Hello Gentle Reader
Once again the Christmas season has ended. Once again, the tradition of playing monopoly was commenced; and as prescience had been set, I was not elected banker by: electoral democratic process; nor did I purchase my own coveted “Marvin Gardens.” To add to this tradition: I once again lost. I lost without being the banker – and no robberies were staged; and I had lost without my own vision of a future estate like home in a place with ‘Gardens,’ in its name. Still as Christmas’s go, it was a good Christmas, and one of the celebratory ways to enjoy being with family; and to set the stage for the oncoming New Year.
In all: twenty fourteen was a good year. Though I certainly enjoy this winter a lot more then, the one prior. Those polar vortexes’s nearly killed me! Yet in all, once winters rage had subsided and the quick thaw of spring lead into summer, the world had become renewed once again, and once again sun and light spilled over the lands – rather than snow and silence. However as the months changed, and turned to August, summer showed its own caprice, with numerous hailstorms that actively destroyed and terrified. However August cannot last forever; and it eventually turned to autumn, and summer once again retreated like a visitor who waves goodbye and promises to comeback. Autumn stayed for only so long as always – always too short, and lives always with an abrupt air; and on came winter. Which to thanks to our lucky stars, has so far been mild and gentle.
As for Literature, two-thousand and fourteen was an interesting year. Once again we lost some writers, of notable mention. Maya Angelou both Mark Strand, both American poets, passed away. Menis Koumandareas a Greek writer had been murdered; and so far from my knowledge, nothing has been noted any further on the information of the writer’s murderer. The world also lost two Nobel Laureates: the first being Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the man who brought Latin America out of its solitude; had been unwell for some time; as well as social commentator Nadine Gordimer. Slovenia and Central Europe lost one of its greatest pots Tomaž Šalamun. Šalamun was a poet of the neo-avant-garde, and a absurdist and surrealist like poet; and yet was truly unique to himself alone. Tomaž Šalamun is remembered as having a continually eternal youthful air about him; and often was watching what young poets were doing, and admired their ingenuity. The other author to pass away from Central and Eastern Europe is: Stanisław Barańczak. Barańczak was a poet, a critic, a translator, an editor, a scholar and a lecturer. He was noted for translating Shakespeare into Polish, and assisting in Syzmbroska’s poetry to reach greater audiences outside of Poland. May each of these writers rest in peace; and their works be read on after their departures.
Once again the Booker Prize was a dud. The attempts at revitalization have once again, mustered no real results. It has been a slow decline for the Booker Prize. But perhaps it’s not the prize itself to blame in its entirety. Perhaps English language literature in the contemporary sense, is in need of a facelift in itself, and requires more thought being put into the outputs that are currently being produced and written. The books themselves that have so far been placed on the Booker Prize long lists and shortlists all seem contrived of a sense of recycling old ground continuously. Perhaps English language literature needs to look past its own historical themes and roots, and explore new themes, and new concepts. It is quite capable of doing that.
As for the Nobel Prize for Literature; it was a delightful shock of a year. Once again a writer, who I had not heard of him, until just a few days before the announcement, had been honored with this year’s award. Patrick Modiano is a reminder of why I enjoy the Nobel Prize for Literature. His work continually retraces itself (yes I know I am being hypocritical because I just said that it appears that English language literature is doing the same thing.), yet this works for Modianio’s work, without it becoming contrived in contrite form of familiarity and a fear of going outside of this familiarity. From reports by many reviewers, and readers of Modiano’s work; my understanding is: that one needs to read many of his novels, to see the continual layering of themes, and landscapes – as if it were to appear that the author is writing a larger novel, that the reader is unaware of, and each novel becomes a chapter in this larger scale work. Still Modiano’s Nobel was a shock and a delight all the same; and I look forward continually to read more of this authors work. Expect in the New Year Gentle Reader a review of Modiano’s “Suspended Sentences.”
I enjoyed many of the books that I had the pleasure of reading this year. Pierre Michon received redemption with his novel “The Origin of the World.” I learned how foolish I had been for overlooking Mu Xin’s collection of short stories “An Empty Room,” and know that this will be a collection that I will go back to read again and again. I became reacquainted with Highsmith with the only other biography that there is currently out about her “Beautiful Shadow: A Life of Patricia Highsmith.” This time around I had less trepidation with reading the book, and though I readily recognize many similarities, I quickly can see discrepancies between the two of us as well. Jacques Poulin continually amazes me, as how his narratives work. The laconic simplicity of the language, and the slice of life like story, mixed with the ambiguities of life, and the opacity of any actual conclusion, still makes me wonder how Poulin accomplishes writing about love and relationships while maintain an almost fairytale like haze throughout his work, and how his work is continually drenched in this golden light; and yet, I cannot nor would I wish to refuse that I did not enjoy “Wild Cat,” by the author. I was impressed and mortified by the works of the Grandfather of the Japanese short story form Ryūnosuke Akutagawa and how he could display such wonderful talents in his fiction and his works, but was to unhappy with life itself, and his own fears of going insane, to continue living – and he himself documented this in two of his short stories: “Life of a Fool,” and “Cogwheels.” Still an impressive read.
What I look forward to in the New Year Gentle Reader, is more translations. Sofia Oksanen returns to the English language with a new novel. Antonio Tabucchi’s catalogue continues to be translated well into the New Year. Wislwa Syzmborska’s newest and last collection and her entire collected works up to date will be released in a new book. As well as many new writers are coming forth as well, and their works are something that I am looking forward to discovering and reading as well.
For you Gentle Reader look forward to more reviews. Starting with “Days in the History of Silence,” in the New Year.
Happy New Year Gentle Reader!
M. Mary
Wednesday, 31 December 2014
Sunday, 21 December 2014
Silent Nights
Hello Gentle Reader
“Silent Night,” is perhaps my favorite Christmas carol. It is a soft, slow and meditative lullaby; in its tune and gentle resonance. It is the only carol, that makes me think of the black winter skies up above, and the white silent snow that falls down; from the Christmas seasons of my own past. The appreciation of this song is a new revelation for me. After years of retail, and the constant loop of the dread holiday music; which can only be described as: (as of yet) undisclosed enhanced interrogation techniques to be used on ones holiday guests, when they are cheating at monopoly. All it would take for me would be the song: “Santa Clause Got Stuck in My Chimney,” by Ella Fitzgerald. After a few hours, of listening to that song, I would confess to my own holiday mischief, during the duration of the game:
“—Yes the Monopoly bank was robbed – it was an inside job – yes it was me! The banker; the teller; the candle stick maker! . . . I had a bad case of the ‘sticky fingers.’ I could not help myself. The guy just down the table – the one using the thimble; bought ‘Marvin Gardens.’ I’ve always loved ‘Marvin Gardens,’ – not because it’s an expense property; not because its colour is yellow – rather just so I can envision myself one day living in a place called ‘Marvin Gardens.’ But no! The thimble bastard bought it before I could. I knew I didn’t have enough money to buy ‘Park Place,’ or ‘Boardwalk,’ so I decided to take out a under the table loan.—“
Though I am told it has nothing to do with my irreparable criminal record during my monopoly banker days – I am not allowed to be the Banker again. The official reason is – democratic process. We each take a vote of who should be the banker – I am the only one who votes for me. Still at the end of the day I end up losing – generally without “Marvin Gardens,” but that night, I envision myself living in the estate like homes of a community with “Gardens,” in its name.
I feel the need to apologise to Wisława Szymborska, who has taught me to look past “Santa Clause Got Stuck in My Chimney,” and to instead weight the merits of Ella Fitzgerald by her song “Black Coffee.” If heaven is as you had hoped it to be Wisława, I hope that you are enjoying a cup of coffee, and a cigarette and rejoicing in Ella Fitzgerald’s music.
As for you My Gentle Readers, I hope you get away from the hustle and the bustle and of course the choiring; to enjoy the silent nights of winter. How peaceful the snow falls into place; how quiet one gets from the cold. Though the chill might be as bitter and pierce the skin like a hungry wolf; one only needs to remember that winter cannot last forever; and that Christmas comes only once a year.
Merry Christmas Gentle Reader
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. If by chance Santa Clause does get stuck in your Chimney – I’ve always imagine lighting a fire under his ass – one can only presume that, that will offer proper motivation to remove themselves from the chimney.
“Silent Night,” is perhaps my favorite Christmas carol. It is a soft, slow and meditative lullaby; in its tune and gentle resonance. It is the only carol, that makes me think of the black winter skies up above, and the white silent snow that falls down; from the Christmas seasons of my own past. The appreciation of this song is a new revelation for me. After years of retail, and the constant loop of the dread holiday music; which can only be described as: (as of yet) undisclosed enhanced interrogation techniques to be used on ones holiday guests, when they are cheating at monopoly. All it would take for me would be the song: “Santa Clause Got Stuck in My Chimney,” by Ella Fitzgerald. After a few hours, of listening to that song, I would confess to my own holiday mischief, during the duration of the game:
“—Yes the Monopoly bank was robbed – it was an inside job – yes it was me! The banker; the teller; the candle stick maker! . . . I had a bad case of the ‘sticky fingers.’ I could not help myself. The guy just down the table – the one using the thimble; bought ‘Marvin Gardens.’ I’ve always loved ‘Marvin Gardens,’ – not because it’s an expense property; not because its colour is yellow – rather just so I can envision myself one day living in a place called ‘Marvin Gardens.’ But no! The thimble bastard bought it before I could. I knew I didn’t have enough money to buy ‘Park Place,’ or ‘Boardwalk,’ so I decided to take out a under the table loan.—“
Though I am told it has nothing to do with my irreparable criminal record during my monopoly banker days – I am not allowed to be the Banker again. The official reason is – democratic process. We each take a vote of who should be the banker – I am the only one who votes for me. Still at the end of the day I end up losing – generally without “Marvin Gardens,” but that night, I envision myself living in the estate like homes of a community with “Gardens,” in its name.
I feel the need to apologise to Wisława Szymborska, who has taught me to look past “Santa Clause Got Stuck in My Chimney,” and to instead weight the merits of Ella Fitzgerald by her song “Black Coffee.” If heaven is as you had hoped it to be Wisława, I hope that you are enjoying a cup of coffee, and a cigarette and rejoicing in Ella Fitzgerald’s music.
As for you My Gentle Readers, I hope you get away from the hustle and the bustle and of course the choiring; to enjoy the silent nights of winter. How peaceful the snow falls into place; how quiet one gets from the cold. Though the chill might be as bitter and pierce the skin like a hungry wolf; one only needs to remember that winter cannot last forever; and that Christmas comes only once a year.
Merry Christmas Gentle Reader
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
P.S. If by chance Santa Clause does get stuck in your Chimney – I’ve always imagine lighting a fire under his ass – one can only presume that, that will offer proper motivation to remove themselves from the chimney.
