Maya Angelou Dies Aged 86

Hello Gentle Reader

Last night at work, a co-worker, was reading posts from a website called: “People of New York,” and one of them discussed Maya Angelou. The speaker, described no matter how many times they (as gender is unknown) tried to dissect and comprehend Angelou, they are always astounded by who she was and where she came from. From her harsh upbringing, to her harsh early adulthood, to her eventual social activism, memoires, and poetry; the speaker, described how Angelou was born into adversity; and set forth to make a better life for herself. Angelou was born in the Depression Era; into a segregated society. She survived a childhood rape. Went on to give birth as a teenager. She worked as a prostitute, a exotic dancer; and was one of the first African-American streetcar conductors. Angelou’s life was varied and full. From her lonely and difficult upbringing – to her eventual recitation of her poem: “On the Pulse of the Morning,” at Bill Clinton's 1993; it showed her drive for a better world, a desire for a better earth; and a compassion for all mankind. She has written seven autobiographies and several collections of poetry. Her work continuous to touch people to this day around the world. Be it “I know Why The Caged Bird Sings,” or “Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well,” Angelou had the poets and literary geniuses touch, to connect with people on multiple different wavelengths. America has lost one of their greatest National Treasures; both for her historical achievements in civil rights; but also for her literary production and output. Angelou was a humanitarian through and through; never looking at her fellow man as superior to one another; but as equal to each other, in a shared dream for a better and brighter future, that waits tomorrow, in the morning.

Rest in Peace Maya Angelou

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
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M. Mary

The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Winner

Hello Gentle Reader

The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize has announced its winner; and it’s quite a groundbreaking one. In its twenty-four year run the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, has awarded this year’s prize to an Arabic author, for the first time. Hassan Blasim, the Iraqi born writer, has won the prize for his second short story collection: “The Iraqi Christ.” What is even more exciting about this win is it is the first time a short story collection has been victorious. “The Iraqi Christ,” is part reportage, memoir, and dark fantastical collection. It showcases with brutal honesty Iraq post-sadam and post-invasion; this collection of stories, provides harrowing and honest depiction of contemporary Iraq and its society. Blasim no longer residing in Iraq because of persecution has settled down in Finland with help of a friend; after four years of illegal migration, through such countries as Turkey, Iran, Bulgaria, and Serbia.

Congratulations are in order to Hassan Blasim, for this historic win; as it is (once again) the first time an Arabic writer has won the award; but it is also a historic win for the Short Story as a writing from, proving once again that the short story is not the poor related cousin to the novel.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
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*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

Tadeusz Różewicz Passes Away

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Poland, a small Eastern European country, which has a had difficult and tumultuous past; is now a fiercely proud and independent country, has lost (again) one of its greatest practitioners of literature. Tadeusz Różewicz aged ninety-two years old, passed away on April 24th of twenty fourteen. Over a month ago; and to you, my Gentle Reader, I am sorry not to have reported this sooner. – To continue nonetheless: Różewicz is one of the greatest writers, to have written about the, twentieth century’s difficult reality in both its historical content and its effects still reverberating in the present. However one of the most recognizable, traits of Różewicz work is his deeply felt human sympathy. Różewicz is the kind of writer, who was disappointed with the ever changing world, to quick to forget, the twentieth century as nothing more than forgotten bad dream; comparing the fall of the Berlin Wall, and its cries of hope and progress, as being disillusioned and his generation just petering out to be forgotten for their tenacious survival through brutality, after inhumanity; and through all forms of indignity. Różewicz will most likely not be forgotten. His poetry and his plays are well performed, and read. He is one of the great torch bearers of both historical witness and Polish literature; along with fellow writers and poets Wisława Szymborska, Czeslaw Milosz, and Adam Zagajewski. Tadeusz Różewicz is the kind of poet and writer, who writes with profound creativity and inventive language. Poetry in his hands, escaped the grasp of political ideologies, and a stifling concept of ‘party approved literature,’ and bore witness to humanity in suffering; but its unwavering dignity to fight adversity in the face of being alone. He is one of those truly great writes, who have experienced, witnessed, and then turned it into literature, and make that empathetic connection with the reader. It is one of those great shames Różewicz never won the Nobel along with compatriots Szymborska and Milosz; but a writer of such immense talent, and understanding of mankind’s continuous struggle and success; its guilty conscious and its redemptive nature; does not need a award, to cement his name in the great tapestry of international literature.

