June

June

Hello Gentle Reader

“Bright Scythe: Selected Poems,” is the newest rendition of Tomas Tranströmer’s poetry to reach the English language; translated by Patty Crane. In the translated poem titled “Kyrie,” there is a line that reads: “For a long, long time till morning slips his light in the locks.” In these dark mornings; in these long nights; in these short days – each of us waits now in the shadow of winter, for summer to also slip its light in the locks. Twilight is tired. Its begrudged. The blue light is forced to herald the mornings in winter; often with a lack luster and dare I admit, mediocre trumpeting; after which the sun rises, often startling and brightly so – of course: clouds and sky permitting this unveiling of our distant star; after which it hurriedly crosses the sky and sets unceremoniously, which is only revealed by its complete absence, and the long crone’s hand of dusk has already whisked it away, and the ghosts of far more distant stars twinkle above, waving light years away. Where has summer gotten to? Where is that floral clothed creature? Where are the long days, when the dusk seems never ending; where shadows elongate, but never conquer. A time when blades of grass wear dew drops like pearl earrings? Yet, are now encrusted in diamond snowflakes which shimmer of faint memories? In these short days, in these long nights: summer becomes a dream, and a hopeful memory. A time when the world will thaw, bud and renew itself in green; and bloom into the spectrum of summer.

Gerbrand Bakker has been fortunate with the reception of his novels, which have been translated into English. His debut novel “The Twin,” won the IMPAC Literary Dublin award; and his second novel translated into English “The Detour,” (or “Ten White Geese,”) won the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize. This being said, these two novels published in English are not the proper chronological order in which they were published in the Netherlands. “The Twin,” is Gerbrand Bakker’s debut novel; but “The Detour,” is his third and most recent novel, to be published; which leads “June,” to being his second novel published in his original Dutch, but the third to be translated into English. Of the three “The Twin,” still resonates, the clearest: the two donkeys’ that are kept because they are wanted, and serve no real practical purpose on the farm. From “The Detour,” I remember socks; specifically the difference of perception and opinion between socks with holes, and well-kept socks; but also the uncle who stands in the fountain, with either confusion or disappointment. From “June,” the thought of clear blue skies, and the sweltering heat will be remembered, and how solace is found in the community pool; but also graves and acts of vandalism.

Of the three novels that Gerbrand Bakker has published thus far, “The Twin,” remains his most well-known novel, and his most highly recommended book. “The Detour,” his third published novel, and second to be translated into English; is by far is his most menacing literary work to date, and also his darkest novel, and along with “The Twin,” is a personal favourite. “June,” is different than both its predecessor and its successor; its narrative is fragmented and takes on a larger cast of characters, which offer their own perspectives and observations of the comings and goings in a June day, and reflect on the past and how it has shaped their at times unbearable and sweltering present situations. Each character within “June,” appears to be a victim of circumstances. In “June,” the past is as unforgiving and as blistering as the oppressive heat of the month and day itself; continually whipping the backs of all with pain, and demanding penance and repentance.

“June,” opens with Queen Juliana on a royal tour, where an artist is busy observing her face, and making detailed annotations and sketches of the royal visage. Then of course is her stern and duty bound assistant, always checking the schedule and time, and making comments about behaviour. The Queen herself is apathetic, bored, and sick of the royal duties that are best expressed as heightened mundane tedium. Still those who are not the Queen or apart of any royal deceleration or affair, as a daily event, this is a welcomed shattering of the typical innocuous day to day life, that would generally prevail over such days. Songs are sung; speeches are made, flowers are given, and even pygmy goats find themselves offered as a royal gift. For one mother and daughter, Anna and Hanne Kaan, the occasion was marked with both a surprise and a tragedy. If they had not been running late, Hanne Kaan would not have received that stroke on her cheek, by the Queen’s ungloved hand; if they had not been running late, perhaps the day would not have ended with such a tragedy; which all played out the June 17th nineteen-sixty nine. The day still reverberates in each characters mind. How the Queen’s visit which was marked by personal tragedy.

“June,” retraces the memories of a group of characters from the present day, to the past; and offers a atomized look at how memories, influence, and rebound through the years, affecting all those involved who try to make sense of that oppressive June day. Jaan Kaan deals with the memories, with practical required work in order to get through the day: fix up the grave, chip the paint away, and repaint the name, the dates once again. Zeeger Kaan appears to be adrift and uncertain in his approach to his wife Anna Kaan, who has once crawled up onto the hayloft once again, and talks to no one; she busies herself drinking advocaat, and at times informing her family to leave her alone. Yet there are even more characters, who make appearance sand offer their own recollections on the past, and on the rueful June day, when the Queen had stopped by to visit.

To call “June,” a novel that meditates simply on family, memory, and collective memory and its own inherent unreliability; would be a simple generalization of the novel. Bakker is an oblique storyteller often allowing for the routine day to day life, to take on greater importance then outright stating his themes and messages he wishes to convey in his narrative arc. It is only gradually that Bakker begins to reveal the undercurrents which usurp the households, the lives, and the routine habits of his characters, and then his themes are elucidated upon further. However his novels still give off a greater profound sense, then which is completely discussed in the novels, and often makes his novels appear deeper, heavier and of greater merit then other works of fiction that quickly give away the narrative, or delve into telling rather than showing. A lot in “June,” much like “The Twin,” and “The Detour,” is left unsaid, and unanswered; while at the same time, getting to momentous moments is often gradual and slow, and when these moments are reached they are understated, cool and often have a slight aloofness to them. It is hard to imagine, Bakker’s characters ever getting into a confrontation that is fueled by emotional reactions; where instead the confrontations are subtle, passive and undercutting, that if one were to read to fast, they would be passed over, or misunderstood as irrelevant.