Friday, 12 December 2014
Menis Koumandareas Murdered
Hello Gentle Reader
Greece is a country with a very cultured and ancient history. It is filled with the foundations of most ideologies; it is the primordial archipelago in which the Western World’s first steps as an intellectual species first took its steps into science, politics, and culture. One of contemporary Greece’s, finest and admired writers Menis Koumandareas has passed away, not by natural causes but (allegedly) by human hands. The eighty three year old author was discovered almost a week ago, in his apartment in Athens by a nephew he had grown concerned, because he could not contact his uncle. According to online reports, Koumandareas had suffered contusions to his face and neck. The reports speculate that, the cause of death could have been asphyxiation from a pillow located near the body; or a possible heart attack, triggered by the assault. That being said a conclusive cause of death has not been released. Either way Greece has lost one of its cherished writers. Menis Koumandareas protested and was a resistance writer against the military dictatorship, which had befallen Greece during the latter half of the twentieth century. Koumandareas’s writing is known for depicting sober portraits of post-war Greece, but was a writer who had written with a sensitivity that detailed and offered his hopes and dreams for contemporary society and the people within.
Menis Koumandareas has only one novel published in English titled “Koula.”
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
Greece is a country with a very cultured and ancient history. It is filled with the foundations of most ideologies; it is the primordial archipelago in which the Western World’s first steps as an intellectual species first took its steps into science, politics, and culture. One of contemporary Greece’s, finest and admired writers Menis Koumandareas has passed away, not by natural causes but (allegedly) by human hands. The eighty three year old author was discovered almost a week ago, in his apartment in Athens by a nephew he had grown concerned, because he could not contact his uncle. According to online reports, Koumandareas had suffered contusions to his face and neck. The reports speculate that, the cause of death could have been asphyxiation from a pillow located near the body; or a possible heart attack, triggered by the assault. That being said a conclusive cause of death has not been released. Either way Greece has lost one of its cherished writers. Menis Koumandareas protested and was a resistance writer against the military dictatorship, which had befallen Greece during the latter half of the twentieth century. Koumandareas’s writing is known for depicting sober portraits of post-war Greece, but was a writer who had written with a sensitivity that detailed and offered his hopes and dreams for contemporary society and the people within.
Menis Koumandareas has only one novel published in English titled “Koula.”
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
Posthumous Tabucchi novel to be published
Hello Gentle Reader
Whenever there is a new Antonio Tabucchi book, coming out in English a part of me, tenses up with anticipation of that book to be released. The last book that I had read by Tabucchi was “The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro,” – and though the book failed to enthrall me as the books by Tabucchi had prior; I still have the upmost respect and sincerest regards for the author. Though he passed away in two-thousand and twelve; and was not honored with the Nobel Prize for Literature; Tabucchi remains a distinctive voice in international literature. His reputation in the English language, was spawned from his novel “Pereira Declares,” (or “Pereira Maintains,”) – a novel of socio-political commentary that, discusses the atrocities perpetrated by oppressive regimes upon their own populace; but also the crime of compliance by being apathetic or unaware. The novel gathered support in Italy upon its initial publication, for its symbolic purposes in resisting the government of Silvio Berlusconi.
Yet Tabucchi was more than just a social and politically aware novelist. Injustices and inhumanities certainly were atrocities that author spoke against; but he was an author of a more dreamlike quality, mixed with the sweet melancholy of nostalgia and departures, and the longing that grows in the absence of others. “Requiem: A Hallucination,” traces an Italian writers journey, to visit a dead yet revered Portuguese poet. Through the novel however, the main character, meets an array of characters, before meeting his desired companion to discuss Kafka, postmodernism, and the future of literature itself. “It’s Getting Later All The Time,” recounts seventeen different letters, from seventeen different men, confessing their loves, and their memories for one woman. At first these letters appear to be only connected by thematic concerns, not by any literal connection; but in the end everything is weaved together, and comes together like a puzzle with a welcomed understanding.
Archipelago published two small collections of Antonio Tabucchi’s stories:
“The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,”
“The Woman of Porto Pim,”
Both of these works are stories of a literary master. When the story ends they continue to hint at the larger world. A world that has not been readily nailed to their pages, by the clip and claps of the typewriter or keyboard – nor have they been sewn into place by the pen. Rather they continue to dream on about the greater world that exists beyond their pages. These works were found in a place that borders memory and imagination, and often travels into a world of dreams. Both are slim collections that offer Tabucchi’s views – in fragments or ‘qausi-stories,’ of life, history and existence itself.
Thankfully the wonderful Archipelago Books is coming out with some more of Tabucchi’s work. The first being “Time Ages in A Hurry,” – a collection of stories, that deal with characters and their corrupted or troubled relationship with history. Of course though it has the touch of only Tabucchi, where rationale is quickly abandoned for empty silence and logic is out of fashion for the intuitive and the exploration of the murky waters of feelings. I sense there will be searches for ones identity; personal journeys into a shadow like world where phantoms reside; and the necessary excavations of the shipwrecks of one’s past. After the April release of “Time Ages in a Hurry,” Archipelago has at the moment the release date for the next Tabucchi book to be September with “Tristano Dies: A Life.”
Yet the largest news to surround the author now, is a (re)discovered novel that the author had been revising and reviewing for publication, which had been entertained with for some years prior. Reports at the time state that it was shelved in nineteen-ninety six; because of other projects. Yet now the novel will see its first publications in Italian and Spanish with the title “To Isabelle,” or “To Elizabeth.” The novel details the attempt at piecing together the story of the vanishing act of a young woman – the eponymous Isabelle/Elizabeth. It has the touch of both Tabucchi’s socio-political interest against the oppressed – the character Isabelle/Elizabeth, is a militant activities opposing the Portuguese dictator Salazar; but also his touch for the genre bending sampled in “The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro,” but also the curiosity for the tales of others lives, that Tabucchi carefully unfolds like a origami structure to reveal its beginnings. Mind you, I am taking all of this off reports that are in foreign languages, and therefore I must utilize Google translate. In the end one can only hope that “To Isabelle,” or “Para Isabel,” will make a delightful transition and translation into the English language. Of course one can hope all of Tabucchi’s books make it into English such as “The Black Angel.”
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
Whenever there is a new Antonio Tabucchi book, coming out in English a part of me, tenses up with anticipation of that book to be released. The last book that I had read by Tabucchi was “The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro,” – and though the book failed to enthrall me as the books by Tabucchi had prior; I still have the upmost respect and sincerest regards for the author. Though he passed away in two-thousand and twelve; and was not honored with the Nobel Prize for Literature; Tabucchi remains a distinctive voice in international literature. His reputation in the English language, was spawned from his novel “Pereira Declares,” (or “Pereira Maintains,”) – a novel of socio-political commentary that, discusses the atrocities perpetrated by oppressive regimes upon their own populace; but also the crime of compliance by being apathetic or unaware. The novel gathered support in Italy upon its initial publication, for its symbolic purposes in resisting the government of Silvio Berlusconi.
Yet Tabucchi was more than just a social and politically aware novelist. Injustices and inhumanities certainly were atrocities that author spoke against; but he was an author of a more dreamlike quality, mixed with the sweet melancholy of nostalgia and departures, and the longing that grows in the absence of others. “Requiem: A Hallucination,” traces an Italian writers journey, to visit a dead yet revered Portuguese poet. Through the novel however, the main character, meets an array of characters, before meeting his desired companion to discuss Kafka, postmodernism, and the future of literature itself. “It’s Getting Later All The Time,” recounts seventeen different letters, from seventeen different men, confessing their loves, and their memories for one woman. At first these letters appear to be only connected by thematic concerns, not by any literal connection; but in the end everything is weaved together, and comes together like a puzzle with a welcomed understanding.
Archipelago published two small collections of Antonio Tabucchi’s stories:
“The Flying Creatures of Fra Angelico,”
“The Woman of Porto Pim,”
Both of these works are stories of a literary master. When the story ends they continue to hint at the larger world. A world that has not been readily nailed to their pages, by the clip and claps of the typewriter or keyboard – nor have they been sewn into place by the pen. Rather they continue to dream on about the greater world that exists beyond their pages. These works were found in a place that borders memory and imagination, and often travels into a world of dreams. Both are slim collections that offer Tabucchi’s views – in fragments or ‘qausi-stories,’ of life, history and existence itself.
Thankfully the wonderful Archipelago Books is coming out with some more of Tabucchi’s work. The first being “Time Ages in A Hurry,” – a collection of stories, that deal with characters and their corrupted or troubled relationship with history. Of course though it has the touch of only Tabucchi, where rationale is quickly abandoned for empty silence and logic is out of fashion for the intuitive and the exploration of the murky waters of feelings. I sense there will be searches for ones identity; personal journeys into a shadow like world where phantoms reside; and the necessary excavations of the shipwrecks of one’s past. After the April release of “Time Ages in a Hurry,” Archipelago has at the moment the release date for the next Tabucchi book to be September with “Tristano Dies: A Life.”
Yet the largest news to surround the author now, is a (re)discovered novel that the author had been revising and reviewing for publication, which had been entertained with for some years prior. Reports at the time state that it was shelved in nineteen-ninety six; because of other projects. Yet now the novel will see its first publications in Italian and Spanish with the title “To Isabelle,” or “To Elizabeth.” The novel details the attempt at piecing together the story of the vanishing act of a young woman – the eponymous Isabelle/Elizabeth. It has the touch of both Tabucchi’s socio-political interest against the oppressed – the character Isabelle/Elizabeth, is a militant activities opposing the Portuguese dictator Salazar; but also his touch for the genre bending sampled in “The Missing Head of Damasceno Monteiro,” but also the curiosity for the tales of others lives, that Tabucchi carefully unfolds like a origami structure to reveal its beginnings. Mind you, I am taking all of this off reports that are in foreign languages, and therefore I must utilize Google translate. In the end one can only hope that “To Isabelle,” or “Para Isabel,” will make a delightful transition and translation into the English language. Of course one can hope all of Tabucchi’s books make it into English such as “The Black Angel.”
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, 3 December 2014
Mark Stand – Former US Poet Laureate Passes
Hello Gentle Reader
The Pulitzer Poet, and former Poet Laureate for the United States, had passed away at the age of eight. Strand died in his daughter’s home in Brooklyn; and though physically he has moved on his words, do remain. His poems abandoned the kitsch, and the over elaborated poetry that has been celebrated for far too long. Instead Strand like poets before him, and surely more to come after him, have abandoned the purple quality of poetry of the traditional poets of the English language; and instead used concrete words, and deserted the rhyme and meter; for more narrative like structures, that engulfed the poetry. Strand originally had wanted to be a painter; but after completing his BFA from Yale University, the aspiration had all but waned. Strand soon turned to poetry, and earned a MFA from Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Afterwards Strand entered the lecture circuit and in the nineteen-sixties, was like many poets – an underground intellectual pop star. His earlier poems were noted by man reviewers and critics, that his poetry was often dark and brooding. Yet Strand himself thought, the poems were evenly lit, and no as dark as they were often made out to be. Though as Strand matured, so did his poetry and his poetry became investigative with urbane wit. Strand’s writing career, surpasses poetry and lectures. He has written children’s books, a collection of short stories; as well as essays on art criticism, but also poetry there again. Strand in his now more matured years, stopped writing poetry and once again returned to the art world, in which he faded from. He began making collages from paper, and soon his love of the literary, and the stationary found its place into earlier ambitions of being an artist. Yet when I personally think of Strand, I am left with the story of the shared glass of gin that the then young poet had shared with WH Auden. The story is built upon an almost cat and mouse game; with homoerotic undertones. Strand at the time had only one proper glass, to share the drink from; and so the two poets agreed to share from the same glass. Auden it is said openly drank from the glass where Strands lips had just parted from. Strand then skillfully avoided the same contact; and drank from another spot on the glass.