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

M. Mary

[ I again apologise Gentle Reader, for the delay of this post, in reporting this passing earlier; but most of all I apologize to the memory of Tadeusz Różewicz; in which case my respects should have been paid sooner. ]

Seiobo There Below

Hello Gentle Reader

Countless times while reading Krasznahorkai’s newest book “Seiobo There Below,” people continually asked me: “Is that in English?” It goes to show, how small the world is – for a piece of a foreign land, by a foreign author sits in my hands, for my reading amusements; and yet it shows still how small minded our world is. For many, to experience China all they need to do is travel to Chinatown; or travel too little Italy and eat ‘authentic,’ Italian food; this is what experiencing culture beyond our own doorstep, has come down to. It is a cheap caricature. It is readily available and never too far from our own homes. The same could be said about buying sushi at the grocery store. It is proudly advertised:“made fresh daily”. It’s a quick shot or experience, in which one can dabble into the exotic, and then continue with daily life. It is to my own disappointment that many people had continually asked about the language of the book – it had originated in Hungarian; but was translated into English. Why should it have mattered if it were in any other language – then again if I were to look at the surroundings of what kind of place I do live in; the best way to describe it would be: “redneck.” These are the kinds of people who, it appears could not – or cannot; fathom a world outside their own backyard. For outside there is a world; a world where a multitude of languages are spoken. Yet these people feel that their own little patch of grass is theirs and theirs alone. What lies beyond it, is neither their concern or of any interest. But they become slightly agitated or hostile, when the greater world in some form or another impedes or enters their small backyard – their patch of grass.

László Krasznahorkai is not impudent when it comes to the wider world. He is not ignorant or frightened of what will await him. Krasznahorkai in fact has travelled wildly, as a writer. While writing his novel “War & War,” Krasznahorkai had traveled throughout Europe; and it is with the assistance of the American poet Allen Ginsberg, and his hospitality – for whom Krasznahorkai stayed with; that “War & War,” came to life. It was during the nineteen-ninety’s that the author was able to spend greater time in East Asia. At which point the author, travelled extensively throughout Japan and China. With his works “The Prisoner of Ugra,” and “Ruin and Sorrow Beneath the Heavens,” (both novels have yet to be translated), Krasznahorkai discussed his experiences, in Mongolia and China. “Seiobo There Below,” shows Krasznahorkai’s increased influences from Eastern Asia countries – specifically Japan with this work; hence Seiobo. Japanese mythology Seiobo is often referred to as “Queen Mother of the West,” and it is said that in her garden she cultivates peach trees. These tree’s only blossom every thousand years; and when the fruit of these ten century old fruits are consumed, one is granted immortality.

Throughout the novel – or collected interconnected short stories; an alien narrator often makes an appearance; who one can eventually see is Seiobo. A transcendent goddess, who has come down from the heavens, and observes, the protagonists or subjects of the stories, who appreciate the aesthetic sublime; some of which has been created; and other times is in their power or craft to create, an object or piece of creation that is beautiful. At times, though this alien narrator is not explicit, in revealing who it is. In the beginning, at times with passages, that appear dry and dull, that as a reader, it would appear that this alien narrator is none other than László Krasznahorkai himself, discussing the subject matter in which he repeatedly turns to again and again throughout the novel – the aesthetic sublime, and human kinds need to appreciate the aesthetic beauty, that is apparent to them. However it became dry and difficult to sit though, as the discussion, appeared to be more essayistic and less novelistic in its writing. It became academic, and felt directionless. However once the baring’s of the novel were understood and grasped more tightly, the novel began to take a more apparent shape.

For someone who had been called: “the contemporary Hungarian master of the apocalypse,” “Seiobo There Below,” appeared more melancholic in the beginning and softer around the edges then his other novels – especially the only other one that I have had the chance to read: “Satantango.” However over time one begins to see the old characteristics of Krasznahorkai coming back into play. Each story or chapter begins to come to come to gravitate in its own right. Each one is a self-contained world that drifts aimlessly through the abysmal void of space. They barely validate the works that have come before it or after its conception and eventual publication. They are far flung, in their geographies and times; from ancient Persia, to Kyoto, to Venice. Yet their subject matter is what keeps them in constant contact; and what sends them spinning across the void at each other, knocking into each other, pushing them out of their orbit. For their quick and intense contact is all that they have, with each other. Yet over time, one begins to sense the dread. That unbearable and uncertain existential dread that appears to well up, from the pages, in such an, intensity; that one finally feels that they have discovered that ‘classic,’ Krasznahorkai. Such as a man being chased through Venice; or another who finds himself, in an apartment building that, houses Old Russian iconographic art. There is that constant feeling, of breaking and entering. That aching suspicion that one should not be there. That inclination that they are trespassing, and that at any moment the ground from beneath our feet will shatter or creak to give away our own presence. Yet we remain. We watch as a restoration team, begins to restore a Buddha. We observe a heron, hunting, in its perfect solitary contemplation, only to quickly spear the prey. As a reader, we are introduced into the small world of a Noh mask creator – who creates a demonic shaped mask, that he realizes will eventually do harm. Throughout it all though, Krasznahorkai contemplates the artistic and the act of creation in its utmost pure sense of the word. The novel becomes a rant after a while. It is a rant on the necessary patronage of art in life. It is the light that destroys the constant humdrum of life; the bleak commute to work, in which one needs to work, in order to pay off their car, that they used to get to work, only to go home to a house they work to pay off, and which the spend little time in; only to go on vacation later, to get away from the stress of work. In this sense, Krasznahorkai praises the beauty we overlook, or that we miss in a constant in motion world.

