages, in the quickest passing glances. Õnnepalu reveals by ways of a mysterious priest, the thoughts of nations and our inability to escape them.
“Nations are born and destroyed, and there are many world, and you pass through them all, for is no escape anywhere.”
What is revealed about this old and lost country is that, it was under communism. That the young narrator; read a magazine of communist propaganda out loud, to his domineering grandmother. As the narrator explains to Angelo, he was expected to believe what was written – and his grandmother had him read it out loud so she could pretend to believe what was written, in order to avoid another stint in Siberia. This is as political as the work gets in regards to its reference to the purges or Stalin or to former communist states of Eastern Europe. However, our narrator has a lot to say and contemplate in regards to the new world that has been opened up to him, and which he explores; no longer with delight, but with tedium. Our narrator is a self-interested creature. Easily bored, and quickly amused, only to be bored once again – he finds ways to amuse himself. From a flirtatious exploit, to daydreaming, to even these letters, that one questions whether or not they are sent to the designated receiver; who may or may not exist. In the end these letters form a dairy. A mismatched, diary of fantasy and reality. Of existential boredom, and philistine commentary. This narrator remarks on daydreams. He recounts journeys of no importance, and reveals his own emotional crippled condition. This emotional strain is what awaits all Eastern Europeans, who eagerly go out to taste the fruits denied to them. This escape from a Soviet paradise, in turn becomes plagued by nostalgia, and yet a bitter desire not to return.
The novel in its initial publication asked a lot of existential questions in regards to the former Soviet bloc states. The novel asks questions that many at the time of the political upheaval, asked themselves. One of the most important questions of the time was that of identity. Who was one from the former communist east, and their own place in the world; but also how the wider world saw you.
“When they hear you’re from Eastern Europe they look on you with pity and speak with hollow words, as if you were a dead relative.”
Õnnepalu’s novel is a collage of fictional letters that may never have been sent. They pave a narrative that is abstract, and formless. Yet all the same, this novel is appears to be written by a poetic madman, or a prose genius. It’s lyrical and strange. The novel does not move with action or with a traditional narrative plot. It moves with language, ideas and imagery. This in many ways is why it is thankful that the novel clocks into just one hundred pages; and why it is successful. Õnnepalu knew the limitations to his narrator. No one would tolerate a self-centered aimless, wanderer of a narrator for six hundred pages. Nor would the general reader, tolerate the languages – however beautiful; for six hundred pages either. Õnnepalu was wise enough to ensure that he was able to call it quits with this book without making it feel rushed. The book is full of questions, lush imagery, beautiful lyricism, and acute observations of a political climate, that was changing, and a world that was moving to a newer world; whose future seemed bright; like a retail display case – with its finger print smeared glass. Sill what is challenging about “Border State,” is that it defies conventional descriptions. It’s not an epistolary novel. It’s not a monologue. It’s not a fragmented prose poem either. It’s a novel that works, based on its own ideas. It’s lyrical and profound. But there is no plot in which to speak of. It borders fantasy and reality. It borders madness and genius. In a sense the entire novel is one mans, testimony. The story that the testimony involves may or may not be true. Angelo may never receive the confession or the observations. It’s a beautiful testament of one man striving to realize his own existence, despite himself being invisible, because he exists in two worlds – neither being full heartedly in one or the other; and in the process becoming lost in the space between.
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, 27 March 2014
Wonderful, Wonderful Times
Hello Gentle Reader
Elfriede Jelinek’s work is categorized in three different areas, generally seen by themes and areas of obsession. There is the political and socially aware commentary work, the feminist inferno – or a women’s place in society; and then Austria’s inability (or decision not to) digest and deal with their Fascist past, and their neo-fascist present. “Wonderful, Wonderful Times,” follows in the later obsession. It deals with Austria’s Nazi past; a past neither denied nor talked about openly. For Jelinek this is another day at the office. Provocation is her trade. Words and writing are her tools. Jelinek does more than push the envelope; she throws it in the readers face. Critics are divided on her work. Is it extraordinarily bold and avant-garde (?) or: Is it pornography and violence shoveled into an incomprehensible mess, which survives not by literary merit but by shock value (?). There is no middle ground with Jelinek. However as a reader you are certainly going to be pushed from one side to the other, throughout the reading experience. At times one will be amazed at the use of language – and can’t help but feel that the poor translator does not have a chance at truly translating the work, verbatim – because something must certainly be lost. That being said, any translator with the gall to do take on such a project, with the knowledge that they will not be able to offer the entire picture of the artistic creation and ingenuity, is certainly worth admiration. On the other hand, as a reader, one will be shocked and disgusted at the world that Jelinek has come to observe. Jelinek is not an easy writer to get along with as a reader. Her characters are the most degraded creatures; products of a society that demand perfection; results of their gender; they are the outcomes of over demanding parents; and the harvested sewage, of a household that is affected by social standing or lack therefore. Welcome to Jelinek’s world. It’s a world where the trash is hidden in the dumpster; but someone forgot to shut the lid. Here Jelinek dives, and pulls out every piece of dirty laundered, bit of one’s past. Like a magpie with a silver spoon; Jelinek hordes this treasure, and welds it into a book – in which one is forced to confront society that we live in.
In “Wonderful, Wonderful Times,” Jelinek presents a reality, where the soulless putrefying history of war crimes and guilt has been shoveled and swept under the carpet. It’s the photographs and old war medals tucked away in a box or a chest in the attic. In this post-war Austria, that Jelinek presents she shows the soulless and despicable actions of the past, taint the present; warping the dreams of the future. Those dreams in this case happen to be: Rainer, Anna, Sophie and Hans. These characters are nothing more than vessels, that inhabit a world deprived of any sense of mortality; and in such do not have a concept of morality. They live in a cosmic void. As such they have been contaminated, by the past and their ever growing despicable future that appears to await them. They enjoy their time by participating in anti-social behavior; and justify it, each in their own way. Rainer with his poetry and philosophical Nihilism, Anna who only feels hatred and disgust, Sophie a product of money and its apathy, and Hans a desire for more, which leads to an insatiable greed. These protagonists are filled with every bit of refuse the world could offer; and have thrived in it. They’ve devoured their philosophy their poetry, fed off their hatred, aimlessly enjoying the indifference of their fellow human beings, while maintain a gluttonous desire for more.