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 Pulitzer Poet, and former Poet Laureate for the United States, had passed away at the age of eight. Strand died in his daughter’s home in Brooklyn; and though physically he has moved on his words, do remain. His poems abandoned the kitsch, and the over elaborated poetry that has been celebrated for far too long. Instead Strand like poets before him, and surely more to come after him, have abandoned the purple quality of poetry of the traditional poets of the English language; and instead used concrete words, and deserted the rhyme and meter; for more narrative like structures, that engulfed the poetry. Strand originally had wanted to be a painter; but after completing his BFA from Yale University, the aspiration had all but waned. Strand soon turned to poetry, and earned a MFA from Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Afterwards Strand entered the lecture circuit and in the nineteen-sixties, was like many poets – an underground intellectual pop star. His earlier poems were noted by man reviewers and critics, that his poetry was often dark and brooding. Yet Strand himself thought, the poems were evenly lit, and no as dark as they were often made out to be. Though as Strand matured, so did his poetry and his poetry became investigative with urbane wit. Strand’s writing career, surpasses poetry and lectures. He has written children’s books, a collection of short stories; as well as essays on art criticism, but also poetry there again. Strand in his now more matured years, stopped writing poetry and once again returned to the art world, in which he faded from. He began making collages from paper, and soon his love of the literary, and the stationary found its place into earlier ambitions of being an artist. Yet when I personally think of Strand, I am left with the story of the shared glass of gin that the then young poet had shared with WH Auden. The story is built upon an almost cat and mouse game; with homoerotic undertones. Strand at the time had only one proper glass, to share the drink from; and so the two poets agreed to share from the same glass. Auden it is said openly drank from the glass where Strands lips had just parted from. Strand then skillfully avoided the same contact; and drank from another spot on the glass.
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 November 2014
Balkan Beauty, Balkan Blood
Hello Gentle Reader
Reviewing an anthology is always difficult. It’s not a work in a singular composition. It’s a collection of stories or poems. However each work is written by a different author. This makes it difficult to review, and to judge the work on any level. Before I had started to read, “The Best European Fiction of 2013,” I thought that I would read each work individually, and write a quick blurb or review about that work, by that author. After a few attempts, and numerous notes taken, this idea was abandoned. Once again faced with this anthology of Albanian short stories, I am left to wonder how I am going to start this review:
Albania is a small country south of Italy. Its history has been divided between being ruled over by two more dominate empires. First the Ottoman Empire: for five hundred years, Albania was under the rule of the Ottoman Sultan. Their culture was stifled; and language repressed. It was during this time that a mass majority of Albanians converted to Islam. In nineteen-twelve, Albania declared itself independent and free. However this independence was short lived, and disastrous. From nineteen-fourteen to nineteen-twenty five, a short lived monarchy was abolished. From nineteen-twenty five until nineteen-twenty eight, Albania, attempted being a republic. Again this was another failed attempt. From nineteen-twenty eight until nineteen-thirty nine, a constitutional monarchy was in place, with the former Kingdom of Italy as its de facto protectorate. In other words, the Kingdom of Italy would oversee Albania’s military power, and security from outside threats. This would prove to futile in the end. Nineteen-thirty nine until nineteen-forty three, Albania was ruled by fascist Italy; and therefore ceased to exist as a independent and sovereign nation. After fascist Italy’s armistice, with the allied powers in World War II, Albania was left for a year, in the hands of the Nazi Germans. At this point in Albania’s history a new controlling force consumed the country. The Soviet Union, consumed Albania along with other former Eastern and Central European states. Enver Hoxha. What followed was decades of oppression and caprice, and political instability for the people; and the intellectual crack down, on all who thought differently than the pre-approved party ideology.
Now Albania is giving independence another chance. When I read the essays in his travelogue “Fado,” by the Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk; there is a feeling that Albania has moved forward, and enjoys its location in the Mediterranean. Lazy walks on the beach; siestas under trees; a game of chess with the blue sea in the distance. There was also a sense of age old beliefs and superstitions from the rural world, of tribes and Sheppard’s; such as the north savage and barbaric and populated by demons. Then of course, Albania’s relationship with China and the Chinese technocrats, that continue to help mine and support Albania in its industries and exports; much as they did as Hoxha had moved away from Soviet Union, and began to further strengthen relationships with Communist China.
If one knows Albanian literature, and or Albania as a country it is most likely thanks to the Albanian writer in exile Ismail Kadare. The author of such novels as: “The General of the Dead Army,” “Broken April,” and “The Pyramid.” Kadare is a strong force in Albanian literature, and language; because of his restoration of the language – all of Kadare’s books are written in natural Albanian language, and do not utilize foreign words; as well as moving Albanian literature, into more contemporary means. In regards to this anthology Kadare was supposed to have three of his short stories, published in it. However before publication, he retracted his stories. This works well for the authors in this anthology as they are forced to prove themselves, on their own merit, and therefore cannot be compared to an already well known writer, such as Kadare. This way they rely and thrive or fail on their merits and talents alone.
One of the greatest parts of this contemporary anthology of Albanian short stories is that, as old as Albanian literature is; prose is a new form of style within Albanian literature. This anthology showcases how writers from Albania are utilizing this still relatively new form. Many of the authors are excelling in the form of the short story and prose as a whole. Each of these stories have a sense of being written after the fall of communism and after the death of Enver Hoxha, and his anti-intellectual paranoia and fear. Now writers, are no longer forced to spout and speak the dribble of the ruling party; but are free to creatively bare witness, and reminisce of the past, and the historical situation that had taken place during that time of oppression, and cruelty. Literature, can act as the measuring instrument, in to which we can gauge society and civilization, in regards, to civility and general ideals of humanism. However, the works here, strike the paradox of the country, as it was, and as it is one line from: “Stars Do Not Dress Up Like That,” reads as the following:
“If I were not depressed, I might even be happy.”
That sentence comes from the novel: “Stars Do Not Dress Up Like That,” by Elvira Dones. It begins with the interior monologue of a young woman Leila, who offers snippets of her story. As a reader, one is aware, that our narrator named Leila, is neither happy, and comes to realize after a while she is in a torment of pain. Two pages later, the scene shifts, to Leila’s father, bringing his daughter home, back to Albania. But not as one would think. Leila is dead. She is in a coffin; and is being transported back to Albania, under the watch of her father. She has been stabbed death. After a while Dones’ sample of her work, becomes a cautionary tale, of how Albanian women, with no education and no prospect of employment, leave Albania and end up in human trafficking; and then into sexual services, which will eventually lead to the death of these young women. It’s a piece of work that tackles the social issues, facing Albanian young women; but also the young women of former Soviet states.
Ylljet Aliçka has three of his stories published, in this anthology. “The Slogans in Stone,” is standout story. A strange story in its absurd premise; but after a while, becomes a allegorical message to some degree of the former government; and communist rule. In this story a school teacher, is sent out to a remote village, where each teacher and class, is assigned a slogan, in which they are painted on stones – letter per stone; and are tended by both the teacher and the class. They are to be kept in pristine condition; so as to be admired from all over. The care each teacher and class puts into the maintenance of these slogans, and the obsessive need to continually check and maintain them. They become an allegory of false ideologies, that one is forced not only to believe in, but to act within their approved guidelines; but also to uphold these ideologies on a physical level.
Another story worth mentioning of this work was: “The Mute Maiden,” by Lindita Arapi. Its short and sweet, and very concise, but not simple story. However it does falter, because of its length as well. It begins with a very strong tone, and is told in a very direct but at times elusive manner. The story is about the youngest daughters, relationship to an ever present but distant father. It’s a memory of childhood, and growing up; and the eventual passage of childhood into adulthood. However the abrupt ending, in which the writer, leaves the story relies on the sense or the need for the reader to feel outrage, and that’s it. A bit more work would have achieved a far stronger ending.
My favorite two stories of the entire anthology though were from Teodor Laço. Both of his stories: “The Pain of a Distant Winter,” and “Another Winter,” that were published in this anthology are connected; on the basis of each story. Both of these stories detail the same memories of a man, and his love for his mother, and her love for him. In a sense they have a tinge of autobiographical feel to them; this allows for the reader to understand that they hold a deeper meaning for their writer; and this shared empathetic relation, with the reader, and writer, gives both the stories, a greater understanding and a deeper connection to the work. They are great stories, and are the strongest works of the entire collection. Neither of these stories are political. They are by all means personal ruminations, and have a sense of melancholic loss and a need to escape into the memory, to escape the changing present that one is not comfortable with or does not wish to face.
The entire anthology is a good introduction to Albanian literature, especially its budding experiments with prose; and the release of the stifling socialist realist desire, to make the writers, write in the sense that is politically pure to the ruling party’s ideology. Some of the works are political – some more so then others; but the best ones, are the ones that have a sense of personal connection, and describe the landscape around them, both in a historical and present fashion.
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
Reviewing an anthology is always difficult. It’s not a work in a singular composition. It’s a collection of stories or poems. However each work is written by a different author. This makes it difficult to review, and to judge the work on any level. Before I had started to read, “The Best European Fiction of 2013,” I thought that I would read each work individually, and write a quick blurb or review about that work, by that author. After a few attempts, and numerous notes taken, this idea was abandoned. Once again faced with this anthology of Albanian short stories, I am left to wonder how I am going to start this review:
Albania is a small country south of Italy. Its history has been divided between being ruled over by two more dominate empires. First the Ottoman Empire: for five hundred years, Albania was under the rule of the Ottoman Sultan. Their culture was stifled; and language repressed. It was during this time that a mass majority of Albanians converted to Islam. In nineteen-twelve, Albania declared itself independent and free. However this independence was short lived, and disastrous. From nineteen-fourteen to nineteen-twenty five, a short lived monarchy was abolished. From nineteen-twenty five until nineteen-twenty eight, Albania, attempted being a republic. Again this was another failed attempt. From nineteen-twenty eight until nineteen-thirty nine, a constitutional monarchy was in place, with the former Kingdom of Italy as its de facto protectorate. In other words, the Kingdom of Italy would oversee Albania’s military power, and security from outside threats. This would prove to futile in the end. Nineteen-thirty nine until nineteen-forty three, Albania was ruled by fascist Italy; and therefore ceased to exist as a independent and sovereign nation. After fascist Italy’s armistice, with the allied powers in World War II, Albania was left for a year, in the hands of the Nazi Germans. At this point in Albania’s history a new controlling force consumed the country. The Soviet Union, consumed Albania along with other former Eastern and Central European states. Enver Hoxha. What followed was decades of oppression and caprice, and political instability for the people; and the intellectual crack down, on all who thought differently than the pre-approved party ideology.
Now Albania is giving independence another chance. When I read the essays in his travelogue “Fado,” by the Polish writer Andrzej Stasiuk; there is a feeling that Albania has moved forward, and enjoys its location in the Mediterranean. Lazy walks on the beach; siestas under trees; a game of chess with the blue sea in the distance. There was also a sense of age old beliefs and superstitions from the rural world, of tribes and Sheppard’s; such as the north savage and barbaric and populated by demons. Then of course, Albania’s relationship with China and the Chinese technocrats, that continue to help mine and support Albania in its industries and exports; much as they did as Hoxha had moved away from Soviet Union, and began to further strengthen relationships with Communist China.