Gerbrand Bakker is a writer who captures atmosphere with ease. Landscapes are expertly transformed and painted, with equal ease. From the grey overcast skies of wales all the way to its rolling green hills and broad valleys; to the countryside in the Netherlands from the “Twin,” expansive, flat and open both on the earth and in the sky; to the oppressive heat of June, and the slow deterioration of the farm, and the apathy caused by the heat, and the thoughts and opinions of others on the radio about how they are escaping the heat in June. However of the three novels in which Gerbrand Bakker has written “June,” is perhaps the weakest of the three. One of Bakker’s greatest successes is his ability to filter and sift the perceptions and observations of one singular character, and their experiences into a singular perception, complete with the characters own rationalizations and daily habits. In some writers this writing comes across as self-absorbed or tiresome, yet Bakker is capable of maintain interest, as well as progressive the narrative in a positive manner. However this narrative mode was dropped in favour of the fragmented narrative utilized in “June.” The experiences of the individuals there parts to play in the narrative, those interesting and often answering unique details in their own rights, at times began to slip and showcase a lesser interest, then say how “Emilie,” had accomplished in “The Detour,” or Helmer from “The Twin.” With the narrative being used in “June,” other characters may take on more paramount or prevalent perspective in favour of others, which is why it becomes slightly weaker in its narrative structure then Bakker’s other novels. However “June,” showcases Bakker’s unique writing abilities flourishing and maturing further and further, as he is a quiet writer, and a quiet talent, but despite this manages to pact a huge literary punch.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read

M. Mary

How the Jade Loops and Hangs

Hello Gentle Reader               

( Part I )

It’s been quite a year(s) for the young author and poet Sarah Howe. Earlier Sarah Howe was named the winner of the Sunday Times/Peters Fraser and Dunlop young writer of the year award; whose alumni include Zadie Smith, Robert Mcfarlane as well as Simon Armitage. The award is given to the best piece of fiction, non-fiction, or poetry by a British or Irish writer, under the age of thirty-five. Sarah Howe, was the only poet to be shortlisted; and she competed against the Booker nominated writer, Sunjeev Sahota and his novel “The Year of the Runaways,” along with Sara Taylor, the Bailey-award nominee for her novel “The Shore,” and Ben Fergusson with his historical winning novel “The Spring of Kasper Meier.” Yet Sarah How and her poetry collection “Loop of Jade,” won the award. The judges called the decision unanimous, and praised the poet for her subtle and immediate literary workmanship.

It should be noted that Sarah Howe, is a Hong Kong born, British writer. Her poetry collection, “Loop of Jade,” retraces her childhood in Hong Kong, but also discusses her mother, who was a abandoned child in China; most likely because she was a girl. The collection took ten years to write. Though the amount of time it took to write is now paying off with the reception given to Sarah Howe, and her first collection of poetry. “Loop of Jade,” has also been called one of the best poetry books of 2015.

Success though, does not end there, for either Sarah Howe, or her debut collection of poetry. Sarah Howe has just been awarded The T.S. Eliot Prize for Poetry.

Sarah Howe however has commented that this is very interesting times for poetry. In the UK at the moment, poetry has been taken notice of, and right now occupies the “nation’s consciousness.” Especially considering the fierce debate lately, over whether or not poetry still has a place, in a nation’s consciousness, and is in fact drifting further and further down the river of oblivion and therefore obsoleting. Still poetry is not the only victim of the times; literature in general is under assault, and threat of being shelved – or so its detractors state. Yet this is hope. Sarah Howe’s collection has been called splendid, carefully crafted, and gracious. Her collection is personal and a discussion of the duality of her cultural heritage. There is no doubt that she is not a worthy recipient of both awards, and is an emerging talented poetic voice to enter the literary stage.

( Part II )

Hong Kong though itself, finds itself in continual turmoil. This time five booksellers have ‘vanished.’ A disturbing and vague word, that rings with ambiguity, as to their fate, and the means of their abduction. The first thought that always comes to mind, is the black clothed people, entering a home at night, and just ‘bagging,’ an individual away – much like the Mister Creedy method depicted in the film “V for Vendetta,” which gave a new rise to the idea and saying: “bag’em and gag’em.” Though the individuals may have not slipped into the houses of the booksellers and publishers, it is clear they have ended up in some ‘black bag,’ and carted off into some covert government facility.

These latest disappearances and silencing of free speech have led many to call it a violation of the “One State, Two Government Policy,” which was agreed upon between Mainland China, and Hong Kong, when the former was bequeathed as a British Colony in nineteen-ninety seven. Perhaps now it would be safe to state: the Fragrant Harbour is not as autonomous in its administrative abilities at once previously thought.

Yu Jie is the author currently at the heart of the question in regards to the missing publishers. His book which is critical of Xi Jinping, who has turned the “Chinese Dream,” into a nightmare, with his repressive policies and oppressive governing style, has found publishers pulling back from publishing his book, and unwilling to consider publishing it now, considering the fear that they two will end up in a black bag, and a neighboring cell of their compatriots. The fear has been so infectious that a Singaporean book selling chain has taken on a policy that it will no longer sell any ‘politically sensitive,’ books in its Hong Kong location. As it stands, Yu Jie’s book will not find any publication in Hong Kong in the coming future; but it is set to be released in Taiwan in February.

But still action has been taken. Thousands have protested the disappearances of the booksellers and publishers; and numerous countries are concerned with the vanishing act of these individuals. The truth is, fear can only be potent if it allows one to be infected and inflicted with its paralyzing effects; those who march, chant, protest, and continue to demand for the release of either the individuals or the information of their whereabouts, are certainly performing their civil obligations for their follow citizens and protecting their freedoms, before they too are under threat or even taken. Despite Mo Yan stance that “censorship is a necessary evil,” it must be perfectly made clear, that being silent – voluntarily or forcibly;  is never necessary, but it is certainly evil.

( Part III )

Congratulations are to be given to Sarah Howe, for her recent accumulation of awards and achievements; and condolences and thoughts go to the families, of those who are missing, in Hong Kong; as well as to those who see a reversion back into a formal dictatorship of China, and its nightmare that appears to be forming once again.

Yet this blog post also has its own ulterior motives. Recently in the past year and now new year, it has become increasingly difficult to make time to read. Most of my time is engaged with course work – at the moment reading and understanding Business Law and all its dry and unfortunate glory. Its consumption of time is quite startling and even frightening at times; considering how at times, I am not entirely sure if I am; comprehending what is being outlined to me by the textbook and subsequent course work. Still I plug away, and yet find little or less time to read.

Currently I am getting through “Tristano Dies,” by Antonio Tabucchi, and am currently impressed by the work; however the last time I picked up the book was Sunday when I found the time to read it, while at work, before getting back to work, and eventually getting back into doing more course work; which inevitably means reading more about business law . . .

But one ploughs through because they must. Hopefully I can properly schedule more time Gentle Reader, to read more and continue with the blog. For the time being I hope the previous posts, and this one continues to engage, if only to stall for now, while I work making time to read more.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

The Nobel Prize: 1965 Nominations

Hello Gentle Reader

The year was nineteen-sixty five, and that year’s Nobel Laureate for Literature was Mikhail Sholokhov, from the then Soviet Union. The award was controversial. Back in nineteen-fifty eight Sholokhov was one of the many Russian writers to condemn Boris Pasternak, the Russian writer who ‘voluntarily,’ declined his own Nobel; Sholokhov however accepted his own. Despite this though, the committee voted unanimously in to award the Prize to Sholokhov; though it did dissent, and considered in discussion of giving the joint award to both Mikhail Sholokhov, as well as to the Soul of the Silver Age of Russian literature, the poet Anna Akhmatova; but this was shot down by the Swedish Academy’s committee chairman Anders Österling, who argued: the only two things the writers had in common with one another, was their language. It should also be noted that Anders Österling was the most adamant supporter of Sholokhov, and perhaps lobbied for the award to be given to him; despite his own sympathies and luxurious treatment showering him, by the Soviet government and the Soviet Writers Association.