The novel switches from perspective, and the inner workings of each character. Each one is carefully measured, and precisely shown their deficiencies in morality. There is no redeemable quality. The novel opens with, the quartet, enjoying the pleasure of causing human being harm. They do it without a second thought. They revel in this action. They enjoy the succulent pleasure of having control – the control to cause another person physical harm, without restraint, and to do so because it is perceived wrong. The way Jelinek describes this gruesome event is both poetic, and lucid; a lucidity and intense enjoyment in language that will ring out through the rest of the novel:
“One night at the end of the fifties an assault is committed in the Vienna municipal park. The following persons all grab hold of one solitary man out walking: Rainer Maria Witkowski and his twin sister Anna Witkowski, Sophie Pachhofen (formerly von Pachhofen), and Hans Sepp. Rainer Maria Witkowski was named after Rainer Maria Rilke. All of them are about eighteen, Hans Sepp is a year or so older than the others, though he too is without a trace of maturity. Of the two girls, Anna is the more ferocious, which can be seen in the fact that she pays most attention to the face of the subject. Particular courage is required if you are to scratch a man’s face while he is looking full in your own (though he cannot see much since it is dark) or indeed try to scratch his eyes out. For the eyes are the mirror of the soul and ought to remain unscathed if at all possible. Otherwise people will suppose the soul is done for.”
Once again, as in previous times, Jelinek shows that music – especially classical music, is a place of violence; as Anna, a musically gifted young woman, sees herself, as above her contemporaries at school. They listen to their pop music, and are considered inferior to Anna. Yet like Erika from “The Piano Teacher,” Anna is the most violent of the group – and Jelinek a musical prodigy herself, who was to be the tool of her own mothers, construct to rise above their own class standing, via her musical talents; shows that music is both deprived and full of meaning; but also has a venomous (at best ambivalent) relationship towards it.
Rainer considers himself the leader of this small band of morally compromised youths. With his philosophy and literature, he deems himself the most intelligent and enlightened one of the group. Going so far as to lecture his sister Anna, on the act and art of violence itself:
“Anna does not know that you cannot buy inner worth. The unfortunate drawback with inner worth is that it is hidden away where no one can see it. Anna wants things that are visible on the outside too, but she won’t admit as much. People should not be beaten up for reasons of hatred but for no reason at all, it should be an end in itself, admonishes her brother Rainer. All that counts is beating them up, whether I hate them or not (Anna). You haven’t understood a single thing, Rainer tells her in a superior tone.”
Rainer is a genius in a sense. However he is tainted. Tainted by his father, tainted by which his intellectual pursuits and curiosity grow. As Jelinek once again points out immediately:
“From time to time a genius will flourish in their midst. The soil that nourishes this genius will frequently be filth, and madness will mark the bounds. The genius will want to escape the filth at all costs, but will not always succeed in eluding the madness.”
Rainer does his best to escape. However he cannot deny who he is, or where his upbringing is taking place. However his geocentricism is always apparent. Literature meets Rainer’s demands. Everything meets in some way or another Rainer’s demands. He lives in the realm of art and philosophy. Everything is subject to his will. Anna and Rainer’s father is an ex-SS officer; a man who sadistically enjoyed his time in the war – and is nostalgic for it. Now a crippled, his appetites are, now fulfilled by enforcing his authoritarian role onto his wife and children. He constantly makes his presence known throughout the house; by beating his children and wife – to forcing his poor meek wife, to participate in pornographic photography. Of course dear old Otto, considers himself an artist. Much like Anna considers herself a classical musician and Rainer a enlightened intellectual, and poet who writes nihilistic morbid poetry, or love poetry to his muse Sophie.
Sophie is indifferent and apathetic. She cannot be troubled by the problems of the suffering of others in the world, or the harm she inflicts on others. A Jelinek points out:
“In her own imagination, Sophie is also made of glass, or sparkling china, or best of all high grade steel.”
Sophie is rich. This alone makes allows her to detach from the on goings of others. She is at the attention of both Hans and Rainer. Hans has ambition; ambition to leave his mothers socialist understandings in the past, with his father a victim of history and the war. Hans has no interest in the past’s repercussions on the presents; but rather looks to the future, as a gleaming ambitious prospect. Hans himself wishes to be as rich as Sophie; and Sophie has no understanding of either what it means to be rich or poor; but rather just too aimless exist like a high grade steel figurine – untouched by the world around her, and its greasy paws. This can clearly be seen in the way that Jelinek describes Sophie’s relationships to acts of violence:
“Sophie has to be properly motivated if she’s to commit a crime, or several crimes, because she herself does not believe she needs to make the effort. Nor is it nice to stay up at night perpetrating deeds that shun the light. It takes willpower, since you could just as well be in bed reading a suspenseful thriller.”
Jelinek does well at bringing the interior lives of these characters, to the forefront of this novel. It’s graceful and lucid. However it’s unpleasant, but also grimly funny. The language is poetic, and at times downright vulgar and colloquial. There is plenty to mull over and plenty to shudder at. It’s a book that will one cringe, and contemplate. It is most certainly not for the faint of heart. Jelinek is a socially and politically aware writer; and “Wonderful, Wonderful Times,” showcases this. It’s a thrilling reading, but not an easy one by far. As horrible as the characters are they are riveting in their own morbidly disturbing moral deficient way.