If one knows Albanian literature, and or Albania as a country it is most likely thanks to the Albanian writer in exile Ismail Kadare. The author of such novels as: “The General of the Dead Army,” “Broken April,” and “The Pyramid.” Kadare is a strong force in Albanian literature, and language; because of his restoration of the language – all of Kadare’s books are written in natural Albanian language, and do not utilize foreign words; as well as moving Albanian literature, into more contemporary means. In regards to this anthology Kadare was supposed to have three of his short stories, published in it. However before publication, he retracted his stories. This works well for the authors in this anthology as they are forced to prove themselves, on their own merit, and therefore cannot be compared to an already well known writer, such as Kadare. This way they rely and thrive or fail on their merits and talents alone.
One of the greatest parts of this contemporary anthology of Albanian short stories is that, as old as Albanian literature is; prose is a new form of style within Albanian literature. This anthology showcases how writers from Albania are utilizing this still relatively new form. Many of the authors are excelling in the form of the short story and prose as a whole. Each of these stories have a sense of being written after the fall of communism and after the death of Enver Hoxha, and his anti-intellectual paranoia and fear. Now writers, are no longer forced to spout and speak the dribble of the ruling party; but are free to creatively bare witness, and reminisce of the past, and the historical situation that had taken place during that time of oppression, and cruelty. Literature, can act as the measuring instrument, in to which we can gauge society and civilization, in regards, to civility and general ideals of humanism. However, the works here, strike the paradox of the country, as it was, and as it is one line from: “Stars Do Not Dress Up Like That,” reads as the following:
“If I were not depressed, I might even be happy.”
That sentence comes from the novel: “Stars Do Not Dress Up Like That,” by Elvira Dones. It begins with the interior monologue of a young woman Leila, who offers snippets of her story. As a reader, one is aware, that our narrator named Leila, is neither happy, and comes to realize after a while she is in a torment of pain. Two pages later, the scene shifts, to Leila’s father, bringing his daughter home, back to Albania. But not as one would think. Leila is dead. She is in a coffin; and is being transported back to Albania, under the watch of her father. She has been stabbed death. After a while Dones’ sample of her work, becomes a cautionary tale, of how Albanian women, with no education and no prospect of employment, leave Albania and end up in human trafficking; and then into sexual services, which will eventually lead to the death of these young women. It’s a piece of work that tackles the social issues, facing Albanian young women; but also the young women of former Soviet states.
Ylljet Aliçka has three of his stories published, in this anthology. “The Slogans in Stone,” is standout story. A strange story in its absurd premise; but after a while, becomes a allegorical message to some degree of the former government; and communist rule. In this story a school teacher, is sent out to a remote village, where each teacher and class, is assigned a slogan, in which they are painted on stones – letter per stone; and are tended by both the teacher and the class. They are to be kept in pristine condition; so as to be admired from all over. The care each teacher and class puts into the maintenance of these slogans, and the obsessive need to continually check and maintain them. They become an allegory of false ideologies, that one is forced not only to believe in, but to act within their approved guidelines; but also to uphold these ideologies on a physical level.
Another story worth mentioning of this work was: “The Mute Maiden,” by Lindita Arapi. Its short and sweet, and very concise, but not simple story. However it does falter, because of its length as well. It begins with a very strong tone, and is told in a very direct but at times elusive manner. The story is about the youngest daughters, relationship to an ever present but distant father. It’s a memory of childhood, and growing up; and the eventual passage of childhood into adulthood. However the abrupt ending, in which the writer, leaves the story relies on the sense or the need for the reader to feel outrage, and that’s it. A bit more work would have achieved a far stronger ending.
My favorite two stories of the entire anthology though were from Teodor Laço. Both of his stories: “The Pain of a Distant Winter,” and “Another Winter,” that were published in this anthology are connected; on the basis of each story. Both of these stories detail the same memories of a man, and his love for his mother, and her love for him. In a sense they have a tinge of autobiographical feel to them; this allows for the reader to understand that they hold a deeper meaning for their writer; and this shared empathetic relation, with the reader, and writer, gives both the stories, a greater understanding and a deeper connection to the work. They are great stories, and are the strongest works of the entire collection. Neither of these stories are political. They are by all means personal ruminations, and have a sense of melancholic loss and a need to escape into the memory, to escape the changing present that one is not comfortable with or does not wish to face.
The entire anthology is a good introduction to Albanian literature, especially its budding experiments with prose; and the release of the stifling socialist realist desire, to make the writers, write in the sense that is politically pure to the ruling party’s ideology. Some of the works are political – some more so then others; but the best ones, are the ones that have a sense of personal connection, and describe the landscape around them, both in a historical and present fashion.
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, 21 November 2014
The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts
Hello Gentle Reader
When you have read an authors work, it is often difficult not to compare their work, to prior reads. Such is the case with J.M.G Le Clezio and his two short story collections: “Mondo: and Other Stories,” and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts.” “Mondo: and Other Stories,” came out, in the late seventies; and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” followed suit in the early eighties. Both publications, did not find an English translation until, decade(s) after their initial publications. “Mondo: and Other Stories,” deals heavily with an innocent and dream like atmosphere; each stories focal point is growing up – generally in the ways of, a rite of passage. Young people are at the centre of the book; and their eventual departure from childhood, into the greater (and wider) world of adulthood; often in small cases. With the said collection, Le Clezio was able to write evocatively, about growing up; the slow process of shedding ones innocence and the eventual understanding of one changing and becoming an adult. Reading “Mondo: and Other Stories,” often left me with a feeling of nostalgia. As a reader – at any age – the ability to associate with an authors work is a great pleasure. Some literature is meant to educate; some bears witness. Others however, come to into a reader’s life, and allow there to be some form of association, with the written text, and the author who writes it. It is this moment of shared nostalgia – that allows for a sense of empathy to, be reached beyond geographical boundaries, and beyond the limitations of language. As an avid bibliophile – to the point that it is painful to look at the bank account; reading such literature is a great treat; and it is often few and far between. That being said; when such publications do come across ones path, they are to be treasured, and to be held dear. They hold a special place on the bookshelf. These books do not sit higher than others; nor do they sit lower. But upon a passing glance at them they are immediately recognized, by that sudden resurfacing of the enjoyment of reading them. Not through the technicalities of the text; not through the linguistic acrobatics of language; not through story or plot; but rather though that shared empathetic link of a shared understanding. That is why “Mondo: and Other Stories,” was a great enjoyment to read, and a book to treasure and hold dear.
“The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is a lot different, then “Mondo: and Other Stories,” it goes back to Le Clezio’s themes as a “new novelist,” (Nouveau Roman) in the same vein as other such authors like: Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarruate, Marguerite Duras; as well as fellow Nobel Laureate, Claude Simon – who disagreed being grouped with the other authors; as well as literary philosopher Maurice Blanchot, and German speaking writer Peter Handke. In “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” it rehashes the themes of Le Clezio’s early work. The failure and boundaries of language, existential crisis, nihilistic desperation, and a world engulfing alienation and loneliness that leads to self-imposed solitary confinement and exile from all human contact. That also being stated, the stories, are written in Le Clezio’s more mature style. This can clearly be seen in the following passage from the story: “Ariadne,”
“The people aren’t anywhere to be seen; they’ve disappeared. The hulls of parked cars stand alone, just like these out in the immense car graveyards a little way upriver. This is their day, a day for abandoned carcasses with no motors, no doors, no wheels, with headlights gouged out, windshields shattered, hoods gaping and showing the black holes from which their cylinder heads have been torn.”
Immediately, it shows Le Clezio’s more well known mature style, that he had become famous for, and would later help him to go on to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. However the themes here are certainly pay homage to his rebellious youth; his pessimistic leanings in a modernized and consumerist world. The world, in which Le Clezio writes about, is a lament. A lament, of a world that is overdeveloped and in the process loses its self. The story: “Villa Aurora,” is a prime example. It’s a story that depicts a childhood paradise of memory, and nostalgia, slowly be consumed by the ever progressing world. However it had a lot, of that similar prose, that drew me into: “Mondo: and Other Stories.”
“Still, it's strange too when I think about those days--it's as if we all knew she was there, that she lived in the house, that this was her realm. Without even knowing what her real name was, we were aware of her presence; we were her familiars, her neighbors. There was a part of her that dwelled in the place, up there on the hilltop back them. Something we couldn’t really see but that was present in the trees, in the palms, in the shape of the white house, in the two stone pillars of the gateway, and in the high, rusty gate chained shut.”
It held true, to my preconceived notion of what the story would be like. It is draped in ethereal evocations and mixed with a heavy atmosphere of dream like, uncertainty. It was by far the only story that allowed me to truly conceive the notion that it held that similar sliver to the works that I have read before, and held dear, because of that capability. However “Villa Aurora,” was still off. It didn’t quite strike the same chord. This bothered me the most, because I know that the capability was there, it truly was. Somehow Le Clezio lost that ability. He was unable to reproduce old results; or I had come into the work with higher expectations. Yet I read on, holding my disappointment aside. The story finishes with, a portrait of times progression forward, and its lack of care or understanding of what it leaves behind:
“A year later, I was able to return to the hilltop. I'd thought about it constantly, and despite all the activity and futility of student life, deep down, there was still that feeling of uneasiness in me. Why? I think that ultimately I'd never quite been able to get used to not being what I had been, the child who went through the breach in the wall and who'd found all those hiding places and passageways there in the great wild garden among the cats and insect calls. It has remained within me, alive deep down inside me, despite all the wide world that had drawn me away.”
In a sense this story about the childhood homecoming, to only find one’s own childhood being engulfed in a world of window dressing and superficiality is, quite melancholic. One word that is associated with “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is “depressing.” The story “Villa Aurora,” begins with an air of uncertainty in one’s own memory. It shifts then towards tainted and rose tinted memories that are akin to that of a fairy story. It then ends, with the note that a childhood paradise becomes a lonely beacon of hope – that will eventually meet its own demise, in a forever progressing world. When the light keeper dies so does the light.
Le Clezio is a rich writer. His work is wealthy and detailed, and written with such a beautiful style. His eye is trained to the landscape. It showcases his well traversed life. It comes to such a pity that, Le Clezio has depicted the landscapes here as deserted and alienated worlds. These worlds showcase human suffering in solitude, and alienated to the point of being disenfranchised. Le Clezio has compassion for these characters. They are the overlooked; the underprivileged. Le Clezio offers his compassionate gaze to these characters; and in doing so, has in a sense written this book about them, in a sense, to try and offer justice to their situations. The truth of the matter is, one must first know, and be acquainted with these harsh realities. If not, they come across, as someone standing on their soapbox crying out in monotonous voice, of how those who allow these atrocities to continue are as much to blame for the suffering of their fellow mankind/humankind then those who crack the whip. This is what leads “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” to become monotonous in its reading. To call it literary indigestion, would not be far off. However, it does offer a portrait into Le Clezio’s personal obsessions in regards to the disenfranchised or lost. However, I prefer Le Clezio when he is not taking up the mantel of social injustice writer. I prefer Le Clezio when he evokes nostalgia; not detailing the failures and limitations of society or of language. Perhaps after “Mondo: and Other Stories,” becomes less apparent in my memory, I can come back to “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” with a less biased tone and understanding of the author.