But Mikhail Sholokhov had competition: W.H. Auden, Samuel Beckett (who would later go on and become a laureate four years later, in nineteen-sixty nine), W. Somerset Maugham, but also Jorge Luis Borges, and Vladimir Nabokov; as well as Pablo Neruda (who would later go on and receive the award in nineteen-seventy one).

Sholokhov faced criticism of his own though. The Nobel Laureate in Literature of nineteen-seventy, the Russian dissident writer Alexandr Solzhenitsyn accused Sholokhov, along with a small group of writers; of plagiarising his most famous novel “And Quiet Flows the Don,” from a manuscript of another writer: Fyodor Kryukov. Sholokhov not surprising denied the claims; “And Quiet Flows the Don,” remained one of the greatest examples of Socialist Realism in Soviet Russia, and found particular success during the reign of Stalin.

The year nineteen-sixty five was a year, where the discussion of sharing the award was brought up quite a bit. There was a discussion of sharing the year’s prize between the Guatemalan poet, novelist, essayist, and diplomat:  Miguel Ángel Asturias; along with the Argentinean librarian writer Jorge Luis Borges.  There was also discussion the year could have been shared between Shmuel Yosef Agnon and Nelly Sachs. Both of these proposals were dismissed by Anders Österling; though Shmuel Yosef Agnon and Nelly Sachs would share the award in nineteen-sixty six, and Miguel Ángel Asturias would receive the award solely in nineteen-sixty seven. Borges on the other hand, never received the award, and was much tortured over the fact, that he never received the award; going so far as to call it a “Scandinavian tradition.”  

There we have it Gentle Reader, the Nominations for the Nobel Prize for Literature in nineteen-sixty five. As the years progress, the archives open more and more become more and more interesting.

Thank-you to “The Guardian: Books,” for providing the insight and information.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jan/06/borges-auden-nabokov-neruda-nobel-prize-literature-1965

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

New Year Literary News

Hello Gentle Reader

It’s the New Year, and already there is a buzz with the publications that are forthcoming from this year. “The Guardian: Books,” has already wrote an article about their own anticipated books for this year; From Karl Karl Ove Knausgård’s newest edition to his momentous autobiographical series; to new books from Julian Barnes, Graham Swift, as well as Don DeLillo. Yet there are quieter publishers, publishing great works as well. Archipelago Books, will be releasing Halldór Laxness’s “Wayward Heroes,”; “The Child Poet,” by Homero Aridjis; “Absolute Solitude,” by the Dame of Cuban letters Dulce Maria Loynaz; the Slovenian writer Lojze Kovačič arrives in the English language with his autobiographical novel “The New Comers,”; Elias Khoury shows how the endemic of a civil war continues to rage in Lebanese society with “Broken Mirrors,”; Antonio Moresco reaches English readers with his novel “Distant Light,” and it could be noted that he is admired by younger writers in Italy; travel to Greece with “Something Will Happen, You’ll See,” by Christos Ikonomou traces the lives of the lower-class, the underprivileged, the laid off, and those affected by the financial collapse and unending crisis. Also forthcoming from Archipelago Books is Maja Haderlap “Angel of Oblivion,” a family tale that deals with Austria’s Nazi past and its own resistance against the Nazi’s, as well as the hidden secrets of Europe’s grand and dark past, especially those places overlooked; written with her own blend of lyricism, which has earned her the reputation of being one of the greatest lyrical voices amongst Slovenian-Austrians. Herta Müller’s newest novel to be translated into English “The Fox Was Ever The Hunter,” will be released in the Spring of 2016; and is a much awaited for novel. Patrick Modiano sees more of his own novels translated into English in the coming new year as well, such as: “In the Café of Lost Youth,” “Young Once,” and “Villa Triste.” I would like to note: since Patrick Modiano became a Nobel Laureate, there has been vigor in the amount of translations finding themselves into English; thanks in large part to New York Review Books: Classic series. Dalkey Archive Press has numerous books forthcoming; each one though has the air of scholarly or academic avant-garde.  Still each book; be it a novel: short story collection, collection of poetry, or collection of essays; is a welcomed edition in the New Year, and all translations should be met with approval and applause to its authors, translators and publishers, who see them conceived in their genesis to their welcomed physical format into a new language. After all literature – especially that, which crosses languages, perspectives, historical differences, and frontiers; is often the best form of intercultural communication, and the most enjoyable by far.

The New Year was not marked by some though with celebratory cheers, followed by the pop of champagne and the clinking of toasts and well wishes for the arrival of yet another New Year. No quite the opposite; at least in the case of George. R. R. Martin; the man behind the prestigious and highly stylized and praised television series on HBO: “Game of Thrones,” which is based of the series of novels by Martin titled: “A Song of Fire and Ice.” “Game of Thrones,” has become one of the most engaging and revolutionary fantasy drama’s to grace television, in some time. The series is filled with engaging political machinations, gruesome battle scenes, murder, death and family dramatics, along with engaging fully seen through character with moral ambiguities and changing alliances, which exceed stereotypes and cardboard casting, to produce a marvelous television series. However when the television series began, Martin’s series of novels, had yet to see completion. It should also be noted that George R. R. Martin, is known as a rather productively slow writer; but in his defense; a speed up in productivity could result in slight unintentional careless acts being made. The beauty of the television series comes from its books, highly detailed and carefully planned work. Careful details often become the pillars in which the work will stand on. Martin’s productivity maybe slow, and the quantity in which the works are released, may see large gaps in between, but the books themselves become delights in which the reader can savour because of the careful creation and thought that is placed within each one, to maintain the high quality that is expected of the series. However, Marin now has cultural competition with the television series, now overtaking the published series, as both are now caught up in regards to events, and Martin has missed both deadlines: Christmas, and before the New Year; to finish his new installment. Martin had done everything n his power to engage himself more and more with writing; turning down events, conferences, book signings, and even writing an episode for the television adaption. Yet the installment is still not complete. Though fans understand if albeit impatient, and at times poor at hiding it, credit is given to Martin for his series he’s created. It is huge, it is engaging, and it is revitalizing for the fantasy genre; moving away from the stereotypical matters of Tolkien; to a far more human engaging element. Still the work is not done; and there is reasonable concern that the television adaption will begin to adapt and create its own storylines, and over engulf the novels, or present a new version of where the novels are or should go. I can’t say what will happen with either the series or the novels. After all I’ve only watched the television series, and admire it, and pay my respects to the novels, by praising Martin; but Fantasy in books – or fantasy in most cases period has never been my reading interest.