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
Elfriede Jelinek’s work is categorized in three different areas, generally seen by themes and areas of obsession. There is the political and socially aware commentary work, the feminist inferno – or a women’s place in society; and then Austria’s inability (or decision not to) digest and deal with their Fascist past, and their neo-fascist present. “Wonderful, Wonderful Times,” follows in the later obsession. It deals with Austria’s Nazi past; a past neither denied nor talked about openly. For Jelinek this is another day at the office. Provocation is her trade. Words and writing are her tools. Jelinek does more than push the envelope; she throws it in the readers face. Critics are divided on her work. Is it extraordinarily bold and avant-garde (?) or: Is it pornography and violence shoveled into an incomprehensible mess, which survives not by literary merit but by shock value (?). There is no middle ground with Jelinek. However as a reader you are certainly going to be pushed from one side to the other, throughout the reading experience. At times one will be amazed at the use of language – and can’t help but feel that the poor translator does not have a chance at truly translating the work, verbatim – because something must certainly be lost. That being said, any translator with the gall to do take on such a project, with the knowledge that they will not be able to offer the entire picture of the artistic creation and ingenuity, is certainly worth admiration. On the other hand, as a reader, one will be shocked and disgusted at the world that Jelinek has come to observe. Jelinek is not an easy writer to get along with as a reader. Her characters are the most degraded creatures; products of a society that demand perfection; results of their gender; they are the outcomes of over demanding parents; and the harvested sewage, of a household that is affected by social standing or lack therefore. Welcome to Jelinek’s world. It’s a world where the trash is hidden in the dumpster; but someone forgot to shut the lid. Here Jelinek dives, and pulls out every piece of dirty laundered, bit of one’s past. Like a magpie with a silver spoon; Jelinek hordes this treasure, and welds it into a book – in which one is forced to confront society that we live in.
In “Wonderful, Wonderful Times,” Jelinek presents a reality, where the soulless putrefying history of war crimes and guilt has been shoveled and swept under the carpet. It’s the photographs and old war medals tucked away in a box or a chest in the attic. In this post-war Austria, that Jelinek presents she shows the soulless and despicable actions of the past, taint the present; warping the dreams of the future. Those dreams in this case happen to be: Rainer, Anna, Sophie and Hans. These characters are nothing more than vessels, that inhabit a world deprived of any sense of mortality; and in such do not have a concept of morality. They live in a cosmic void. As such they have been contaminated, by the past and their ever growing despicable future that appears to await them. They enjoy their time by participating in anti-social behavior; and justify it, each in their own way. Rainer with his poetry and philosophical Nihilism, Anna who only feels hatred and disgust, Sophie a product of money and its apathy, and Hans a desire for more, which leads to an insatiable greed. These protagonists are filled with every bit of refuse the world could offer; and have thrived in it. They’ve devoured their philosophy their poetry, fed off their hatred, aimlessly enjoying the indifference of their fellow human beings, while maintain a gluttonous desire for more.
The novel switches from perspective, and the inner workings of each character. Each one is carefully measured, and precisely shown their deficiencies in morality. There is no redeemable quality. The novel opens with, the quartet, enjoying the pleasure of causing human being harm. They do it without a second thought. They revel in this action. They enjoy the succulent pleasure of having control – the control to cause another person physical harm, without restraint, and to do so because it is perceived wrong. The way Jelinek describes this gruesome event is both poetic, and lucid; a lucidity and intense enjoyment in language that will ring out through the rest of the novel:
“One night at the end of the fifties an assault is committed in the Vienna municipal park. The following persons all grab hold of one solitary man out walking: Rainer Maria Witkowski and his twin sister Anna Witkowski, Sophie Pachhofen (formerly von Pachhofen), and Hans Sepp. Rainer Maria Witkowski was named after Rainer Maria Rilke. All of them are about eighteen, Hans Sepp is a year or so older than the others, though he too is without a trace of maturity. Of the two girls, Anna is the more ferocious, which can be seen in the fact that she pays most attention to the face of the subject. Particular courage is required if you are to scratch a man’s face while he is looking full in your own (though he cannot see much since it is dark) or indeed try to scratch his eyes out. For the eyes are the mirror of the soul and ought to remain unscathed if at all possible. Otherwise people will suppose the soul is done for.”
Once again, as in previous times, Jelinek shows that music – especially classical music, is a place of violence; as Anna, a musically gifted young woman, sees herself, as above her contemporaries at school. They listen to their pop music, and are considered inferior to Anna. Yet like Erika from “The Piano Teacher,” Anna is the most violent of the group – and Jelinek a musical prodigy herself, who was to be the tool of her own mothers, construct to rise above their own class standing, via her musical talents; shows that music is both deprived and full of meaning; but also has a venomous (at best ambivalent) relationship towards it.
Rainer considers himself the leader of this small band of morally compromised youths. With his philosophy and literature, he deems himself the most intelligent and enlightened one of the group. Going so far as to lecture his sister Anna, on the act and art of violence itself:
“Anna does not know that you cannot buy inner worth. The unfortunate drawback with inner worth is that it is hidden away where no one can see it. Anna wants things that are visible on the outside too, but she won’t admit as much. People should not be beaten up for reasons of hatred but for no reason at all, it should be an end in itself, admonishes her brother Rainer. All that counts is beating them up, whether I hate them or not (Anna). You haven’t understood a single thing, Rainer tells her in a superior tone.”
Rainer is a genius in a sense. However he is tainted. Tainted by his father, tainted by which his intellectual pursuits and curiosity grow. As Jelinek once again points out immediately:
“From time to time a genius will flourish in their midst. The soil that nourishes this genius will frequently be filth, and madness will mark the bounds. The genius will want to escape the filth at all costs, but will not always succeed in eluding the madness.”