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
When you have read an authors work, it is often difficult not to compare their work, to prior reads. Such is the case with J.M.G Le Clezio and his two short story collections: “Mondo: and Other Stories,” and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts.” “Mondo: and Other Stories,” came out, in the late seventies; and “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” followed suit in the early eighties. Both publications, did not find an English translation until, decade(s) after their initial publications. “Mondo: and Other Stories,” deals heavily with an innocent and dream like atmosphere; each stories focal point is growing up – generally in the ways of, a rite of passage. Young people are at the centre of the book; and their eventual departure from childhood, into the greater (and wider) world of adulthood; often in small cases. With the said collection, Le Clezio was able to write evocatively, about growing up; the slow process of shedding ones innocence and the eventual understanding of one changing and becoming an adult. Reading “Mondo: and Other Stories,” often left me with a feeling of nostalgia. As a reader – at any age – the ability to associate with an authors work is a great pleasure. Some literature is meant to educate; some bears witness. Others however, come to into a reader’s life, and allow there to be some form of association, with the written text, and the author who writes it. It is this moment of shared nostalgia – that allows for a sense of empathy to, be reached beyond geographical boundaries, and beyond the limitations of language. As an avid bibliophile – to the point that it is painful to look at the bank account; reading such literature is a great treat; and it is often few and far between. That being said; when such publications do come across ones path, they are to be treasured, and to be held dear. They hold a special place on the bookshelf. These books do not sit higher than others; nor do they sit lower. But upon a passing glance at them they are immediately recognized, by that sudden resurfacing of the enjoyment of reading them. Not through the technicalities of the text; not through the linguistic acrobatics of language; not through story or plot; but rather though that shared empathetic link of a shared understanding. That is why “Mondo: and Other Stories,” was a great enjoyment to read, and a book to treasure and hold dear.
“The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is a lot different, then “Mondo: and Other Stories,” it goes back to Le Clezio’s themes as a “new novelist,” (Nouveau Roman) in the same vein as other such authors like: Alain Robbe-Grillet, Nathalie Sarruate, Marguerite Duras; as well as fellow Nobel Laureate, Claude Simon – who disagreed being grouped with the other authors; as well as literary philosopher Maurice Blanchot, and German speaking writer Peter Handke. In “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” it rehashes the themes of Le Clezio’s early work. The failure and boundaries of language, existential crisis, nihilistic desperation, and a world engulfing alienation and loneliness that leads to self-imposed solitary confinement and exile from all human contact. That also being stated, the stories, are written in Le Clezio’s more mature style. This can clearly be seen in the following passage from the story: “Ariadne,”
“The people aren’t anywhere to be seen; they’ve disappeared. The hulls of parked cars stand alone, just like these out in the immense car graveyards a little way upriver. This is their day, a day for abandoned carcasses with no motors, no doors, no wheels, with headlights gouged out, windshields shattered, hoods gaping and showing the black holes from which their cylinder heads have been torn.”
Immediately, it shows Le Clezio’s more well known mature style, that he had become famous for, and would later help him to go on to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. However the themes here are certainly pay homage to his rebellious youth; his pessimistic leanings in a modernized and consumerist world. The world, in which Le Clezio writes about, is a lament. A lament, of a world that is overdeveloped and in the process loses its self. The story: “Villa Aurora,” is a prime example. It’s a story that depicts a childhood paradise of memory, and nostalgia, slowly be consumed by the ever progressing world. However it had a lot, of that similar prose, that drew me into: “Mondo: and Other Stories.”
“Still, it's strange too when I think about those days--it's as if we all knew she was there, that she lived in the house, that this was her realm. Without even knowing what her real name was, we were aware of her presence; we were her familiars, her neighbors. There was a part of her that dwelled in the place, up there on the hilltop back them. Something we couldn’t really see but that was present in the trees, in the palms, in the shape of the white house, in the two stone pillars of the gateway, and in the high, rusty gate chained shut.”
It held true, to my preconceived notion of what the story would be like. It is draped in ethereal evocations and mixed with a heavy atmosphere of dream like, uncertainty. It was by far the only story that allowed me to truly conceive the notion that it held that similar sliver to the works that I have read before, and held dear, because of that capability. However “Villa Aurora,” was still off. It didn’t quite strike the same chord. This bothered me the most, because I know that the capability was there, it truly was. Somehow Le Clezio lost that ability. He was unable to reproduce old results; or I had come into the work with higher expectations. Yet I read on, holding my disappointment aside. The story finishes with, a portrait of times progression forward, and its lack of care or understanding of what it leaves behind:
“A year later, I was able to return to the hilltop. I'd thought about it constantly, and despite all the activity and futility of student life, deep down, there was still that feeling of uneasiness in me. Why? I think that ultimately I'd never quite been able to get used to not being what I had been, the child who went through the breach in the wall and who'd found all those hiding places and passageways there in the great wild garden among the cats and insect calls. It has remained within me, alive deep down inside me, despite all the wide world that had drawn me away.”
In a sense this story about the childhood homecoming, to only find one’s own childhood being engulfed in a world of window dressing and superficiality is, quite melancholic. One word that is associated with “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” is “depressing.” The story “Villa Aurora,” begins with an air of uncertainty in one’s own memory. It shifts then towards tainted and rose tinted memories that are akin to that of a fairy story. It then ends, with the note that a childhood paradise becomes a lonely beacon of hope – that will eventually meet its own demise, in a forever progressing world. When the light keeper dies so does the light.
Le Clezio is a rich writer. His work is wealthy and detailed, and written with such a beautiful style. His eye is trained to the landscape. It showcases his well traversed life. It comes to such a pity that, Le Clezio has depicted the landscapes here as deserted and alienated worlds. These worlds showcase human suffering in solitude, and alienated to the point of being disenfranchised. Le Clezio has compassion for these characters. They are the overlooked; the underprivileged. Le Clezio offers his compassionate gaze to these characters; and in doing so, has in a sense written this book about them, in a sense, to try and offer justice to their situations. The truth of the matter is, one must first know, and be acquainted with these harsh realities. If not, they come across, as someone standing on their soapbox crying out in monotonous voice, of how those who allow these atrocities to continue are as much to blame for the suffering of their fellow mankind/humankind then those who crack the whip. This is what leads “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” to become monotonous in its reading. To call it literary indigestion, would not be far off. However, it does offer a portrait into Le Clezio’s personal obsessions in regards to the disenfranchised or lost. However, I prefer Le Clezio when he is not taking up the mantel of social injustice writer. I prefer Le Clezio when he evokes nostalgia; not detailing the failures and limitations of society or of language. Perhaps after “Mondo: and Other Stories,” becomes less apparent in my memory, I can come back to “The Round and Other Cold Hard Facts,” with a less biased tone and understanding of the author.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 6 November 2014
Radio
Hello Gentle Reader
Compression versus augmentation is a constant debate that is waged with my own reading preferences. Does a novel of shorter length, more lyrical prose, and a more focused approach, thrive better; than the sprawling novel of five hundred pages or more, with its expansive gestures and movements, as well as its cast of characters, that can afford the occasional monologue, and philosophical discussions and debates. It continually appears, that shorter novels are more my preference then their longer counterparts. If it takes a writer, five hundred to a thousand pages (or more) to say anything of profundity or at least anything of interest; then there is no point in reading such a novel. The current fashion trend, in American letters is a desire for the larger scale novels. The most recent example that comes to mind is “The Goldfinch,” by Donna Tartt which comes in at about seven-hundred and eighty four pages long. Before Tartt’s novel, there was DeLillo’s novel “Underworld,” at eight hundred and twenty seven pages; and between these two authors and their novels there was Pynchon’s novel “Against the Day,” at one thousand and eighty five pages long. Yet America is not entirely alone in this literary verbose event. The Hungarian writer Peter Nadas novel “Parallel Stories,” clocks in at one thousand five hundred and twenty pages long. Its best described as a phone book. Why some authors feel a desperate need to write ‘big books,’ is beyond me. Perhaps the subject matter requires it; or the style; or the plot. The last large novel, that I have read, and had exhausted me was Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook.” This novel reaffirmed to me the exhaustive powers of a ‘big book.’ It was long and had its moments; but its ambitions were not always fruitful or full filled.
“The Golden Notebook,” had its moments of awe, and profound understanding. At the same time, it appeared that Doris Lessing had bit off more then she could chew at times. The yellow notebook, was supposed to be a novel on its own – which ended up becoming a tedious read. The red notebook, was idealistic, and showcased Lessing’s eventual distrust of all ideologies – organized and not. The black notebook detailed memories of her time in Africa, and the eventual roots of her communist leanings; later to be distanced in the red notebook. The blue notebook was the one that tied them together. In the end “The Golden Notebook,” suffered at its own length. The book moved like a heart monitor. There are moments of progression that lead to intense passion, and intellectual stimulation until they reached their zenith. Then the slow decline, and the final rut and nadir become complacent once again. It becomes a rollercoaster read. After a while though, it becomes tedious reading. What saved Lessing’s novel? Her ability to write the novel during a social changing time; also to place the novel in this social movement; but also to look into the individual in a fragmented concept of different beings and facades and slowly pull back the layers bit by bit.
“Radio,” by Tõnu Õnnepalu, falls into this big book trap. Admittedly Gentle Reader, I did not finish this book. After countless attempts getting through the novel; and a attitude that: ‘I must persist,’ it eventually became clear; that Õnnepalu’s second English translated novel was by all means, weightless, flat and plotless. The greatest disappointment with “Radio,” is that: I knew Õnnepalu could do better. To compare “Border State,” and “Radio,” is not fair. “Border State,” thrived on its poetic language, its drifting narrative – between memories, confession, and meditation. “Radio,” on the other hand, was filled with observations and commentary; but by a conceited narrator, whose views of the world are of a jaded nature. The back of the book even states the grotesqueries of the narrator by stating that he is: “oversensitive and narcissistic,” two statements that turned out to be unfortunately true. The narrator of this novel is the centre piece; but he is self-absorbed, superficial, and has a condescending view of the world around him. The narrator continually juxtaposes, memories of his homeland: communist Estonia; to that of his experiences in Paris, France. The consensus of the narrator is: capitalism did not beat communism in some ideology war. Capitalism has just become the preferred state of living for the time being.
One of the greatest faults of this novel is the lack of any engaging character. Characters are filtered through the narrator’s eyes; and are open to his opinions, judgments and biases. Any sense of personality or individuality is quickly disregarded as unnecessary and irrelevant. This leads all other characters; all other individuals that may come up throughout his novel, to become flat, and as tasteless as cardboard; and it quickly becomes apparent that, when they are reintroduced, it is hard to remember who they are and their relationship to the narrator. The only character, which is given any room to breathe and develop, is that of: Liz Franz. She is the narrator’s infatuation and obsession. A memory that has since disappeared, and now is a constant reminder of the narrators alienation and loneliness, in the greater world. Despite this however, her story is quickly watered down with the endless bombardments and commentaries of soviet history, and local history, folklore, and other mundane and menial observations.