Art – or rather the concept of art, which is discussed in “Seiobo There Below,” is that it is divinely inspired, and at the same time humanely possible. It is that part of existence that can no longer be contained. It is that part of our body and our souls, which must come forth, through some other intervention. It takes shape in some other aspect. Through painting, carving, designing, music, literature – in Krasznahorkai’s world it is the only, aspect of the human psyche and mind, that makes existence, and life itself, worth living and bearable. Without it, without the appreciation of what can be achieved – that is both necessary and unnecessary; life falls into a grey stasis; a state of stagnation. How else can, the human race, move forward, without thoughts and understandings of the possibilities the future can hold; and what better way than attempt perfecting and crafting an art of some sort?

“Seiobo There Below,” in the beginning struck me as a ‘lighter,’ novel in its tone and subject matter; more so then “Satantango.” However over time one begins to see that is not entirely true. Once one begins to understand the beauty on the surface, they begin to understand lies beneath a surface without the proper instruction in beauty and understanding and appreciating it. Each story or scene or chapter, ends with its finality – its absolute certainty that it will end. At times its much appreciated; as some of the works appear more drawn out then necessary. The structural issues of this book itself – its labyrinth maze of long winding sentences, that appear to have lost their beginning, never reached the middle, and an ending is out of the question – often leave the reader confused and searching for a understanding or a grasp of where they were before. However in Krasznahorkai defense, that is his writing style, and one should certainly expect nothing less then, when cracking open this book. At times the constant lecture and rants, that László Krasznahorkai goes on about, throughout the entire book, becomes a bit much. However, Krasznahorkai is an author of redeeming qualities. Where he becomes dry or lack lustered, one can find his, classic self, taking shape later on. Where there is an overwhelming intensity of hatred, that one character experiences, as a homeless man wandering through Barcelona – or a man fleeing, as he is pursued by another man – or a man who chides himself on being an idiot on going to see the acropolis in the blazing Mediterranean summer, that makes it impossible for him to enjoy the site. Then there comes the times when Krasznahorkai sums everything up, in a quick worded ending – it is then that one understands what the fuss was about. The author may make the road difficult, long and challenging, but there is ones fair share in the rewards. Personally I am on the edge with “Seiobo There Below.” I cannot say that I overtly enjoyed it, and not entirely upset by it either. It’s one of those books, which one mulls over, for a bit before making any decision on whether or not they liked it. For now “Seiobo There Below,” reminds me more of an art lecture, rather than a novel – yet compels me to keep it in perspective in its moments of great achievement, which is where neutrality is met. Perhaps in the long run it will need another read through at a different point in 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

[ Again congratulations are in order to László Krasznahorkai, for winning for wining twice now in a row The Best Translated Book Award. ]

Playing Catch Up

Hello Gentle Reader

Work has been a bit busy lately, as I had completely missed the Best Translated Book Award winner; almost a week ago, tomorrow. For some reason I had thought that, the Best Translated Book Award, was being awarded in May. However as I have just learned it was announced back in April; April twenty-eighth to be exact. It had been a start of a long and crazy week. Now with today off; it is time to play catch up.

For the fiction section of the Best Translated Book Award; the Hungaarian writer László Krasznahorkai wins for the second time; and in a row as well. The twenty-thirteen, fiction award, went to Krasznahorkai’s “Satantango,” and this year it goes to his novel/short story collection/cycle “Seiobo There Below.” A review of this said book should be coming in a couple of weeks.

For the poetry section, Italian poet Elisa Biagini wins for her poetry collection “The Guest in the Woods.” A poetry collection I have been aware of this poetry collection, and upon reading some of Biagini’s poems online, she appears to be a force to be reckoned with.

Congratulations to both Elisa Biagini and László Krasznahorkai for winning this year’s award, for fiction and for poetry. For Krasznahorkai this is a reaffirmation of his status as a compelling writer, of contemporary fiction; on an international stage. For Biagini, this is a great success, as this is her fist collection of poetry translated and published into English.

Now that I am done playing catch up; hopefully I can keep my eye out for other literary news, and the prizes that have yet to announce their winners.

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

Alistair MacLeod Dies 77

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

Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo,” Passes Away

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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

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 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