Rainer does his best to escape. However he cannot deny who he is, or where his upbringing is taking place. However his geocentricism is always apparent. Literature meets Rainer’s demands. Everything meets in some way or another Rainer’s demands. He lives in the realm of art and philosophy. Everything is subject to his will. Anna and Rainer’s father is an ex-SS officer; a man who sadistically enjoyed his time in the war – and is nostalgic for it. Now a crippled, his appetites are, now fulfilled by enforcing his authoritarian role onto his wife and children. He constantly makes his presence known throughout the house; by beating his children and wife – to forcing his poor meek wife, to participate in pornographic photography. Of course dear old Otto, considers himself an artist. Much like Anna considers herself a classical musician and Rainer a enlightened intellectual, and poet who writes nihilistic morbid poetry, or love poetry to his muse Sophie.
Sophie is indifferent and apathetic. She cannot be troubled by the problems of the suffering of others in the world, or the harm she inflicts on others. A Jelinek points out:
“In her own imagination, Sophie is also made of glass, or sparkling china, or best of all high grade steel.”
Sophie is rich. This alone makes allows her to detach from the on goings of others. She is at the attention of both Hans and Rainer. Hans has ambition; ambition to leave his mothers socialist understandings in the past, with his father a victim of history and the war. Hans has no interest in the past’s repercussions on the presents; but rather looks to the future, as a gleaming ambitious prospect. Hans himself wishes to be as rich as Sophie; and Sophie has no understanding of either what it means to be rich or poor; but rather just too aimless exist like a high grade steel figurine – untouched by the world around her, and its greasy paws. This can clearly be seen in the way that Jelinek describes Sophie’s relationships to acts of violence:
“Sophie has to be properly motivated if she’s to commit a crime, or several crimes, because she herself does not believe she needs to make the effort. Nor is it nice to stay up at night perpetrating deeds that shun the light. It takes willpower, since you could just as well be in bed reading a suspenseful thriller.”
Jelinek does well at bringing the interior lives of these characters, to the forefront of this novel. It’s graceful and lucid. However it’s unpleasant, but also grimly funny. The language is poetic, and at times downright vulgar and colloquial. There is plenty to mull over and plenty to shudder at. It’s a book that will one cringe, and contemplate. It is most certainly not for the faint of heart. Jelinek is a socially and politically aware writer; and “Wonderful, Wonderful Times,” showcases this. It’s a thrilling reading, but not an easy one by far. As horrible as the characters are they are riveting in their own morbidly disturbing moral deficient way.
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, 20 March 2014
The Conspiracy against the Human Race
Hello Gentle Reader
The other day at the grocery, I came across an old friend. As we got to talking, we both admitted to each other, that in regards, to life, we were both surviving. Which is when, in a sarcastic quip that, I had mentioned that it: “beats the alternative.” In Thomas Ligotti’s non-fiction piece of work “The Conspiracy against the Human Race,” Ligotti states that this is just one of many, mantras that people use to hypnotize themselves, in order to fool themselves that life really is alright to live. It should be noted immediately, that like his short stories, Thomas Ligotti’s non-fiction debut, is incredibly pessimistic. What is horrifying with this book is that rather than fiction, in which Ligotti writes about the unknown that causes the dread and the fear; with this book, Ligotti has turned his gaze towards reality. The very reality that sits just outside our front doors. In typical Ligotti fashion, the author pulls back the curtains of daily life, and reveals the existential malaises that have plagued the human mind for centuries.
Thomas Ligotti is considered one of the best kept secrets of genre literature. Ligotti is a horror writer; a genre that is primarily overlooked – and rightfully so, because it often falls into the contrite desire for shock value. Ligotti is also not well known because of his chosen medium to write; short stories. Ligotti’s stories are best judged as “ghost stories.” They never relieve the reader, of their pessimistic grasp. They continually suffocate the reader slowly and slowly; bringing one right down into the abhorrent world, in which Ligotti’s characters inhabit. It’s a bleak world. A world with no visible horizon; grey low skies, and a flat landscape that goes on and on; with no real beginning and no possible outlook for an ending. However what one can look forward to in Ligotti’s world, is wonderful prose, that is well thought out, and well written; as well as an ability to be both entertaining in its own twisted way; but also being philosophical and thought provoking all the same.
One of the interesting aspects of Ligotti’s known influences on his writing is that he goes beyond the usual suspects. Ligotti has named H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe as his influences. However Ligotti has named some rather unsuspecting authors as well as influences on his writing. They would be The Romanian personal pessimistic philosopher Emil Cioran, and the Austrian playwright and novelist Thomas Bernhard. This is what attracted me immediately to Ligotti. He was a different kind of horror writer. He wrote short stories, in order to successfully say: “boo.” However he went around in such a thought provoking manner that, the quality of the writing itself, out does the story. In a genre were bondage clad demons, and exaggerated psychopaths, run rapid; with a thorough description of every gristly detail of how the most unpleasant means of torture are committed. Ligotti is a breath of fresh air. Horror in a sense became (and becomes) a sad joke in on itself. A cartoon satire of itself, juiced up with the steroids necessary to push the extreme over the edge, and make people wonder. The plots and stories become more and more unbelievable. Authors make vampires sexy; werewolves cursed beings, demons as dominatrix’s; witches as tragic martyrs. Before long these concepts lose their originality all together; becoming stereotypes then jokes. However there is hope. Ligotti is that grim hope. Ligotti walks away from the superficial elements of horror: Ophelia ghosts, werewolves, demons, and vampires; instead he focuses on the abstract horrors. These are the horrors that have plagued the human mind for centuries. Since evolution had bestowed upon, the human race of consciousness, there has been a shadow in the far corners of our overdeveloped brain, which continues to cast doubt on our existence. This is the realm in which Ligotti writes about. The shadow that trails each of us every day; and in which every day we come up with a new method of denying its existence:
“Today has been a good day [or a bad day], so tomorrow can only be better,”
“One day down [x amount] to go until the weekend,”
“It’s better than the alternative,”
These mantra’s we recite like a chorus, in a cult psalm. Continually we fend off the aching suspicion of our existential meaninglessness with thoughts, that life is okay – or alright; when in Ligotti’s words and the words of the literary predecessors from Lovecraft to Cioran; and the philosophical thinkers from Schopenhauer to Zapffe; life is not alright. Human existence is a divine joke, and a cosmic mistake.