“Radio,” is a novel of details – of every kind of detail; filtered through the lenses of a self-absorbed, narcissistic, middle-aged homosexual filmmaker. The novel is filled with this narrators opinions of modern society; the fashion faux pas, called communism; and general observations wrapped with condescending remarks, acerbic judgments; and fantasies that could never come true, or have since fallen into memories ashes. While reading it, until the point that I stopped; I realized that there was no way that I could read a five hundred and sixty five page novel; of one individuals constant vitriolic assessments of society on one side or the society on the other hand. There was nothing engaging in this novel; despite the promises that were given by the publisher; and the promises of reading Õnnepalu prior to this book. The novel suffers in its concepts it wishes to convey without the proper way of doing so. It’s a sluggish book; wrapped up in its own ideas, rather than presenting them in a unique format, that will engage a reader.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Compression versus augmentation is a constant debate that is waged with my own reading preferences. Does a novel of shorter length, more lyrical prose, and a more focused approach, thrive better; than the sprawling novel of five hundred pages or more, with its expansive gestures and movements, as well as its cast of characters, that can afford the occasional monologue, and philosophical discussions and debates. It continually appears, that shorter novels are more my preference then their longer counterparts. If it takes a writer, five hundred to a thousand pages (or more) to say anything of profundity or at least anything of interest; then there is no point in reading such a novel. The current fashion trend, in American letters is a desire for the larger scale novels. The most recent example that comes to mind is “The Goldfinch,” by Donna Tartt which comes in at about seven-hundred and eighty four pages long. Before Tartt’s novel, there was DeLillo’s novel “Underworld,” at eight hundred and twenty seven pages; and between these two authors and their novels there was Pynchon’s novel “Against the Day,” at one thousand and eighty five pages long. Yet America is not entirely alone in this literary verbose event. The Hungarian writer Peter Nadas novel “Parallel Stories,” clocks in at one thousand five hundred and twenty pages long. Its best described as a phone book. Why some authors feel a desperate need to write ‘big books,’ is beyond me. Perhaps the subject matter requires it; or the style; or the plot. The last large novel, that I have read, and had exhausted me was Doris Lessing’s “The Golden Notebook.” This novel reaffirmed to me the exhaustive powers of a ‘big book.’ It was long and had its moments; but its ambitions were not always fruitful or full filled.
“The Golden Notebook,” had its moments of awe, and profound understanding. At the same time, it appeared that Doris Lessing had bit off more then she could chew at times. The yellow notebook, was supposed to be a novel on its own – which ended up becoming a tedious read. The red notebook, was idealistic, and showcased Lessing’s eventual distrust of all ideologies – organized and not. The black notebook detailed memories of her time in Africa, and the eventual roots of her communist leanings; later to be distanced in the red notebook. The blue notebook was the one that tied them together. In the end “The Golden Notebook,” suffered at its own length. The book moved like a heart monitor. There are moments of progression that lead to intense passion, and intellectual stimulation until they reached their zenith. Then the slow decline, and the final rut and nadir become complacent once again. It becomes a rollercoaster read. After a while though, it becomes tedious reading. What saved Lessing’s novel? Her ability to write the novel during a social changing time; also to place the novel in this social movement; but also to look into the individual in a fragmented concept of different beings and facades and slowly pull back the layers bit by bit.
“Radio,” by Tõnu Õnnepalu, falls into this big book trap. Admittedly Gentle Reader, I did not finish this book. After countless attempts getting through the novel; and a attitude that: ‘I must persist,’ it eventually became clear; that Õnnepalu’s second English translated novel was by all means, weightless, flat and plotless. The greatest disappointment with “Radio,” is that: I knew Õnnepalu could do better. To compare “Border State,” and “Radio,” is not fair. “Border State,” thrived on its poetic language, its drifting narrative – between memories, confession, and meditation. “Radio,” on the other hand, was filled with observations and commentary; but by a conceited narrator, whose views of the world are of a jaded nature. The back of the book even states the grotesqueries of the narrator by stating that he is: “oversensitive and narcissistic,” two statements that turned out to be unfortunately true. The narrator of this novel is the centre piece; but he is self-absorbed, superficial, and has a condescending view of the world around him. The narrator continually juxtaposes, memories of his homeland: communist Estonia; to that of his experiences in Paris, France. The consensus of the narrator is: capitalism did not beat communism in some ideology war. Capitalism has just become the preferred state of living for the time being.
One of the greatest faults of this novel is the lack of any engaging character. Characters are filtered through the narrator’s eyes; and are open to his opinions, judgments and biases. Any sense of personality or individuality is quickly disregarded as unnecessary and irrelevant. This leads all other characters; all other individuals that may come up throughout his novel, to become flat, and as tasteless as cardboard; and it quickly becomes apparent that, when they are reintroduced, it is hard to remember who they are and their relationship to the narrator. The only character, which is given any room to breathe and develop, is that of: Liz Franz. She is the narrator’s infatuation and obsession. A memory that has since disappeared, and now is a constant reminder of the narrators alienation and loneliness, in the greater world. Despite this however, her story is quickly watered down with the endless bombardments and commentaries of soviet history, and local history, folklore, and other mundane and menial observations.
“Radio,” is a novel of details – of every kind of detail; filtered through the lenses of a self-absorbed, narcissistic, middle-aged homosexual filmmaker. The novel is filled with this narrators opinions of modern society; the fashion faux pas, called communism; and general observations wrapped with condescending remarks, acerbic judgments; and fantasies that could never come true, or have since fallen into memories ashes. While reading it, until the point that I stopped; I realized that there was no way that I could read a five hundred and sixty five page novel; of one individuals constant vitriolic assessments of society on one side or the society on the other hand. There was nothing engaging in this novel; despite the promises that were given by the publisher; and the promises of reading Õnnepalu prior to this book. The novel suffers in its concepts it wishes to convey without the proper way of doing so. It’s a sluggish book; wrapped up in its own ideas, rather than presenting them in a unique format, that will engage a reader.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 30 October 2014
The Origin of the World
Hello Gentle Reader
I have read Michon prior. His debut “Small Lives,” caught and piqued my interest with its premise. However, when I opened the book up, I had discovered, that I had stumbled upon a writer, who at the time struck me as a: adjective addicted author, who juiced with continual pretentious adjectives, to fill his sentences with his own cleverness. I was not by any means impressed with finishing the book. The novel itself began, like one would begin walking into a forest. It’s beautiful and a wonder to behold. However after journeying deeper, the landscape changed more: the sentences grew in their length; the adjectives became more abundant, and I had become lost. I had broken the cardinal rule of traveling in unfamiliar landscapes: leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Yet it in the end it did not matter. After getting over the pretentions laid down by what I saw as a young authors attempt at appearing as great the authors before him, with is unnecessary verbosity; I trudged on and finished the book with ambivalent uncertainty. In the end, and after reading “Small Lives,” there were large amounts of trepidation. The prose it seemed was overtly saturated, and far too sweetened with the authors own attempts at poetic grandiloquent wit with language, and redundant prose. Time lapsed however, and once again I would give Michon another go. His next novel was again published by one of my favourite publishers: Archipelago Books; was “The Eleven.” A slim novel, which tackled a, fictional artists, painting that depicts the eleven members of The Committee for Public Safety during the Reign of Terror, which followed the French Revolution. This attempt lasted by only a few pages, before its purple conceited behavior ended up being redundant, tedious and contrite. After my attempts at reading “The Eleven,” and the failed acts of trying to engage me as a reader, I started to wonder, what is it that everyone is praising with Michon? Have I somehow failed to miss the enjoyment, and the intellectual stimulation, that is promised with Michon’s work? After doubting myself, I started to look at the author’s work, which I had read. “The Eleven,” was conceited and contrite of its own self-absorbed world, written in such purple prose, that it failed to see its own failures. “Small Lives,” I had been forgiving with. It was a first novel. The attempt at polishing and over indulgence in a thesaurus was novice. I weighted my findings carefully. Yet I decided to give Michon another try. Despite my frustrations with his previous work, there was an inclination; that there was something in his works that I was missing. “The Origin of The World,” happened to be a book of redeeming qualities, which showcases in positive light, Michon’s prose, as being short, but dense.
Desire and love are two edges of the same knife. However, the both deal with the concept of attraction in different manners. Where love is conceived through time and getting to know an individual. Desire is spawned from a shallow pool of lust. Where love can be sustained; desire is all about the instantaneous gratification of the now. It is only the quenching of the fire of raging hormones. Love pushes the darkness back. Love is the understanding of two hearts beating at the same frequency; on a level of mutual understanding. Michon’s portraitist of a novel: “The Origin of The World,” discusses the painful tribulations of having desire; and the realities of realising that they are not, to be attained; and the cruelties, that take place after which the tormented emotions find their release. The prose is dense as it is thick; to further showcase its observant powers. It is an imagist like book. It orbits around observations, and dream like fantasies. Compared to the portraits that Michon has done prior – such as those detailing the lives of painters; and other famous individuals like Rimbaud; “The Origin of The World,” is almost akin to that of a conventional novel.
The landscape, in which Michon describes, becomes less and less than a scenic backdrop; but rather a character in itself that has shaped the original inhabits of it. Our narrator is an outsider. He is a young twenty year old teacher; he arrives in this new desolate and ancient world, by bus and is greeted by the September autumnal rains. Our narrator however, appears to assimilate in the town rather quickly. He settles into the hotel; and finds food, beer, and the atmosphere of the town in its poignant bar.
“Three steps took you down into the bar, it was painted that blood red once called rouge antique; it smelled of saltpeter; between long silences, a scattering of seated drinkers spoke loudly of gunshots and fishing; their movements in the low light cast their shadows over the walls; if you looked above the counter you would see a stuffed fox start at you, its pointed head turned violently your way but with its body running along the length of the wall, as if in flight.”
The above passage, gives an immediate sense of the new surroundings in which the narrator finds himself. He is young, and that is the only detail that has been given beforehand. His life before this town are not known. The town itself has been exiled out of, times ruling realms; and has since become squandered; with only fishing and scaling as terms for discussion. While reading the above passage, there came a sense of nostalgia. Where this bar was red; where I had come from the local bar was painted blue; though the colour inside was that of a wasted liver. The colour of cowardice and beer. Yellow now is a continual reminder of attempts to flee the mundane monotony of everyday life. – Despite the above passage however, Michon shows his Faulknerian flare for a shift in the perspective, from a simple description; to a passage that reflects the mental anguish of the narrator at the prospect of meeting his new students:
“The night, the creature’s eyes, the red walls, these peoples rough talk, their archaic words— all of this sent me back to some uncertain, pleasure less moment passed, filled me with a vague fear that was compounded by the fear of soon having to face m students: this past seemed to be my future, these shady fisherman whose captains were loading me onto the rickety raft of the adult life, and who reaching the rivers middle, were stripping me and throwing me to the bottom [ . . . ],”
It becomes clear, that the narrator finds himself uncomfortable in his new role as both teacher and as an adult. He is no longer a student; and no longer a child. He will become a figure of authority both as a teacher and as an adult. Michon’s prose in these regards are matter of fact and sardonic. However, our young narrator soon becomes acquainted with the object of his desire. A simple tobacconist; who runs a shop. How our narrator finds her desirable is not made clear, through the prose. Yet she is described, through and through – with prose that is at once innocent in its sheer objective desire; and sexually malicious in its juvenile need to quench the primitive thirst.