Yet the backlash that Martin often receives from some people, for the slow productivity in which he produces is a good observational lesson. It should be noted, that writers are not Customer Service Agents or Representatives. Writers, write. If they write fantasy or science fiction or literary books, they write them. Readers are loosely defined as customers; but the product in which they enjoy or find themselves enveloped in, falls on writers, but writers in my opinion, are not obligated to deliver those books at the demands or protests of those who think they deserve it or wish for the gratification of having it or reading it now. Patience was once a virtue, which perhaps is maybe lost, in today’s increasing world of consumerism and desire for more gratification and gratifying attempts at entertainment. But in some cases it’s a virtue nonetheless, which is sadly fallen to the wayside.

At the end of the day, the reality is the book is not finished. The series will go on (or so I hope or believe), and the great world keeps on spinning. If anything his detractors have or can teach him; is that Martin has created something that has truly,  engulfed people enough that wish to have more of his ‘product,’ and whatever means necessary, as long as they get their fix, and get it now. Surely that to a degree if only with a grain of salt is complimentary, if wrapped in barbwire. It does go to show though, sometimes a good story is all what people want to heart; and kudos to Martin, for creating a good story.

Personally, I look forward to purchasing and reading the books currently mentioned. It looks like two-thousand and sixteen has some wonderful books to be released in it. Books and authors, who have been praised in their respective languages, and countries, and will be certainly welcomed on my bookshelf and within my hands, when I have the opportunity to grasp them.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Welcome to 2016

Hello Gentle Reader

In two-thousand and fifteen, we had visited a city, which had been built on both stones and dreams; and often in haste. Beneath the stones of its apartments, the glass and steel of its skyscrapers the river of oblivion circled, slowly eroding the fragility of the city – which is comparable to a tree – both the tree of the earth and sky; and the subterranean one, which is hidden from plain sight. We toured a brightly lit Bucharest in both its dreams and nightmares. We heard its stories, and listened about all its inhabitants.  We observed the fragility of order and commonplace structure, and how quickly it is abruptly changed, by a mistake or a, misshape off stage, on some other set. An unfortunate allegory which appears to parallel the news and stories of human crisis of two-thousand and fifteen. We journeyed back to the cool temperatures of the former GDR, and saw how an ideology is both maintained and propagated through the careful maintenance of both machinery and temperature. We traveled through Iceland, in brief and often odd vignette’s that were impressionistic and lingered long after they were read.  We were welcomed and observed as others confronted their pasts, their prior thoughts, and steadily held beliefs. We saw family corruption in times of political upheaval and a continual desire to always survive history – even if it meant turning on our own family. The complexities of human relationships – mother and daughter, husband and wife, brother and sister, father and son – were tested and shown to be growing in complexity as we enter an increasing connected but incommunicative age. We observed the hapless love affair of a teacher, and his desired gypsy in parochial France; and observed Saints, abbots and monks in their historical less then golden gilded age. We saw the multifaceted narrative of a narrator, understanding his place beyond the alienating confines of his village, and take particular beauty, in its language, its story telling, and its folklore. We revisited the Prague Spring, and were forced to observe the young man pouring petrol on himself, and immolating himself against the reigning ideology and political viewpoints. We found ourselves more at home on an island, then being a castaway in some metropolis jungle.

Two-thousand and fifteen was filled with great books! But it was also filled with political upheavals and attacks against human rights, and freedom of speech. Paris was struck twice. Europe found itself once again pushed to its limits of tolerance and acceptance, while attempting to manage its ever growing crisis situations.

This year’s Nobel Laureate was the Belorussian journalist and ‘human ear,’ Svetlana Alexievich had discussed in her Nobel Lecture, this year’s Laureate discussed both the horrors of history, the trials of the present, and the uncertainties of the future; but maintains: love prevails; even if it’s hard to talk about or believe in right now. Though questions do remains with this year’s Laureate, if the Swedish Academy has opened its doors up to a new definition of what is typically reserved for: prose, poetry and drama. In the end Svetlana Alexievich is a worthy candidate.

Speaking of the Swedish Academy, as mentioned before the new Permanente Secretary of the Swedish Academy is Sara Danius; this is the first time a woman has held this position within the Swedish Academy, and it will be unique to see what the future Laureates in Literature will be shaped by and what criteria their literature will need in order to receive the Nobel nod.

Two-thousand and fifteen was a good year; and a rough year. But it’s been a year like all others, and it is what we make of it. Though at times each of us are victims of our circumstances, sometimes to get through these or those dark moments, a book becomes a comforting and well deserved companion and friend.

Happy New Year Gentle Reader! And Welcome to Two-Thousand and Sixteen!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

A Merry Christmas!

Hello Gentle Reader

Outside, fat snowflakes fall. By definition it will be a White Christmas. The meteorologist on the news claims; with added enthusiasm that tomorrow maybe, by definition: a Perfect Christmas. The tree is up. The presents are wrapped. Tea is brewing in the pot. And for now, family is together. The guests, that were set to join me (us) this evening, have cancelled; but no matter, their joy in the air; a joy that will rebound to the world tonight and tomorrow! NORAD is busy, watching tracking Santa in the sky; a year’s worth of preparations are in tow in his sleigh, and his list has been complied and checked twice. But a Saint with a warm and open heart, is sure to keep it open to all, naughty or nice – and coal is just not environmentally friendly anymore; and Krampus should surely be spared his tiresome (if albeit sadistic) duties for another year; and joy passed to all children; as being nice is difficult, and hiccups of all sorts are to be forgiven.

To you my Dear Gentle Reader, I wish you a Merry Christmas, and a well deserved New Year! May the slate be wiped clean, and we begin the new year off with fresh snow, and a renewed vigor! This year I am hell bent determined on purchasing Marvin Gardens – as I am every year; but this year I will be successful!

A Merry Christmas, Gentle Reader!