“The Conspiracy against the Human Race,” is not a pleasant read. It’s harrowing in some regards. It is the rant of an anhedoniac. One can only suspect that if one were to ask Ligotti, his philosophical beliefs; or his personal understanding of the world, his response would be: that he considers himself a realist; but philosophically is understood as pessimist; and in a psychiatric approach is understood as depressive. In other words, Mister Ligotti does not fare well at parties.
In his non-fiction debut, Ligotti performs a literary autopsy on the human conditions inability to understand their awareness of their meaningless existence brought on by being a self-aware and conscious animate creature; but also natures illusion that such a concept of freedom, actually exists. Ligotti showcases human beings as a walking sideshow circus act. All that is missing is that we dismiss this as not true; but as Ligotti points out we are “freaks of chance,” and have simply become puppets who willingly ignore, our strings that are played by fate and nature – and happily close our eyes, to our understanding of the final curtain call. Like a child who has peeked into their Christmas presents to early; we are aware of what awaits us; and in this case, we would rather not know what awaits us. For death is at the end of a long hallway. Every day we inch closer to death and his shadow. In Thomas Ligotti’s words: “EVERYTHING IN EXISTENCE IS MALIGNANTLY USELESS!”
Yet at the same time as Cioran put it:
“It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.”
In these regards there is no free will. It does not matter if we live or if we die. The world keeps on spinning; the sun rises and sets; people go on their daily commute to work; after work, they may hit the gym or go home and make supper. They busy themselves. They fend off the shadow in the back of their head, that something is wrong. This only denies the inevitable and delays ones eventual understanding. This is why people are forever picking up the next craze; that next great big self-help book. That desire that need to affirm to themselves, that they are alright with living. That is why people have slowly become champions of the so called “small victories,” of life. These are the people who find a piece of left over cake at the office, or get a good parking space at the mall – the hold on to these events and tell themselves that they make life okay. These people in Ligotti’s dissertation are fooling themselves. They avoid the fundamental truth. Life is not alright. In fact as a species we are an evolutionary fluke; and in a direct way of speaking: a conscious fuck up. In these regards the masses the general populous must flock to something, some attraction to some new age guru, to some mystical messiah or a book – or anything that denies these inconvenient understandings. From glass showcase of glittering shit, to the next glittering display of some bright new attraction; anything that keeps us occupied from the truth in the back of our minds. Why else would we run to some meeting room, to be screamed at, to think more positively, by some mystical teacher who suffers from some optimistic psychotic breakdown? Why else would we force ourselves to sit down on some metal fold out chair, and scream that we understand? Perhaps that is why some don’t do so well at parties.
Thomas Ligotti’s non-fiction debut is something not for the faint hearted. This is a classic pessimist at work; not the kind of pessimist who says: “I am going to go on vacation and get hit by a hurricane.” This is the pessimist who looks at the fundamental question that people have been asking themselves, since they had the ability annunciate and pronounce words and actually understand each other: what is life worth? Ligotti won’t be the last to see the fundamental error in our conception and creation; and certainly won’t be the last to point out one of the most horrifying facts: we are not individuals. We are simply biological machines that are drive by physical and chemical process. In short we are more concerned with reproduction and survival. These are hardwired instincts, into our minds. The concept of individuality as we like to believe do not exist; and is the greatest blow to our perceived idea of what it means to be human – it is the only aspect of our grandiose persona that separates us from cats and dogs. In the end it’s a book that will give any reader a lot to think about and gives you plenty to digest. Don’t expect to be told how to life your life, or what small victories to count. You might as well toss those conceived ideas out the window.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
The other day at the grocery, I came across an old friend. As we got to talking, we both admitted to each other, that in regards, to life, we were both surviving. Which is when, in a sarcastic quip that, I had mentioned that it: “beats the alternative.” In Thomas Ligotti’s non-fiction piece of work “The Conspiracy against the Human Race,” Ligotti states that this is just one of many, mantras that people use to hypnotize themselves, in order to fool themselves that life really is alright to live. It should be noted immediately, that like his short stories, Thomas Ligotti’s non-fiction debut, is incredibly pessimistic. What is horrifying with this book is that rather than fiction, in which Ligotti writes about the unknown that causes the dread and the fear; with this book, Ligotti has turned his gaze towards reality. The very reality that sits just outside our front doors. In typical Ligotti fashion, the author pulls back the curtains of daily life, and reveals the existential malaises that have plagued the human mind for centuries.
Thomas Ligotti is considered one of the best kept secrets of genre literature. Ligotti is a horror writer; a genre that is primarily overlooked – and rightfully so, because it often falls into the contrite desire for shock value. Ligotti is also not well known because of his chosen medium to write; short stories. Ligotti’s stories are best judged as “ghost stories.” They never relieve the reader, of their pessimistic grasp. They continually suffocate the reader slowly and slowly; bringing one right down into the abhorrent world, in which Ligotti’s characters inhabit. It’s a bleak world. A world with no visible horizon; grey low skies, and a flat landscape that goes on and on; with no real beginning and no possible outlook for an ending. However what one can look forward to in Ligotti’s world, is wonderful prose, that is well thought out, and well written; as well as an ability to be both entertaining in its own twisted way; but also being philosophical and thought provoking all the same.