The novel is filled with atmosphere, which is rendered beautifully thanks to Michon’s writing. It’s dazzling and polished to almost baroque effect. However if you are looking for a novel of a traditional narrative, it would be wise to omit this novel. What happens is lost eventually. The entire text and novella is strained through, time after time, to ensure the quality becomes dense, polished and pristine. Any hint of any traditional structure of the novel is quickly, sifted out. What is left is a novel that survives not on plot; but on its slice of life vignettes and observations. The language is both what keeps this book together; but is also its sole challenger as well. After a while the words, begin to melt in to one another and if a reader is not patient in their reading of the novel, there will be disappointment and frustrations. There is a slight sense of satisfaction though, of reading a Michon novel, and seeing why the author has the reputation that he has. When one says that a short novel or short prose is lightweight, Michon is the author to prove that, that perspective is wrong. His prose is dense, and seethes with details. Michon is a portraitist. His works are intimate and detailed. He is the writer and the champion of the details that go unnoticed. The author is not one of cinematic panoramas. His work is poetic, dense and intensely intimate; almost to a fault. Yet his detailed approach give his works, their own blend of literary uncertainty in a good way. Short is powerful. Small is grand. It is also difficult and packed with ideas profound and philosophical. Michon is proof of that.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
I have read Michon prior. His debut “Small Lives,” caught and piqued my interest with its premise. However, when I opened the book up, I had discovered, that I had stumbled upon a writer, who at the time struck me as a: adjective addicted author, who juiced with continual pretentious adjectives, to fill his sentences with his own cleverness. I was not by any means impressed with finishing the book. The novel itself began, like one would begin walking into a forest. It’s beautiful and a wonder to behold. However after journeying deeper, the landscape changed more: the sentences grew in their length; the adjectives became more abundant, and I had become lost. I had broken the cardinal rule of traveling in unfamiliar landscapes: leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. Yet it in the end it did not matter. After getting over the pretentions laid down by what I saw as a young authors attempt at appearing as great the authors before him, with is unnecessary verbosity; I trudged on and finished the book with ambivalent uncertainty. In the end, and after reading “Small Lives,” there were large amounts of trepidation. The prose it seemed was overtly saturated, and far too sweetened with the authors own attempts at poetic grandiloquent wit with language, and redundant prose. Time lapsed however, and once again I would give Michon another go. His next novel was again published by one of my favourite publishers: Archipelago Books; was “The Eleven.” A slim novel, which tackled a, fictional artists, painting that depicts the eleven members of The Committee for Public Safety during the Reign of Terror, which followed the French Revolution. This attempt lasted by only a few pages, before its purple conceited behavior ended up being redundant, tedious and contrite. After my attempts at reading “The Eleven,” and the failed acts of trying to engage me as a reader, I started to wonder, what is it that everyone is praising with Michon? Have I somehow failed to miss the enjoyment, and the intellectual stimulation, that is promised with Michon’s work? After doubting myself, I started to look at the author’s work, which I had read. “The Eleven,” was conceited and contrite of its own self-absorbed world, written in such purple prose, that it failed to see its own failures. “Small Lives,” I had been forgiving with. It was a first novel. The attempt at polishing and over indulgence in a thesaurus was novice. I weighted my findings carefully. Yet I decided to give Michon another try. Despite my frustrations with his previous work, there was an inclination; that there was something in his works that I was missing. “The Origin of The World,” happened to be a book of redeeming qualities, which showcases in positive light, Michon’s prose, as being short, but dense.
Desire and love are two edges of the same knife. However, the both deal with the concept of attraction in different manners. Where love is conceived through time and getting to know an individual. Desire is spawned from a shallow pool of lust. Where love can be sustained; desire is all about the instantaneous gratification of the now. It is only the quenching of the fire of raging hormones. Love pushes the darkness back. Love is the understanding of two hearts beating at the same frequency; on a level of mutual understanding. Michon’s portraitist of a novel: “The Origin of The World,” discusses the painful tribulations of having desire; and the realities of realising that they are not, to be attained; and the cruelties, that take place after which the tormented emotions find their release. The prose is dense as it is thick; to further showcase its observant powers. It is an imagist like book. It orbits around observations, and dream like fantasies. Compared to the portraits that Michon has done prior – such as those detailing the lives of painters; and other famous individuals like Rimbaud; “The Origin of The World,” is almost akin to that of a conventional novel.
The landscape, in which Michon describes, becomes less and less than a scenic backdrop; but rather a character in itself that has shaped the original inhabits of it. Our narrator is an outsider. He is a young twenty year old teacher; he arrives in this new desolate and ancient world, by bus and is greeted by the September autumnal rains. Our narrator however, appears to assimilate in the town rather quickly. He settles into the hotel; and finds food, beer, and the atmosphere of the town in its poignant bar.
“Three steps took you down into the bar, it was painted that blood red once called rouge antique; it smelled of saltpeter; between long silences, a scattering of seated drinkers spoke loudly of gunshots and fishing; their movements in the low light cast their shadows over the walls; if you looked above the counter you would see a stuffed fox start at you, its pointed head turned violently your way but with its body running along the length of the wall, as if in flight.”
The above passage, gives an immediate sense of the new surroundings in which the narrator finds himself. He is young, and that is the only detail that has been given beforehand. His life before this town are not known. The town itself has been exiled out of, times ruling realms; and has since become squandered; with only fishing and scaling as terms for discussion. While reading the above passage, there came a sense of nostalgia. Where this bar was red; where I had come from the local bar was painted blue; though the colour inside was that of a wasted liver. The colour of cowardice and beer. Yellow now is a continual reminder of attempts to flee the mundane monotony of everyday life. – Despite the above passage however, Michon shows his Faulknerian flare for a shift in the perspective, from a simple description; to a passage that reflects the mental anguish of the narrator at the prospect of meeting his new students:
“The night, the creature’s eyes, the red walls, these peoples rough talk, their archaic words— all of this sent me back to some uncertain, pleasure less moment passed, filled me with a vague fear that was compounded by the fear of soon having to face m students: this past seemed to be my future, these shady fisherman whose captains were loading me onto the rickety raft of the adult life, and who reaching the rivers middle, were stripping me and throwing me to the bottom [ . . . ],”
It becomes clear, that the narrator finds himself uncomfortable in his new role as both teacher and as an adult. He is no longer a student; and no longer a child. He will become a figure of authority both as a teacher and as an adult. Michon’s prose in these regards are matter of fact and sardonic. However, our young narrator soon becomes acquainted with the object of his desire. A simple tobacconist; who runs a shop. How our narrator finds her desirable is not made clear, through the prose. Yet she is described, through and through – with prose that is at once innocent in its sheer objective desire; and sexually malicious in its juvenile need to quench the primitive thirst.
The novel is filled with atmosphere, which is rendered beautifully thanks to Michon’s writing. It’s dazzling and polished to almost baroque effect. However if you are looking for a novel of a traditional narrative, it would be wise to omit this novel. What happens is lost eventually. The entire text and novella is strained through, time after time, to ensure the quality becomes dense, polished and pristine. Any hint of any traditional structure of the novel is quickly, sifted out. What is left is a novel that survives not on plot; but on its slice of life vignettes and observations. The language is both what keeps this book together; but is also its sole challenger as well. After a while the words, begin to melt in to one another and if a reader is not patient in their reading of the novel, there will be disappointment and frustrations. There is a slight sense of satisfaction though, of reading a Michon novel, and seeing why the author has the reputation that he has. When one says that a short novel or short prose is lightweight, Michon is the author to prove that, that perspective is wrong. His prose is dense, and seethes with details. Michon is a portraitist. His works are intimate and detailed. He is the writer and the champion of the details that go unnoticed. The author is not one of cinematic panoramas. His work is poetic, dense and intensely intimate; almost to a fault. Yet his detailed approach give his works, their own blend of literary uncertainty in a good way. Short is powerful. Small is grand. It is also difficult and packed with ideas profound and philosophical. Michon is proof of that.
Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*
M. Mary
Thursday, 23 October 2014
Mama Leone
Hello Gentle Reader
There are a few processes in regards to time and its unhindered passage. The first is birth. This is the first moment, where the individual that is being born, has no control over anything that happens: the circumstances in which they are being born; to whom they are being born to; and most importantly the entire event itself, and that very first breath. The novel itself best describes this passage into the world:
“I still didn’t understand at that point, so I filled my lungs with a deep breath and for the first time in my life confronted a paradox: though I didn’t have others to compare it to, the world where I’d appeared was terrifying, but something forced me to breathe, to bind myself to it in a way I never managed to bind myself to any woman.”
From there comes that lengthy process called “growing up.” It’s that process from toddler to child to teenager, which one develops, begins to understand the world, experience everything, and have a sense of boundaries instilled in them. This period in everyone’s life time feels like it stands still. The days feel long and never ending; the nights continually young – and stolen by the command that it is time for bed. As a child time was experienced at much more decelerated rate. Still everything was met with impatience. There was no time for waiting. Yet as time goes on, as children one begins to understand the fundamental difference between being a child, and the adults that surround them: years and time. Children (at least I did) was well aware of how different they are treated then their adult compatriots. Opinion – what could a child possibly know in regards to matters that would require an opinion? In this sense children are quickly scolded or patronized in some manner or another. This always leads to a child to have that aching suspicion that they are missing out on something; and after awhile time begins to move far to slow, and a desire – if not a need to grow up faster; becomes more apparent.
While reading “Mama Leone,” I immediately came to reflect at periodicals on other books that I have read from a child’s perspective: “Touch,” by Adania Shibli and “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy were often reflected on while reading “Mama Leone,” – at least in the first part. But looking back throughout my collection of books, I smile at the characters who were children, that left an impression on me, or who I had enjoyed their perspectives from. The list could go on, from Kamal from “The Cairo Trilogy,” or “Lullaby,” from “Mondo and Other Stories.” These characters showcase a fresh and oddly eccentric view on the world around them. The smallest of issues – like getting into trouble; being shooed off, being reprimanded; but also when the adult world intrudes into the childhood realm of simpler understandings; and a child understanding that their world is being invaded by ‘adult problems.’ To be honest though, there is no nostalgia or reflection held towards my own childhood. Yet reading a book, which is portrayed from a child’s perspective, is always entertaining. Their world is fresh, new and exciting. Such books display a world, where adult concerns of the world, have yet to interlope and take root. Then again in my own childhood, I was worried that leaving lights on in the house would run up the electricity bill, up to the point, that it would no longer be affordable; which was paradoxical to my own fear of the dark, which lead to my own persistence of having the necessity of a night light. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the little girl from “Touch.” Her battles were grand, yet upon adult reflection, so miniscule to larger events. Much like Lullaby from “Lullaby,” who makes the decision not to return to school; and yet insists she does not have a boyfriend. Then there is Daniel from “The Boy Who Had Never Seen the Sea,” who makes the courageous to go live by the sea. All of the characters who were children at one point though eventually grow up. Kamal grows up, and becomes more engaged in the outside world. Lullaby faces a dangerous encounter with a stranger, and is forced to become self-aware of her own body growing up. “Firefly,” is also not immune to the process called growing up, and suffers the challenges of the world and the pains of growing up.