A Merry, Merry Christmas!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Reade

M. Mary 

So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood

Hello Gentle Reader

Patrick Modiano is a psychogeographic writer. Past and present often meld themselves on the streets, now long since changed, demolished, and or renovated. Modiano’s work often traces his narrators as they walk the streets of Paris. The streets that were, no longer are the streets that are. Though the same old streets have become something new; and the notes of long past that trace a map stating: “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” become obsolete, as we quickly become lost in once was familiar. Even in the small city in which I reside, when I leave my own circular daily walking routines and venture further out, the city becomes monstrous, mysterious, bewildering, and strange. The more I engage with it, the more I see the city change through time. I know what winter brings everything closer; how spring softens it; how summer rejuvenates it, how autumn brightens it. For Patrick Modiano this is all true. The seasons change the lighting of each city street, back to the past. A past that is not coloured; but covered in sepia tones and shadows of once was. All of this is the hypnotic charm of Patrick Modiano.

Modiano is a rarity in French Literature. He explores the French Occupation, and the river of oblivion sloshing through the sewers of Paris, wiping away the remnants of that dark period of French history; and it’s unfortunate war time errors. Yet that has all been forgotten. It has been recorded, filed, and left where many believe it should be: in the past. Why discuss the grievous and grief stricken errors of the past, our forefathers? Those were desperate days in desolate times. Now they are now dearly departed. It’s best to leave sleeping dogs where they lay. Yet for Modiano, the discussion of this era is not a discussion of the guilty past; nor is it a requirement of moving forward and forgiveness. Rather the discussion of the French Occupation itself is a personal one. In his Nobel Lecture Modiano states:

“Like everyone else born in 1945, I was a child of the war and more precisely, because I was born in Paris, a child who owed his birth to the Paris of the occupation. Those who lived in that Paris wanted to forget it very quickly or at least only remember the day-to-day details, the ones which presented the illusion that everyday life was after all not so very different from the life they led in normal times. It was all a bad dream, with vague remorse for having been in some sense survivors. Later on, when their children asked them questions about that period and that Paris, their answers were evasive. Or else they remained silent as if they wanted to rub out those dark years from their memory and keep something hidden from us. But faced with the silence of our parents we worked it all out as if we had lived it ourselves.”

“It’s full of ghosts here,” is what Annie Astrand states to our narrator Jean Daragane, in his novel “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood.” She states this in a deserted mansion by the Bois de Boulogne; and immediately one can think of the entire career and bibliography of Modiano himself. Each novel becomes a new room in an ever expanding, and depleted mansion:  from the Honeymoon suite, down the nursery; all the way into the garden, where gatherings were once held. Ghosts surely do move through the halls of Modian’s literary mansion. Ghosts that were once seen a few books ago, quickly come back, and make their subtle appearances. Recognizing a particular character or name, one is quickly hunts through the books to find prior novels and volumes already read, to sift through the chapters, the words; the streets, and the names to find the prior appearance of this particular character once again.

“So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” depicts Jean Daragane, a writer removed and unplugged from the world, who is disturbed by a couple, who express interest in a name in his address book, which he had lost, and they wished to return. This couple immediately reminded me of the young Jacqueline and Gerard from: “Out of the Dark,” because they survive off of gambling. Yet Gilles Ottolini is far more sinister that Gerard; and Chantal Grippay (Josephine) is far less cold and distant then Jacqueline. Yet their lives seemed to intertwine, if only by lifestyle and career choice. But other than that, the two couples are separated. Yet the interest in the name Torstel sends Jean Daragane back to his childhood – a place of murky inconsistencies, that has been enveloped by the present and tossed into the future, and what remained has been covered up, renovated, and discarded into the past, living on in photographs and memories of those, who lived in those times. Of course “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” had me running not just back to “Out of The Dark,” but to “Suspended Sentences,” with the mention of Annie, and a certain Roger Vincent and his American convertible. But while sifting through “Suspended Sentences,” there was of course another peculiar mention of a certain Jean. D as well – and I could only wonder if this was Jean Daragane himself? Of course with Patrick Modiano, you never get any real concise answers to your own questions.

Yet I did my best to theorize. The Jean D. from “Suspended Sentences,” seemed older or at least older the then then Jean Dargane, who appears in Annie’s care in “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood.” Then of course there was Annie – she herself appeared younger in “Suspended Sentences,” and in now making an appearance in “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” she has aged dramatically. The only individual, who remains consistent with himself, is Roger Vincent; who is only mentioned in “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” but the appearance of his trademark American Convertible. Then of course there is the fact that an ‘acrobat,’ nightclub is also mentioned – something Annie participated in, before “Suspended Sentences.” Yet one can only wonder about the ambiguous questions raised in these slight connections by Modiano in his novel “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” and wonder if the Jean D and Jean Dargane are both one in the same and are connected to the Rue Lauriston gang; in which case of course, is this what Gilles Ottolini wishes to know?

Modiano is not a writer of answers though. He is not a writer of mysteries. Mysteries are developed as puzzles: they must have a logical and conclusive answer at the end. Rather Modiano is a writer who takes the guise of a mystery writer, to explore the misty memories of the past, with all the black, white, and varying shades of grey. He is an atmospheric writer; and this strongly plays to his talents, the ability to build up tension and alienation through the stifling uncertain atmosphere; which is all thwarted in the end, by the lack of anything else acted upon this atmosphere.

Jean D. in “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood,” is a rather weary character. He quickly loses interest or falls into apathy in regards to situations that surround him:

“In the end, he decided to take advantage of the silence of the night to reread all the pages of the ‘dossier’ for one last time. But no sooner had he started his reading than he experienced an unpleasant sensation: the sentences became muddled and other sentences suddenly appeared that overlaid previous ones and disappeared without giving him time to decipher them.

[ . . . ]

“He put this down to weariness, and he closed his eyes.”

Often this was the case with “So You Don’t Get Lost In The Neighbourhood.” As a reader of the novel myself, I found myself overcome with weariness and exhausted by Jean Dargane’s communicable sense of weariness and existential apathy. Of all of Modiano’s novels that I have read yet, this one in particular struck me as being lack luster, and not up to par with his other novels from the past. Or perhaps its reading too much of one writer in one go. Nonetheless Modiano has so far been the most successful Nobel Laureate to be translated into the English language since he has won the award. I am still waiting for many more Le Clezio novels and short stories to reach me in English, and Herta Müller only comes around once in a while; like a distant relative who finally has the chance to come and visit now and then, but always leaves prematurely. Modiano has become a great success, and it is relieving to see his novels become more widely translated, for a new chapter in his great tapestry of his book to be penciled in.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

“When We Don’t Speak We Become Unbearable . . . “

Hello Gentle Reader

“And When We Do, We Make Fools Of Ourselves.”