One of the interesting aspects of Ligotti’s known influences on his writing is that he goes beyond the usual suspects. Ligotti has named H.P. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe as his influences. However Ligotti has named some rather unsuspecting authors as well as influences on his writing. They would be The Romanian personal pessimistic philosopher Emil Cioran, and the Austrian playwright and novelist Thomas Bernhard. This is what attracted me immediately to Ligotti. He was a different kind of horror writer. He wrote short stories, in order to successfully say: “boo.” However he went around in such a thought provoking manner that, the quality of the writing itself, out does the story. In a genre were bondage clad demons, and exaggerated psychopaths, run rapid; with a thorough description of every gristly detail of how the most unpleasant means of torture are committed. Ligotti is a breath of fresh air. Horror in a sense became (and becomes) a sad joke in on itself. A cartoon satire of itself, juiced up with the steroids necessary to push the extreme over the edge, and make people wonder. The plots and stories become more and more unbelievable. Authors make vampires sexy; werewolves cursed beings, demons as dominatrix’s; witches as tragic martyrs. Before long these concepts lose their originality all together; becoming stereotypes then jokes. However there is hope. Ligotti is that grim hope. Ligotti walks away from the superficial elements of horror: Ophelia ghosts, werewolves, demons, and vampires; instead he focuses on the abstract horrors. These are the horrors that have plagued the human mind for centuries. Since evolution had bestowed upon, the human race of consciousness, there has been a shadow in the far corners of our overdeveloped brain, which continues to cast doubt on our existence. This is the realm in which Ligotti writes about. The shadow that trails each of us every day; and in which every day we come up with a new method of denying its existence:
“Today has been a good day [or a bad day], so tomorrow can only be better,”
“One day down [x amount] to go until the weekend,”
“It’s better than the alternative,”
These mantra’s we recite like a chorus, in a cult psalm. Continually we fend off the aching suspicion of our existential meaninglessness with thoughts, that life is okay – or alright; when in Ligotti’s words and the words of the literary predecessors from Lovecraft to Cioran; and the philosophical thinkers from Schopenhauer to Zapffe; life is not alright. Human existence is a divine joke, and a cosmic mistake.
“The Conspiracy against the Human Race,” is not a pleasant read. It’s harrowing in some regards. It is the rant of an anhedoniac. One can only suspect that if one were to ask Ligotti, his philosophical beliefs; or his personal understanding of the world, his response would be: that he considers himself a realist; but philosophically is understood as pessimist; and in a psychiatric approach is understood as depressive. In other words, Mister Ligotti does not fare well at parties.
In his non-fiction debut, Ligotti performs a literary autopsy on the human conditions inability to understand their awareness of their meaningless existence brought on by being a self-aware and conscious animate creature; but also natures illusion that such a concept of freedom, actually exists. Ligotti showcases human beings as a walking sideshow circus act. All that is missing is that we dismiss this as not true; but as Ligotti points out we are “freaks of chance,” and have simply become puppets who willingly ignore, our strings that are played by fate and nature – and happily close our eyes, to our understanding of the final curtain call. Like a child who has peeked into their Christmas presents to early; we are aware of what awaits us; and in this case, we would rather not know what awaits us. For death is at the end of a long hallway. Every day we inch closer to death and his shadow. In Thomas Ligotti’s words: “EVERYTHING IN EXISTENCE IS MALIGNANTLY USELESS!”
Yet at the same time as Cioran put it:
“It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.”
In these regards there is no free will. It does not matter if we live or if we die. The world keeps on spinning; the sun rises and sets; people go on their daily commute to work; after work, they may hit the gym or go home and make supper. They busy themselves. They fend off the shadow in the back of their head, that something is wrong. This only denies the inevitable and delays ones eventual understanding. This is why people are forever picking up the next craze; that next great big self-help book. That desire that need to affirm to themselves, that they are alright with living. That is why people have slowly become champions of the so called “small victories,” of life. These are the people who find a piece of left over cake at the office, or get a good parking space at the mall – the hold on to these events and tell themselves that they make life okay. These people in Ligotti’s dissertation are fooling themselves. They avoid the fundamental truth. Life is not alright. In fact as a species we are an evolutionary fluke; and in a direct way of speaking: a conscious fuck up. In these regards the masses the general populous must flock to something, some attraction to some new age guru, to some mystical messiah or a book – or anything that denies these inconvenient understandings. From glass showcase of glittering shit, to the next glittering display of some bright new attraction; anything that keeps us occupied from the truth in the back of our minds. Why else would we run to some meeting room, to be screamed at, to think more positively, by some mystical teacher who suffers from some optimistic psychotic breakdown? Why else would we force ourselves to sit down on some metal fold out chair, and scream that we understand? Perhaps that is why some don’t do so well at parties.
Thomas Ligotti’s non-fiction debut is something not for the faint hearted. This is a classic pessimist at work; not the kind of pessimist who says: “I am going to go on vacation and get hit by a hurricane.” This is the pessimist who looks at the fundamental question that people have been asking themselves, since they had the ability annunciate and pronounce words and actually understand each other: what is life worth? Ligotti won’t be the last to see the fundamental error in our conception and creation; and certainly won’t be the last to point out one of the most horrifying facts: we are not individuals. We are simply biological machines that are drive by physical and chemical process. In short we are more concerned with reproduction and survival. These are hardwired instincts, into our minds. The concept of individuality as we like to believe do not exist; and is the greatest blow to our perceived idea of what it means to be human – it is the only aspect of our grandiose persona that separates us from cats and dogs. In the end it’s a book that will give any reader a lot to think about and gives you plenty to digest. Don’t expect to be told how to life your life, or what small victories to count. You might as well toss those conceived ideas out the window.
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, 13 March 2014
The Best Translated Book Award & The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize
Hello Gentle Reader
With the announcement of The Best Translated Book Award & The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, there’s a look into translated works, that may have slipped under ones radar. There are only so many results that can be produced from, browsing publisher pages, reading blogs and stalking forums. This is where awards, have their purposes. It allows for one to see some of the books that may have just passed unnoticed, and have been taken into consideration by others.