Miljenko the child narrator from the first section of this book is well aware of his odd place in the world, and his small stature in it. It is apparent early on that the narrator is well aware of what separates him from the adults that surround him. His own parents are not capable of raising him, nor were they capable of sustaining their own relationship. After a while it becomes apparent that his parents could no longer love each other; as their thoughts turned from what they loved or liked of each other; but what they began to hate and dislike about each other. This leads the narrator Miljenko to be raised by grandparents. What follows is Miljenko’s confusion with the world, his attempts at understanding it, and his moments of revelation. His curiosity is childlike and absurd at times. Like asking his grandmother if an individual can: “poop out their soul.” Miljenko is skirted from Sarajevo to summer homes, because of his grandfather’s asthma. Because of this sense of restlessness brought on by being old and disease; the narrator often does his best to make everywhere home. But also comes to understand his own outsider position in the world and the cities that he travels too. He is more than well aware that his mother is not a mother to him; but a child who had happened to have him, and was therefore not mature or entirely certain of the decision to have had him in the first place, as she herself is needy and requires his grandmothers love attention as much. Though she puts in an honest attempt at raising him, with books that she has read; but it becomes painfully clear after a while she reads these childhood development and parenting books as a form of scripture. She becomes cold towards her own child, continually vivisecting his development, and criticizing him. Something Miljenko turns into a serious game to avoid, the lectures, to avoid the talks, and to just go on his, own way. One begins to understand, despite the carefree behavior that Miljenko shows; he is in the end a alienated individual.
The first part of this book could be considered autobiographical on the author’s part. Yet embellishment and poetic license must have taken place. Jergović in a sense allows all readers to think of their own mental patterns, as they observe the child Miljenko’s patterns. Watching Miljenko deal with the cruelties of the world, as atrocious and mundane as they are; like his grandmother drowning the kittens of a family cat. Trying to discover his, own place in the world; and how death is a shadow that follows those in old age. How the smallest smack or reprimanded and deserved scolding – or getting it on the snout; is warrant enough to think of ways to get back at the adult world. Such as, getting into the toy box, and imagining oneself driving away; far away. To be done with the small world we ourselves inhabit, and those that fill our lives with continual lectures, and sermons on what is to be a good person, and what constitutes to be a bad person. Yet it is the moments so tender like meeting a American who is most likely a spy and his German Shepherd Donna and declaring her his girlfriend. These are the moments that make the story great, in how they grapple with the adult world form a child’s perspective, without losing the nature childlike naivety and innocence.
The second part of this collection of short stories, are not related to the first part. The second part I found it more difficult to enjoy. After over a hundred pages surrounded with Miljenko, and his odd sense of the world, we switch to third person narrations. These narrations discuss the Balkans War. This was the war, which had split up the former Soviet state of Yugoslavia. What followed were fragmented countries, which had taken back what was there’s and their land: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia and Serbia – as well as the disputed Kosovo. Miljenko Jergović, writes in the latter part of this collection of short stories, to understand what had happened. He writes of émigré’s and refugees who have fled their war torn homeland, for somewhere else; another place to call home, as theirs was in a domestic dispute. Jergović writes of aimless wanderings, their harder lives, and their uncertain futures in these short stories. One comes to understand that the war did not just separate countries; destroy buildings, kill people – it sent people scattering to the four corners of the world; in a desperate attempt to call another place home. These stories are about their struggles, of adjusting to new worlds, new languages, and new cultures – in a place where no one knows who you are, and where they do not care. These are the stories that recount the make it or break it, lives that followed the Balkans war. Jergović is an interesting author because he is Bosnian, but lives in Croatia and writes in Croatian.
If you are to read “Mama Leone,” it should be for the first part alone on its own merits. Jergović had written empathetic stories, which a reader can relate to. Despite the stories being primarily set in Sarajevo and having a rooted sense of place and are tangible towards the surroundings; there is an understanding that these stories could have been set anywhere in the world; because they have that relatable experience of being a child and growing up. As for the second part of book, they are concerned with the eventual split and destruction of the nations involved and the displacement of the people; but there’s something off – perhaps it is because the first part was dedicated so long to a single character that, it was difficult to become attached once again to these new characters – and their vignette’s and portraits of their displacement and restlessness. In all though a great collection of short stories. Jergović is one of the greatest writes from this region of Eastern Europe; and it can plainly be seen why.
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
There are a few processes in regards to time and its unhindered passage. The first is birth. This is the first moment, where the individual that is being born, has no control over anything that happens: the circumstances in which they are being born; to whom they are being born to; and most importantly the entire event itself, and that very first breath. The novel itself best describes this passage into the world:
“I still didn’t understand at that point, so I filled my lungs with a deep breath and for the first time in my life confronted a paradox: though I didn’t have others to compare it to, the world where I’d appeared was terrifying, but something forced me to breathe, to bind myself to it in a way I never managed to bind myself to any woman.”
From there comes that lengthy process called “growing up.” It’s that process from toddler to child to teenager, which one develops, begins to understand the world, experience everything, and have a sense of boundaries instilled in them. This period in everyone’s life time feels like it stands still. The days feel long and never ending; the nights continually young – and stolen by the command that it is time for bed. As a child time was experienced at much more decelerated rate. Still everything was met with impatience. There was no time for waiting. Yet as time goes on, as children one begins to understand the fundamental difference between being a child, and the adults that surround them: years and time. Children (at least I did) was well aware of how different they are treated then their adult compatriots. Opinion – what could a child possibly know in regards to matters that would require an opinion? In this sense children are quickly scolded or patronized in some manner or another. This always leads to a child to have that aching suspicion that they are missing out on something; and after awhile time begins to move far to slow, and a desire – if not a need to grow up faster; becomes more apparent.
While reading “Mama Leone,” I immediately came to reflect at periodicals on other books that I have read from a child’s perspective: “Touch,” by Adania Shibli and “Firefly,” by Severo Sarduy were often reflected on while reading “Mama Leone,” – at least in the first part. But looking back throughout my collection of books, I smile at the characters who were children, that left an impression on me, or who I had enjoyed their perspectives from. The list could go on, from Kamal from “The Cairo Trilogy,” or “Lullaby,” from “Mondo and Other Stories.” These characters showcase a fresh and oddly eccentric view on the world around them. The smallest of issues – like getting into trouble; being shooed off, being reprimanded; but also when the adult world intrudes into the childhood realm of simpler understandings; and a child understanding that their world is being invaded by ‘adult problems.’ To be honest though, there is no nostalgia or reflection held towards my own childhood. Yet reading a book, which is portrayed from a child’s perspective, is always entertaining. Their world is fresh, new and exciting. Such books display a world, where adult concerns of the world, have yet to interlope and take root. Then again in my own childhood, I was worried that leaving lights on in the house would run up the electricity bill, up to the point, that it would no longer be affordable; which was paradoxical to my own fear of the dark, which lead to my own persistence of having the necessity of a night light. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed the little girl from “Touch.” Her battles were grand, yet upon adult reflection, so miniscule to larger events. Much like Lullaby from “Lullaby,” who makes the decision not to return to school; and yet insists she does not have a boyfriend. Then there is Daniel from “The Boy Who Had Never Seen the Sea,” who makes the courageous to go live by the sea. All of the characters who were children at one point though eventually grow up. Kamal grows up, and becomes more engaged in the outside world. Lullaby faces a dangerous encounter with a stranger, and is forced to become self-aware of her own body growing up. “Firefly,” is also not immune to the process called growing up, and suffers the challenges of the world and the pains of growing up.
Miljenko the child narrator from the first section of this book is well aware of his odd place in the world, and his small stature in it. It is apparent early on that the narrator is well aware of what separates him from the adults that surround him. His own parents are not capable of raising him, nor were they capable of sustaining their own relationship. After a while it becomes apparent that his parents could no longer love each other; as their thoughts turned from what they loved or liked of each other; but what they began to hate and dislike about each other. This leads the narrator Miljenko to be raised by grandparents. What follows is Miljenko’s confusion with the world, his attempts at understanding it, and his moments of revelation. His curiosity is childlike and absurd at times. Like asking his grandmother if an individual can: “poop out their soul.” Miljenko is skirted from Sarajevo to summer homes, because of his grandfather’s asthma. Because of this sense of restlessness brought on by being old and disease; the narrator often does his best to make everywhere home. But also comes to understand his own outsider position in the world and the cities that he travels too. He is more than well aware that his mother is not a mother to him; but a child who had happened to have him, and was therefore not mature or entirely certain of the decision to have had him in the first place, as she herself is needy and requires his grandmothers love attention as much. Though she puts in an honest attempt at raising him, with books that she has read; but it becomes painfully clear after a while she reads these childhood development and parenting books as a form of scripture. She becomes cold towards her own child, continually vivisecting his development, and criticizing him. Something Miljenko turns into a serious game to avoid, the lectures, to avoid the talks, and to just go on his, own way. One begins to understand, despite the carefree behavior that Miljenko shows; he is in the end a alienated individual.
The first part of this book could be considered autobiographical on the author’s part. Yet embellishment and poetic license must have taken place. Jergović in a sense allows all readers to think of their own mental patterns, as they observe the child Miljenko’s patterns. Watching Miljenko deal with the cruelties of the world, as atrocious and mundane as they are; like his grandmother drowning the kittens of a family cat. Trying to discover his, own place in the world; and how death is a shadow that follows those in old age. How the smallest smack or reprimanded and deserved scolding – or getting it on the snout; is warrant enough to think of ways to get back at the adult world. Such as, getting into the toy box, and imagining oneself driving away; far away. To be done with the small world we ourselves inhabit, and those that fill our lives with continual lectures, and sermons on what is to be a good person, and what constitutes to be a bad person. Yet it is the moments so tender like meeting a American who is most likely a spy and his German Shepherd Donna and declaring her his girlfriend. These are the moments that make the story great, in how they grapple with the adult world form a child’s perspective, without losing the nature childlike naivety and innocence.
The second part of this collection of short stories, are not related to the first part. The second part I found it more difficult to enjoy. After over a hundred pages surrounded with Miljenko, and his odd sense of the world, we switch to third person narrations. These narrations discuss the Balkans War. This was the war, which had split up the former Soviet state of Yugoslavia. What followed were fragmented countries, which had taken back what was there’s and their land: Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia and Serbia – as well as the disputed Kosovo. Miljenko Jergović, writes in the latter part of this collection of short stories, to understand what had happened. He writes of émigré’s and refugees who have fled their war torn homeland, for somewhere else; another place to call home, as theirs was in a domestic dispute. Jergović writes of aimless wanderings, their harder lives, and their uncertain futures in these short stories. One comes to understand that the war did not just separate countries; destroy buildings, kill people – it sent people scattering to the four corners of the world; in a desperate attempt to call another place home. These stories are about their struggles, of adjusting to new worlds, new languages, and new cultures – in a place where no one knows who you are, and where they do not care. These are the stories that recount the make it or break it, lives that followed the Balkans war. Jergović is an interesting author because he is Bosnian, but lives in Croatia and writes in Croatian.
If you are to read “Mama Leone,” it should be for the first part alone on its own merits. Jergović had written empathetic stories, which a reader can relate to. Despite the stories being primarily set in Sarajevo and having a rooted sense of place and are tangible towards the surroundings; there is an understanding that these stories could have been set anywhere in the world; because they have that relatable experience of being a child and growing up. As for the second part of book, they are concerned with the eventual split and destruction of the nations involved and the displacement of the people; but there’s something off – perhaps it is because the first part was dedicated so long to a single character that, it was difficult to become attached once again to these new characters – and their vignette’s and portraits of their displacement and restlessness. In all though a great collection of short stories. Jergović is one of the greatest writes from this region of Eastern Europe; and it can plainly be seen why.
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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