One again Gentle Reader, there is Thursday on the calendar, and there is once again the urge to speak – or in this case write; if only to fill the silent void and in the process make a fool of myself. Nonetheless stating nothing, becomes unbearable and the oppression of silence looms overhead, and becomes a noise in itself; a scream that pounds within the confines of the skull, but unable to see fruition in some unintelligible audible sound, because the tongue is twisted. So scream; if only silently.

Well Gentle Reader, it is done. Nobel Week finds itself wrapping up in Stockholm. Praise has been given; lectures delivered. The medals are doled out; diploma’s received. Once again faith is restored in humanity. The individuals awarded, were awarded for their achievements, their life time of work: that being innovative or creative; all for the betterment of mankind. And yet what dire straits mankind find itself, in now. Terrorism, bombing, invasions – talks of war! Joy is fleeting; but anger and hatred? They are ruthless, relentless and unending in a cycle that breeds itself in numerous incarnates.

This year’s Nobel Laureate in Literature Svetlana Alexievich has made a career of exploring these deplorable and dark situations, and chronicles the plight and survival of the human soul within these situations: war, mass murder, disaster/catastrophe, economic scarcity. Alexievich has recorded the Soviet individual and the post-soviet individual. The reality: grim. The results: grim. The potential: great – with hesitation. As Alexievich has stated in her Nobel Lecture titled: “On the Battle Lost,”

[ In reference to Russia, and the current state of Eastern Europe; and in a larger scale the world ]

“The question was posed: what kind of country should we have? A strong country, or a worthy one where people can live decently? We chose the former – a strong country. Once again we are living in an era of power.”

There were some slight reservations, when it was announced that Svetlana Alexievich became this year’s Nobel Laureate in Literature. Journalism is considered more of a profession, then a literary endeavour. The form itself requires complete objectivity; and yet Alexievich has done away with the cool chronicling, and instead has become a recorder of human hardship, as well as a cartographer of the human soul in its darkest nights, its bleakest presents, and its dire futures. Her heart has always been placed in her subject matter. Often mapping the Soviet individual’s attempts at coming to terms with its past, and now its present, after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and the results as she lied out in the above quote, are profoundly disappointing. Alexievich has stated herself, it is not the difficulties in which we endure that make her sad, it is our inability to learn from this suffering, and our advertent or inadvertent desire to repeat it, over and over again.

Though her work may not be defined as being strictly literary, by all literature definitions (prose, poetry, or drama) Svetlana Alexievich does fit the will when it states, that the award should go to a writer who: “in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction.” Though Alexievich is not a writer of ideology, she certainly gets to the point when discussing ideals, and their effects on societies and civilisations, as she listens to the stories of many witnesses of history, and attempts to understand why we continue to make the same mistakes, over and over again.

 Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Congratulations again to you Svetlana Alexievich. 

Reading & Keeping up Appearances

Hello Gentle Reader

(I)

It’s been a while since I lasted posted. The past two months, I’ve worked two jobs, seven days a week, plus doing university courses online. Needless to say, I have not found time as of late to read; let alone write. Yet as of late I have dropped one of the two jobs, and will most certainly and ideally make time to read, and review the growing piles of books on my bedside table. My current to read list is as follows, starting with the book currently being read:

“June,” by Gerbrand Bakker

“Tristiano Dies: A Life,” by Antonio Tabucchi

“Sarajevo Marlboro,” by Miljenko Jergović

“Ruta Tannenbaum,” by Miljenko Jergović

“Missing Person,” by Patrick Modiano

In the New Year, I should expect Herta Müller’s newest translated novel “The Fox Was Ever The Hunter,” in May; though originally it was pre-ordered back in April, the release date was set for “December 1^st,” of this year, which was pushed back to April 1^st, and now May 10^th. Nonetheless I look forward to reading this book.

Now when I am not studying, working, and lamenting the depleted state of my refrigerator (why are grocery stores not open until 2:00am?), I can be found watching the youtube series: “Gayle,” and making phone calls that refer to at least one person as either Bonnie or Daaviid. Other than that, my time (or what has been reserved) is put towards sleep.

For the long run then Gentle Reader, I do sincerely apologize for not posting, or keeping up on reading; but what I can say is so far I have found “June,” to be a rather enjoyable book, and look forward to finishing it, and reviewing it as well.

(II)

Some good news, is it looks like the wonderful independent and masterful craftsmen publisher: Archipelago Books will be publishing one of Magdalena Tulli’s personal novels: “Szum,” or “Noise,” though the date currently is not set; Archipelago will also publish Antonio Tabucchi’s last novel “For Isabel: A Mandala,” though date of publication is currently unknown. Along with future translations, I am looking forward to someday seeing Olga Tokarczuk’s novel “Runners,” published, as well as her most recent and epic novel “The Book of Jacob.” Though after receiving the Nike Award for her recent novel “The Book of Jacob,” Tokarczuk sparked online outrage which included death threats, for her comments about Poland’s contemporary and historical perspective of itself not being a tolerant and open country. Yet, Tokarczuk should take consolation in the fact that this minor controversy will pass.  

(III)

On the “World Literature Forum,” there is a thread discussion titled: “The Next Generation: Future Nobel Prize Winners.” On the thread two female Chinese writers came up: Wang Anyi and Chi Zijian. Both these writes came up in discussion in contrast of Can Xue. I began to wonder particularly about these two new writers. Wang Anyi is a familiar name after he nomination for the Man Booker International Prize back in two-thousand and eleven; but Chi Zijian was a new writer entirely. Whenever a writer that reigns from a country, whose government exhibits authoritarian qualities in its governance, there is always slight unease. When the 2012 Nobel Prize for Literature, was awarded to Mo Yan, I may no qualm about expressing my spleen about the decision (as did many other writers). Now with the mention of these two writers, I am showcasing a bit of distance and uncertainty.

Wang Anyi has been compared to one of the last great writers of China: Eileen Chang; for the grounds that both writers share a love of the city Shanghai. Anyi grew up during the Cultural Revolution, and was a daughter of persecuted “Rightists,” which subsequently ended her formal education, and she was sent to be a farm hand. During these lost years, Anyi survived by being a cellist in a local arts troupe. After this time period, Wang Anyi was permitted to return to Shanghai in nineteen-seventy eight; and the city along with music has infused much of her work. Her work depicts love both in the city and the village of her choice. Her novel “The Song of Everlasting Sorrow,” has been heralded as a modern Chinese classic. The novel itself traces the life of a woman from her birth in 1945, through the Cultural Revolution, and after the revolution with the formation of the now modern Chinese state.  Anyi is called a subtle critic of the Communist state of China.