After reviewing the Longlist for the Best Translated Book Award, I can see that I only got two guesses right for those that would make it on the Longlist. Those two being last year’s winner László Krasznahorka, from Hungary and Romanian author, Mircea Cărtărescu. In all it’s a good longlist. My only disappointment is seeing Mo Yan on the list. But That’s a long complicated story, and one in which I have no time or appreciation for the author; and have abstained from ever reading any of the authors books, on some high horse principle.
Here are the Longlisted authors and their works for the Best Translated Book Award, in no particular order.
“Her Not All Her,” Elfriede Jelinek (Austria)
“My Struggle: Book Tow,” Karl Ove Knausgaard (Norway)
“Sleet,” Stig Dagerman (Sweden)
“Blinding,” Mircea Cărtărescu (Romania)
“Horses of God,” Mahi Binebine (Morocco)
“Autobiography of a Corpse,” Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky (Ukrainian/Russian)
“The Infatuations,” Javiar Marías (Spain)
“The Whispering Muse,” Sjon (Iceland)
“The Forbidden Kingdom,” Jan Jacob Slauerhoff (Netherlands)
“The Devils Worship,” Jáchym Topol (Czech Republic)
“Red Grass,” Boris Vian (French)
“City of Angels, or, The Overcoat of Dr. Freud,” Christa Wolf (German)
“The African Shore,” Rodrigo Rey Rosa
“Through the Night,” Stig Sæterbakken (Norway)
“Leg over Leg Vol 1,” Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq (Lebanon)
“Commentary,” Marcelle Sauvageot (France)
“A True Novel,” Minae Mizumura (Japan)
“In the Night of Time,” Antonio Muñoz Molina (Spain)
“The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra,” Pedro Mairal (Argentina)
“Seiobo There Below,” László Krasznahorkai (Hungary)
“The Story of a New Name,” Elena Ferrante (Italy)
“Tirza,” Arnon Grunberg (Netherlands)
“Textile,” Orly Castel-Bloom (Israel)
“The End of Love,” Marcos Giralt Torrente (Spain)
“Sandalwood Death,” by Mo Yan (China)
The following is the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize for this year:
“The Iraqi Christ,” Hassan Blasim (Iraq)
“Revenge,” Yoko Ogawa (Japan)
“Ten,” Andrej Longo (Italy)
“My Struggle: Book Tow,” Karl Ove Knausgaard (Norway)
• Listed as: “A Man in Love,”
“Brief Loves that Live Forever,” Andreï Makine (France)
“The Mussel Feast,” Birgit Vanderbeke (Germany)
“Butterflies in November,” Audur Ava Ólafsdóttir (Iceland)
“The Sorrows of Angels,” Jón Kalman Stefánsson (Iceland)
“The Infatuations,” Javiar Marías (Spain)
“The Corpse Washer,” Sinan Antoon (Iraq)
“Exposure,” Sayed Kashua (Israel)
“A Meal in Winter,” Hubert Mingarelli (France)
“Back to Back,” Julia Franck (Germany)
“Strange Weather in Tokyo,” Hiromi Kawakami (Japan)
“The Dark Road,” Ma Jian
Both prizes appear to have picked out a good number of books. With some expectations. After reviewing the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, the one book that struck me as a bit airy and willy nilly, was “Strange Weather in Tokyo,” in its Murakami-esque in its off put romance. In all though both lists are compiled interestingly enough; and there is not a lot of overlap, so it allows for different talents and authors to showcase their own works, and their talents.
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
With the announcement of The Best Translated Book Award & The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, there’s a look into translated works, that may have slipped under ones radar. There are only so many results that can be produced from, browsing publisher pages, reading blogs and stalking forums. This is where awards, have their purposes. It allows for one to see some of the books that may have just passed unnoticed, and have been taken into consideration by others.
After reviewing the Longlist for the Best Translated Book Award, I can see that I only got two guesses right for those that would make it on the Longlist. Those two being last year’s winner László Krasznahorka, from Hungary and Romanian author, Mircea Cărtărescu. In all it’s a good longlist. My only disappointment is seeing Mo Yan on the list. But That’s a long complicated story, and one in which I have no time or appreciation for the author; and have abstained from ever reading any of the authors books, on some high horse principle.
Here are the Longlisted authors and their works for the Best Translated Book Award, in no particular order.
“Her Not All Her,” Elfriede Jelinek (Austria)
“My Struggle: Book Tow,” Karl Ove Knausgaard (Norway)
“Sleet,” Stig Dagerman (Sweden)
“Blinding,” Mircea Cărtărescu (Romania)
“Horses of God,” Mahi Binebine (Morocco)
“Autobiography of a Corpse,” Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky (Ukrainian/Russian)
“The Infatuations,” Javiar Marías (Spain)
“The Whispering Muse,” Sjon (Iceland)
“The Forbidden Kingdom,” Jan Jacob Slauerhoff (Netherlands)
“The Devils Worship,” Jáchym Topol (Czech Republic)
“Red Grass,” Boris Vian (French)
“City of Angels, or, The Overcoat of Dr. Freud,” Christa Wolf (German)
“The African Shore,” Rodrigo Rey Rosa
“Through the Night,” Stig Sæterbakken (Norway)
“Leg over Leg Vol 1,” Ahmad Faris al-Shidyaq (Lebanon)
“Commentary,” Marcelle Sauvageot (France)
“A True Novel,” Minae Mizumura (Japan)
“In the Night of Time,” Antonio Muñoz Molina (Spain)
“The Missing Year of Juan Salvatierra,” Pedro Mairal (Argentina)
“Seiobo There Below,” László Krasznahorkai (Hungary)
“The Story of a New Name,” Elena Ferrante (Italy)
“Tirza,” Arnon Grunberg (Netherlands)
“Textile,” Orly Castel-Bloom (Israel)
“The End of Love,” Marcos Giralt Torrente (Spain)
“Sandalwood Death,” by Mo Yan (China)
The following is the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize for this year:
“The Iraqi Christ,” Hassan Blasim (Iraq)
“Revenge,” Yoko Ogawa (Japan)
“Ten,” Andrej Longo (Italy)
“My Struggle: Book Tow,” Karl Ove Knausgaard (Norway)
• Listed as: “A Man in Love,”
“Brief Loves that Live Forever,” Andreï Makine (France)
“The Mussel Feast,” Birgit Vanderbeke (Germany)
“Butterflies in November,” Audur Ava Ólafsdóttir (Iceland)
“The Sorrows of Angels,” Jón Kalman Stefánsson (Iceland)
“The Infatuations,” Javiar Marías (Spain)
“The Corpse Washer,” Sinan Antoon (Iraq)
“Exposure,” Sayed Kashua (Israel)
“A Meal in Winter,” Hubert Mingarelli (France)
“Back to Back,” Julia Franck (Germany)
“Strange Weather in Tokyo,” Hiromi Kawakami (Japan)
“The Dark Road,” Ma Jian
Both prizes appear to have picked out a good number of books. With some expectations. After reviewing the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, the one book that struck me as a bit airy and willy nilly, was “Strange Weather in Tokyo,” in its Murakami-esque in its off put romance. In all though both lists are compiled interestingly enough; and there is not a lot of overlap, so it allows for different talents and authors to showcase their own works, and their talents.
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, 7 March 2014
Best Translated Book Award -- Countries represented and Statistics
Hello Gentle Reader
I have immense respect for the “Best Translated Book Award.” It is a prize that represents the unrepresented in English language countries – the translated book; and awards the authors and their translators for a book well done. The blog associated with the “Best Translated Book Award,” and “Open Letter Books,”: “Three Percent Review,” has released, statistical data, in regards, to the languages, and countries that have been represented up until this point – as the Longlist will be announced shortly. The list of the data, is compelling, and offers an interesting perspective of what languages are translated the most.
France is at the top of the list with a total of 54 nominations. Following France is Germany with a total of 40 books nominated. After which comes Italy with 27. Followed by Sweden with a total of 24. Spain follows closely with 23. Russia comes behind with a total of 19.
These notations are large, and grand in their literary traditions. This explains their high percentages of nominations; and their capabilities of doing so.
It is sad to see some nations with lower percentages:
Greece with 2
Latvia: 1
Lithuania: 2
Romania: 3 (Mircea Cărtărescu a possibility)
Slovenia: 1
Portugal: 2
Poland: 6
South Africa: 1 (“The Expedition to the Baobab Tree,” by Wilma Stockenstrom)
Croatia: 1
Czech Republic: 3
Netherlands: 7 (Gerbrand Bakker)
Finland: 4
Switzerland: 6
Albania: 1
Bulgaria: 3
India: 1
Hungary: 3 (Laszlo Krasznahorakai anyone?)
It is however interesting to see some nations with higher percentages. South Korea for example has 12 nominated. Turkey 11. Argentina 13 (Cesar Aira a major possibility).
Then it is interesting to see some nations that one would not expect. Congo has one – and its better to be represented then not. Togo 1. Mozambique 1 (though Mia Couto is a high contender). Saudia Arabia with 2. Lebanon has 4. Indonesia has 4. Azerbaijan: 1 (I’d like to know what book that is). Haiti has 1. Oman with 1. Belarus with 1.This why the “Best Translated Book Award,” is fascinating; it is because it is a global exchange of literature. A broadening if you will; of the world though representation via literature. Though its disappointing to see such small numbers with some countries, there is continual hope, that the trend shows significant positive gain. I cannot wait personally for the Longlist to be announced.
To review the entire list of countries, represented and their percentages of books:
http://www.rochester.edu/College/translation/threepercent/index.php?id=9832
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 have immense respect for the “Best Translated Book Award.” It is a prize that represents the unrepresented in English language countries – the translated book; and awards the authors and their translators for a book well done. The blog associated with the “Best Translated Book Award,” and “Open Letter Books,”: “Three Percent Review,” has released, statistical data, in regards, to the languages, and countries that have been represented up until this point – as the Longlist will be announced shortly. The list of the data, is compelling, and offers an interesting perspective of what languages are translated the most.
France is at the top of the list with a total of 54 nominations. Following France is Germany with a total of 40 books nominated. After which comes Italy with 27. Followed by Sweden with a total of 24. Spain follows closely with 23. Russia comes behind with a total of 19.
These notations are large, and grand in their literary traditions. This explains their high percentages of nominations; and their capabilities of doing so.
It is sad to see some nations with lower percentages:
Greece with 2
Latvia: 1
Lithuania: 2
Romania: 3 (Mircea Cărtărescu a possibility)
Slovenia: 1
Portugal: 2
Poland: 6
South Africa: 1 (“The Expedition to the Baobab Tree,” by Wilma Stockenstrom)
Croatia: 1
Czech Republic: 3
Netherlands: 7 (Gerbrand Bakker)
Finland: 4
Switzerland: 6
Albania: 1
Bulgaria: 3
India: 1
Hungary: 3 (Laszlo Krasznahorakai anyone?)
It is however interesting to see some nations with higher percentages. South Korea for example has 12 nominated. Turkey 11. Argentina 13 (Cesar Aira a major possibility).
Then it is interesting to see some nations that one would not expect. Congo has one – and its better to be represented then not. Togo 1. Mozambique 1 (though Mia Couto is a high contender). Saudia Arabia with 2. Lebanon has 4. Indonesia has 4. Azerbaijan: 1 (I’d like to know what book that is). Haiti has 1. Oman with 1. Belarus with 1.This why the “Best Translated Book Award,” is fascinating; it is because it is a global exchange of literature. A broadening if you will; of the world though representation via literature. Though its disappointing to see such small numbers with some countries, there is continual hope, that the trend shows significant positive gain. I cannot wait personally for the Longlist to be announced.
To review the entire list of countries, represented and their percentages of books:
http://www.rochester.edu/College/translation/threepercent/index.php?id=9832
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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