Chi Zijian is a state writer. She is paid by the state to write. She has published forty some novels, and lives in a Northern province of China, along the border with Russia. Beyond this there is no mention of Chi Zijian being critical of the state; or any real biographical notes of mention.

What is concerning of these two writers – more Chi Zijian; is a lack of political involvement or rather dissidence. A co-worker and I had this fierce debate the other day at work, when he once again desired to hear my miraculous talent of reciting the Nobel Laureate from 2015-1979; after which had asked why I show such disdain for Mo Yan. When I had my opinion known, that I found Mo Yan’s lack of opinions and perspective that were critical towards the ruling authoritarian government in his country deplorable, my co-worker stated that writers should not be political. I of course agreed with him; writers by nature should not be political, or support any political party of any sort. However I said, when you come from a country that is authoritarian you no longer have the choice to be apolitical; you now are either with the ruling regime or you are a dissident against them. My co-worker of course disagreed, stating that writers should be able to write; which I said is true, but when you are a writer, you are first and foremost a guardian of written word, and the freedom of expression that comes from it; which means you are therefore a guardian of freedom of speech, and intellectual thought, which may go against the ruling party or regimes own ideology. When you are supported by the government and therefore its ruling ideology, and therefore are propagated and promoted by the government, you are no longer able to be a politically neutral writer; you are subsequently a supporter of the government (which in this case is authoritarian). On the flip side if you do not write or support the ruling ideology or party approved perception you are therefore a dissident. In these cases there is no centre or middle ground; one cannot strictly be just a writer. Writers in these circumstances are pushed into an ideological infused societal culture where they are either: party approved or not. In the case of Gao Xingjian and Mo Yan: one was a dissident (Xingjian) and the other was party approved (Yan). So could I see Wang Anyi or Chi Zijian becoming a Nobel Laureate? One cannot rule out the possibility of either one; but preferably in my opinion I would sooner see Wang Anyi receive the accolade over Chi Zijian.

(IV)

Writing is known as being a solitary and often introverted job. Times have changed though Gentle Reader. Reading is no longer considered the only form of entertainment or a luxury form of entertainment. It’s become marginalized as well as, antiqued and archaic. It has yet to fall into the realm of irrelevance like poetry; but the extinction of the written craft appears to be an apocalyptic shadow that lurks over the literary world. “The Guardian,” posts that this year (2015) struggling authors (in the UK) have applied for emergency financial assistance then they did in years prior. In fact in the last five years the number of authors applying for help has doubled.

It appears that the book industry has become as polarised as all other industries. The book industry is interested in franchises – movie deals, television series; or brand name authors, who have created wonderful books or a series, and plan on capitalising on it. So long to the literary; bon voyage to the avant-garde; and from the trash to the storefront: the rubbish.

Yet there is hope. Literary journals, publications, quarterly’s, et cetera are now ‘crowdfunding.’ It were to seem that despite the financial hardships at the moment, one maybe surprised by the innovation of the independent people in the business to find innovative ways to bring the literary to the people.

Perhaps there is hope Gentle Reader that each of us will cease being passive consumers, and will begin to finance or engage with new and exciting ways to engage or dictate what we ourselves would prefer to read. It’s not a lot Gentle Reader; but it is hope, and hope is better than the fatalistic outlook of nothing.

(V)

That’s it for today Gentle Reader. In the coming weeks, I’ll post something in regards to Christmas, in between studying for a Final Exam, and perhaps before the New Year or after I will post my most recent book review: “So You Don’t Get Lost In the Neighborhood,” by Patrick Modiano.

For now though Gentle Reader:

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

P.S. Thank-you to all of you Gentle Readers, who read this blog, and those who also leave comments (both positive and negative) your thoughts are always welcome!

Stone Tree

Hello Gentle Reader

Short stories are one of the most versatile forms of prose. Short stories can move between condensed novels; probing a characters life by what is stated within the story and hinting at how the character had got there via what is hinted at off screen. Alice Munro (Nobel Laureate and Contemporary Master of the Short Story), had shown how the short story can move back and forth through time. Alice Munro had shown that the short story can move beyond its length limitations, and can rival even the novel. So for those that would often digress, that the short story is not as comprehensive as the novel – as in: the reader enters the characters life for a slice of life moment only to leave after a few pages; Alice Munro had shown the short story can move beyond this stereotypical perspective of its limitations, and can discuss a character in a constrained time frame, without the details of a novel, being explicitly discussed. Though despite this the short story still has its detractors; but it should be noted that the short story has progressed beyond its juvenile prejudices and has become a serious form of writing; whose successful compatriots and champions in the past include: Kafka, Chekhov, and Kawabata to name a new few.

Flash fiction, has begun to gain momentum as its own genre, as a short story format. Its prose is condescend into the essential essences of a short story, all compressed into a neat little package, that glitters like an iridescent insect, in the jungles of the literary world. Yet personally I have found flash fiction, has yet to crawl under my skin and give me the correct sting to force me to take note of it. Perhaps this is because flash fictions main goal is still to tell a story, just in a more economical space. The use of language is not all that extraordinary in moments, when flash fiction has been digested. It was plain and straightforward. The comparison of flash fiction to poetry is clinically overused. If the two forms have anything in common, it is simply the requirement to say the most with the fewest words and space utilized. Other than that the two forms are completely separate from each other. Two entities that exist on two different planes of existence: poetry also air bound its correspondence; and flash fiction buzzing back and forth between the leaves.

Vignettes on the other hand are a little more peculiar. If the short story begins to float towards the realm of poetry, vignettes become the exemplary examples. Vignettes – in the literary format – become windows in which readers pass by briefly and in those moments, are able to catch a glimpse of quiet dramas that unfold behind the window panes, presented by the writer. They are impressionistic, poetic, and sharply focused; but before one knows it the end has come. There is no resolution and no plot or story in the traditional sense to be seen or heard of. With a vignette, the reader casually strolls by, peers into the life of another for a glance; and then it abruptly ends. For those that often see the short story format, as a format that one cannot immerse themselves in, then a collection of vignettes like “Stone Tree,” by the Icelandic poet and prose writer Gyrðir Elíasson, will only solidify this dissociation from the short story, and become further alienated by it.  Yet the vignette shows how the short story is able to let go of its earthly attachments, be impressionistic and poetic, and offer thoughts on moments only glanced by.

Gyrðir Elíasson is one of Iceland’s great contemporary writers. He is well known for his poetry, novellas and short stories – which he often refers to as vignettes. In two-thousand and eleven, he won the Nordic Councils Prize for Literature, for his collection of short stories: “Milli trjánna” roughly translated into English as: “Between the Trees,” with the citation: “for stylistically outstanding literary art which depicts inner and outer threats in dialogue with world literature.” Elíasson’s debut was a collection of poetry titled: “Black and White Suspenders.” This debut was noted by some for its lack of following the political tones of the poetry being produced at the time. Rather Elíasson’s poems were compact and disciplined. They were constructed by simple images, or depicted carefully planned word games. The themes of his poetry were often loneliness and isolation – themes which can be seen in his prose. His figurative language as he discusses his isolation and confinement can move between aggression and mischievous misrepresentation. It is this unorthodox and paradoxical nature of misrepresentation of sensibility allows Elíasson’s own brand of humour to show through; though often this is overlooked by the cold prose, which depicts a landscape of isolation. Yet company and contact can always be found in books. Many of Elíasson’s short stories, feature writers (solitary creatures) and book lovers; who are both haunted by the books they plan on writing, and the books they are reading.

“Stone Tree,” is a collection of 25 vignettes (though the book refers to it as a collection of short stories) ending at one-hundred and sixteen pages long. In other words: the works presented within this collection are incredibly short. Yet despite their length, when they are at their best, they showcase a moment of beauty, and communicate that idea exquisitely. When they falter, they appear undeveloped. Yet overall the collection was enjoyed and savoured.

A co-worker spotted “Stone Tree,” sitting on the table, of our shared lunch room, and quickly picked up the book, and flipped to the short story which was book marked. The short story was: “Book After Book.” My co-worker read the following out loud:

“He closed his eyes and tried not to think, but books hovered like sinister birds in his imagination, flapping their black covers, ruffling their white pages like breast-feathers. He managed to ward off this image, but now lines of poetry began to seep into his thoughts, some no better than the others he had read beside the bathroom cabinet.”

My co-worker ended this, by laughing. He asked: “is that an accurate depiction of what it is like to be bibliophile? Books become birds, that flap overhead, and poetry seeps into one’s mind?” – For some reason, this particular co-worker believes that I am a bibliophile, and often sees this enjoyment and love books, as some form of financial affliction, without practical needs. For him reading something that serves no inherent purpose is all but a waste of time and money. When we had first met, we often asked each other questions about each other. When I had informed him, that I read books; he asked what kind. He expected a typical answer: murder mystery, crime, fantasy, science fiction. Yet he was shocked to be informed that I enjoyed reading works that had been translated into fiction. Over the course of our time, when we worked together, he would often attempt to read one of my books. He found “The Hunger Angel,” to be morbid and depressing; and all the others to be wrought with confusion. He has told me, that what he reads (how much I do not know) is often articles or non-fiction and: “serves a purpose.” Yet at the end of the day we agree to disagree on the matter, and do not bring it up. This being said, Bibliophile seems to have spread through my work place like a mould as of late.

“Book After Book,” was one of the stranger works in this collection of short stories. The entire story is a quick scene in a man’s life, which enjoys and loves books. But is haunted by them, rather than finding them comforting. The books that crowd this man’s dwelling divert from angels into distorted harpies, which screech at him. Though what about, is not known; and why these books haunt him is not elucidated upon either.

“The Piano,” is a better example of what Gyrðir Elíasson is more traditional short story, in this collection. In it a piano is delivered to a home, where the father is determined to teach his son the piano; who is disgusted by the thought of learning the piano. Yet rebellion is taken in a violent act of vandalism and left there. Those who do not enjoy the short story format will quickly point to the ending as a reason why they do not like the short story as a literary form. It does not wrap up cleanly, making sure that each thread is tied perfectly in place. It ends just as conflict is about to begin! For those who admire this move; it simply resonates, how the vignette is just a glimpse into the private dramas of the lives of others. It allows us to quickly observe, and move along in order not to bear witness to the events that are bound to unfold, in some manner or another.

My person favourite story from this collection is: “A World Alone.” The back of the book calls this collection is a study of self-exile.  “A World Alone,” is a bleak and stark depiction of a world completely abandoned and alone; and brings to mind the often solitary sentence we pass on ourselves referred to as ‘self-exile.’ The short story itself is split into five parts. Throughout the entire story one reads a depiction of a world, completely abandoned:

“He turned up a short side street and from there into the main street, where the old petrol station stood. The tanks were dented and the hoses lay looped and coiled in the slick of oil on the forecourt, like eels in the black mud of a swamp. Something had happened to this town since he was last there in the summer sunshine, the time he threw the ball back to the little girl. There were no cars at the petrol station either. The entrance to the garage shop stood open, the door had gone, and there was no sign of life.” 

Immediately the scene is set. The entire has been abandoned and left to rot in its own desolate wasteland. Yet it is juxtaposed with the faintest glimmers of life and a summer long ago, when the town thrived and was once inhabited. Throughout reading the entire short story, I wondered if this was some apocalyptic piece. Yet, that would almost appear to be a over exaggeration of the short story. Everyone has been through such places. Abandoned towns; or backwater rural communities, that look less and less inhabited, and whatever does surely must be deranged, demented, or rabid. Perhaps it was a meditation on the relentless push forward by time; and then upon reaching the end, I am still left uncertain about the story; considering the reference to “Fahrenheit 451,” and the fact that the book itself was placed at the bottom of the pile of books evidence of an attempted book burning. Still it happened to show Elíasson at a fine moment, a moment where he can describe the terrible present – the isolation and loneliness; and juxtapose it with the past, through faint memories and recollections.

This collection of short stories will certainly not be to the taste of the masses – as my co-worker said after reading the short story “Book After Book,”: “I didn’t like it.” . It’s a peculiar book, with a unique writing style utilized by the writer. It is not clean cut or typical writing for the short story format. Yet it often probes with great interest the human condition, via quick glances through the windows of individuals and their private moments of despair, their quiet dramas, and their small actions of rebellion. Gyrðir Elíasson is a breath of fresh air, as a writer in the short story genre. He is not a flash fiction writer; but not a compressed novelist either. Rather he is a wanderer, who catches glimpses of odd little scenes, and constructs stories around them. He is not a neat and tidy writer. His stories appear ambiguous, and do not elucidate any farther then necessary and sometimes not at all. Yet despite his cold and detached feeling of his prose; Elíasson is a remarkable writer. He may appear relentless which some stating he needs more comic relief – or comic relief period – would appear to be out of place for the work that has been chosen for this work. Though his work does have comic relief in them; it was just to seem that this particular collection lacks either those works or perhaps the context in order for the reader to understand it. Nonetheless a wonderful book, that I thoroughly enjoyed, and plan on dipping into time and time again.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary