Man Booker International Longlist 2016

Hello Gentle Reader

This is the Man Booker International Prize’s first run in its new traditional format. Before two-thousand and sixteen, the Man Booker International Prize was a biannual award, that was awarded to a writer of international stature and reputation (and of course translated into English) along with their lifetime of work, such winning writers included: Ismail Kadare, Alice Munro and László Krasznahorkai. Now the award is annual, and is no longer awarded to a writer’s lifetime work, but rather a sole individual work, will now be their testament to the award. This year’s longlist, is beginning to show some unique characteristics, that will hopefully stay true for the award, and its international flavour.

The longlist for this new format of the award, is compiled of thirteen authors from twelve countries and nine languages.

The longlist is as follows, with the author, their country of origin, and the title of their longlisted work.

Orhan Pamuk – Turkey – “A Strangeness in my Mind,”

Aki Ollikainen – Finland – “White Hunger,”

José Eduardo Agualusa – Angola – “A General Theory of Oblivion,”

Elena Ferrante – Italy – “The Story of the Lost Child,”

Han Kang – South Korea – “The Vegetarian,”

Maylis de Kerangal – France – “Mend the Living,”

Marie NDiaye – France – “Ladivine,”

Raduan Nassa – Brazil – “A Cup of Rage,”

Eka Kurniawan – Indonesia – “Man Tiger,”

Fiston Mwanza Mujila – Democratic Republic of Congo || Austria – “Tram 83,”

Yan Lianke – China – “The Four Books,”

Robert Seethaler – Austria – “A Whole Life,”

Kenzaburō Ōe – Japan – “Death by Water,”

There you have it Gentle Reader the longlist! On it there is a wide variety of authors, and themes. Some are well known writers, including two Nobel Laureates, while others are rising stars in their respective languages, and their work now coming forward into English with great admiration, in their literary endeavours. It’s certainly a delightful and varied list of writers, and books; certainly something a bit new for the Man Booker Prize association, with its usual drab and bland sense of taste; but this is certainly more flavourful.

Enjoy Gentle Reader!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Missing Person

Hello Gentle Reader

Identity is defined, by the fields of study of: Anthropology, Philosophy, Sociology, and Psychology, as: the conception, qualities, beliefs, and expressions, which make an individual.  The concept of identity is a highly stylized theme in literature. The nature of identity has been dealt with by with countless, authors in different ways; such as: the concept of creating a new identity, possessing a new identity, or ridding oneself of their own identity. Perhaps one of the most notorious characters, for continually shifting into a new identity is Patricia Highsmith’s own, chameleon Tom Ripley. Tom Ripley is first introduced in Highsmith’s greatest and most well-known novel: “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” where he kills and takes the identity of the errant heir of a wealthy family: Rickie Greenleaf. Throughout the novel, Ripley is shown emulating Greenleaf’s mannerisms, and even dressing in his clothes. Other such writers to presume the identity of another individual would include Orhan Pamuk in his post-modern existentialist mystery novel: “The Black Book,” where the lawyer of the novel Galip one day finds his wife, Rüya, missing. Galip has the inclination, that she has taken residence with her half-brother, Celal, a columnist whose columns are literary lengthy meditations on the city of Istanbul and its history. Soon Galip finds himself wearing Celal’s clothes and writing his columns, and taking the identity of Celal. Both novels, showcase two characters: Tom Ripley and Galip, as two individuals who are disillusioned with their lives, and subsequently their identities. Both of these individuals would soon take the guise of other individuals to compensate their own impassioned lives, and disillusionments. Patrick Modiano however, goes in the opposite direction with his novel “Missing Person.” Guy Roland is a private investigator, with no knowledge of who he is or who he was, in the preceding decade. The novel traces Roland’s attempts to rediscover his identity.

Patrick Modiano is one of those splendid obscure writers. His Nobel win was a shock, and a delight. He is not a self-absorbed avant-garde writer, writing in the tradition of the nouveau roman, like an earlier J.M.G Le Clezio, or Claude Simon. Rather, Modiano’s style was straightforward, but evasive, and always brings to mind a rather monochrome world, where the white of light only breeds greater shadows. Modiano’s clear writing style is deceptive, with his themes. Patrick Modiano is known for his continual exploration of the past, often leading to the comparison to Marcel Proust, who also traced and retraced concepts of memory in his famous (and lengthy novel) “In Search of Lost Time,” or “In Remembrance of Things Past.” The art of memory however is the only concept that the two writers have in common, as a prevalent theme.  How the two writers, go about the discussion of theme, is entirely different. Proust used convoluted sentences, flowery prose, and modernist techniques in his novel. Modiano on the contrary, is lucid and straightforward – but by no means simplistic. Despite the approachable writing style, Modiano’s deliverance and treatment of his themes are more complex. The writer uses red-herrings, clues, dead ends, and a shifting perception of the past to usurp the concept of time. In doing so, Modiano distills time and memory into varying ethereal essences of mourning and nostalgia. Yet another layer of a greater national concept often becomes prevalent in Modiano’s work. The French Occupation, and the collaborative spirit of France of the time, complete with its black market, gangsters, and shadowy business man. The French Occupation is more personal for Patrick Modiano as a theme, then a literary device or a historical time period, in which he chooses to set his novels; rather for Modiano it’s a personal blight on his past. Modiano was born near the end of the Second World War, and his father was a business man known for his black market connections, and collaboration with the occupying forces. For Patrick Modiano the dark history of the French Occupation is the greater metaphor of the alienation, identity crisis, and amnesia or lapses in memory in which his characters find, have caused them to become silent, forgetful or alienated from the greater society as a whole. But for Modiano it is a personal exorcism, to try and purge the remnants of the crimes which have plagued his conscious despite, not being an active participant in those criminal activities.

One of Patrick Modiano’s hallmark literary devices is his characters are often in search of one another; from a long lost lover, to an individual from the past. But with “Missing Person,” Guy Roland is in search of himself, and best describes his predicament as such:

“I am nothing. Nothing but a pale shape, silhouetted that evening against the cafe terrace, waiting for the rain to stop.”

Thankfully for Guy Roland, he is a private investigator and his former partner, now retired, has left him a personal cache, of phonebooks, year books, itineraries, maps, and all other tricks and tools of the trade, in which Guy Roland is expected to utilize in order to piece together his former life, and hopefully recover from the dark recesses of his mind, his identity. What follows is an introspective novel, full of red-herrings, questionable people and characters, run down homes, forgotten landscapes, and stories of an ambiguous past, that maybe Roland’s.   

This is not a new theme for Patrick Modiano. His novels are continually rehashing the concepts and themes of memory, mixed with the self which either refuses to acknowledge the memory, or tries to unearth the reasons behind the memory. In his novels, we chase after young lovers; we attempt to find out why a suicide took place; we attempt to rebuild childhood idylls blown apart, by some force that was then unknowable. Yet eventually is served up via the novels of Modiano is a cartographers dissertation of the emotional distances, that the narrator finds himself from the shadow in which he chases; and all around him is the changing scenery of Paris and the scent of time.

“The sand holds the traces of our footsteps but a few moments.”

For Guy Roland, the identities in which he is given are all tried on; like suits or clothes in a department store, catering to those who wish to reinvent themselves, via the personas and lives of another individual. Yet as Roland tries each suit on, he finds none quite fit right. One is too tight in the torso; another, the shoulders don’t quite fit right; while another, the legs of the pants need to be brought down. Yet thankfully, chance encounters breed chance possibilities and plausible memories. Though these people encountered, know themselves through the amnesiacs questions, and their thought of who he reminds them of, are peripheral and therefore without clear purview context, the possibilities and plausibility’s of having an identity and a life again, outweigh the pale present, where Roland is nothing but a silhouette in chase of a thread of light through the shadowed streets. Though in time, a memory is born for Roland, and soon the thoughts of who he was, or who he is becoming, begin to become more tangible, and he seeks out more characters in which to pose his questions to.

Despite its detective novel noir like style, Modiano’s “Missing Person,” is not a typical detective novel. The clues, the evidence in which Guy Roland stumbles across, are all fragmentary, and very unreliable. Yet what follows suit, is Modiano’s sophisticated no frills style of writing, complete with its melancholic rhythmic flow. What follows suit is a novel of attempting to piece back together a life, that has since been wiped clean, with no clues to go off, and unreliable witnesses, cohorts, and possible friends; and theories of what had happened. “Missing Person,” is herald as Modiano’s masterpiece; in the novel Modiano proves that identity is elusive and ethereal, and its essence cannot be compiled by simple name, address, telephone number, birth date and year – that it compiles all the memories and experiences that an individual has accumulated over their years. Which is what makes Modiano’s amnesiac detective so admirable is that despite the loss of his life, his memories, and his identity he continues his quest to grasp it all again. In doing so, hopefully Guy Roland can compensate and rectify the past, with the future.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Doleful to Dreadful

Hello Gentle Reader

Always in the late winter, when the snow retreats, and the mud seeps; do we see the blight of autumn’s fires, now charred ashen remnants. The grass is brown or beige depending on light and perception. Doleful, as one co-worker called it; which immediately brought to mind the images of a doe: skittish, flappable, and ever so weak and helpless on the food chain. The transition from winter to spring is always dreadful more than doleful.

Whenever the world loses a writer of substantial literary merit, it’s a tragic loss. Two-thousand and twelve, saw two great writers depart from the earthly realm: The Polish Nobel Laureate Wislwa Szymborska Mozart of Poetry, and the Italian writer, Antonio Tabucchi, heir of the great Italian writer Italo Calvino, and student of the Portuguese mystical poet Fernando Pessoa. 

Now in two-thousand and sixteen, still fresh in our mind, the world has lost two other writers: Umberto Eco, and Harper Lee.

Umberto Eco, preferred to think of himself as an intellectual rather than a writer. Many other writes, have also included such thoughts when discussing their own work. Such as fellow Italian writer Antonio Tabucchi considering himself a professor (teacher) and scholar before he was a writer, or Claude Simon (Nobel Laureate 1985) referred to grape farming as his occupation before writing, Franz Kafka was an insurance clerk before a writer; and the list goes on. But Umberto Eco was an intellectual before he took pen to paper. With regards to Umberto Eco’s intellectual pursuits, semiotics was his greatest philosophical interest; often penning numerous essays in regards to the study of signs and symbols, and the meaning that they create. Though for Eco it was his narrative work that often found him fame, starting with his nineteen-eighty novels: “The Name of the Rose.” “The Name of the Rose,” is a medieval detective novel set in an Italian abbey with a Brother (monk) investigating suspicious deaths within it. After witch Eco had published numerous other novels, which would solidify himself as a giant of international literature, and an Italian master of prose. Umberto Eco, was a continual contender for the Nobel Prize for Literature, but may have been overlooked to so speculation, because of his grander presence on the world literary stage. Now at the age of eighty-four, Umberto Eco has passed away from complications with cancer. May you rest in peace Umberto Eco, rest in peace.

Harper Lee was one of America’s literary darlings. Her most famous novel “Too Kill a Mockingbird,” was met with controversy at first, being banned by some schools and school boards, for its depiction of racism; and yet Harper Lee herself had created one of the greatest fictional heroes of all time: Atticus Finch, a lawyer who defends a accused black man of raping a young white girl. The novel published in the nineteen-sixties was a huge success and controversial one. It dealt with the South’s racial tensions and the racial divide of America at the time (which still persists to this day, by the news reports). With publishing “Too Kill a Mockingbird,” Lee created a folk legal hero in Atticus Finch, with legal journals reviewing Atticus Finch and the novel more, then literary magazines. Yet in two-thousand and fifteen, Harper Lee would release her second and last novel: “Go Set a Watchman,” which would destroy Atticus Finch’s character, with revelations of his own racist past, and inclinations. “Go Set a Watchman,” would be met with controversy, and many wondering if the newly released novel had spoiled Harper Lee’s literary legacy. It’s a damper comment on her recent death, at the age of eighty-nine. “Too Kill a Mockingbird,” would most likely remain her masterpiece, and her tour de force, of her dual literary output. With a Pulitzer and a novel, about the Southern racial tensions, Harper Lee solidifies herself as one of America’s greatest writers of the last twentieth century; but also a silent giantess of literature, with a very small literary output, and some would consider it a one hit wonder.

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 

Tristano Dies: A Life

Hello Gentle Reader

Antonio Tabucchi was one of the greatest writers in contemporary Italy, before his death (prematurely as all death is premature in some form or another), back in two-thousand and twelve, after a long battle with cancer. Yet he left behind a great deal of books, which have been published, and are being translated, into other languages. His work is true literary magic in many ways. Tabucchi was a serious writer, who wrote about losers. Be it they’ve lost to the political climate of the time; lost a lover; lost their life; lost an opportunity; in the end they’ve lost something. Though, as it has been said before: “loosing builds character,” and in Tabucchi’s world, loosing also brings doubts. His characters often carry doubts with them. Doubtful characters, in Tabucchi’s perspectives often had is great for contradictions. Characters with contradictions often, carried more interesting stories; and in Tabucchi’s case, he was right. One such example is Pereira, the old and obese journalist from: “Pereira Maintains,” or “Pereira Declares.” Pereira in the beginning of the novel is simply put, a journalist, in charge of the cultural section of a newspaper. His love is for literature; a pastime or a lifelong passion, in which consumes and interests him. Yet because of this, Pereira remains uninvolved with the politics of the fascist regime that surround him. Until, he reads an essay by a young man discussing death. Pereira is moved by the essay, and writes to the young essayist, and employee’s him to write “advanced obituaries,” about great writers who are in their advanced age, and who will most certainly die, at a moment’s notice. The young man (Monteiro Rossi) agrees; but what follows suite, are politically charged essays with explicit left leaning political ideas being advertised, and with the current regime, it is considered politically undermining, and inappropriate for publication. Yet slowly with his interest growing for the young man, Pereira begins to find himself, being stirred from his own stupor, both physically and politically. Throughout the novel, Pereira often admonishes the young revolutionary for his politically brazen statements and thoughts, and finds himself, expressing a certain bit of fear for his own career and livelihood, because of his association with the young man, and his desire to write politically charged articles. Despite this though, Pereira begins to show a curious interest in the subterfuge being utilized by the young man and his cohorts, to undermine the ruling political regime and its ideology. At first Pereira is an apolitical individual, a man among the mass who accepts the current political atmosphere and situation, as the current reality; then he takes on a admonished role, quick to attempt reason with Monteiro; and eventually Pereira becomes tantalized by the life of Monteiro, and after the political awakening, Pereira declares his own political awakening, and has completed an entire transformation, and awakened from his own political stupor.

Despite this, Antonio Tabucchi was not a politically motivated writer. When “Pereira Maintains,” or “Pereira Declares,” was first published, it was picked up by the masses, as an encouraging read, and as a book of protest – especially against Silvio Berlusconi. After the novels political and publication success had taken place, there was great speculation that the writer would run for election to the senate. Tabucchi however declined; and has stated that his love has always been literature, and for literature to succeed there needs to be a mixture, of dreams, desire and fantasy; and his professional calling has always been a university professor, and he had no interest in leaving either of those pursuits behind in favour of one that was political. Despite not being a political author, Tabucchi was a writer who openly admitted that everyone should keep a sharp eye on politics.

When politics do come up for Tabucchi, it often has questions relating to the philosophical, the ontological or the existential, and often in a historical context, of some sort or another. It is not a political thriller, or a discussion of communism being ideologically purer then fascism; or fascism far more sustainable then communism. Rather for Tabucchi, it is the shaking of the political or ideological yoke, and undermining oppression. The oppression of such: dreams, desires, and fantasies, which make literature a possibility. Though, when serious conversations do appear, concerning political matters, they are often driven by philosophical questions, rather than politically engaged criticism or vitriol; such is the case with the short story “Clouds,” from “Time Ages in a Hurry,” where a young girl and a middle aged man, discuss the futility and the necessity of war. Such is Tabucchi’s magic, being engaged with contemporary concerns, but not being overtly politically engaged that one is patronized by it.

“Tristano Dies: A Life,” is a perfect companion book to “Time Ages in a Hurry.” The character of this novel, Tristano is a man of a colourful history. We are introduced to Tristano who was a resistance fighter in Greece, who shoots a Nazi-German soldier down in the middle of the street, after the solider attacks the people of a Greek village. From there enters one of the two women of Tristano’s life: Daphne; who hides Tristano away from the occupying forces, and until Tristano can safely get away into the hills. There in the hills, Tristano encounters another woman, who would haunt his life, from his receding memory, an American woman, who is supporting the resistance, and goes by the name Marilyn; though Tristano re-christens her as: “Rosamunde,” or “Guagliona.” Both women appear in Tristano’s monologue, but neither taken any more shape than any of his other dream-like memories, being recounted to the writer who has been called to his bedside, to listen to his recount of a life, on one sultry August. In these dog days of August, Tristano begins to recount his life, but his memory is clouded by both the vulture hovering death, and the morphine he takes to help manage the pain of his gangrene, which is devouring his leg.

The writer called to Tristano’s bedside, has a difficult task ahead of him. The writer is acquainted with Tristano already, having written a small prize winning book about the war hero, but with the request, to sit at the veterans side, and to listen to him recount his life, the writer, soon finds he needs to skim the fat of both imagination, dream, and drug to get the broth and stock of the story, without it being completely adulterated by other imposing forces. Yet, Tristano’s monologue and recount of the events of his life are not always straightforward. They are filled with tangents, thoughts, and questions of the past.  In memory, time is a force that does not move linearly or without logical principals. In memory, and in the case of Tristano’s concept of time, it moves forwards, backwards, without any reasoning behind it. This along with his often drug induced awakenings, would constitute him as a rather unreliable narrator. Still the journey with Tristano and the many versions of himself, and the stream-of-consciousness prose, in which is utilized creates an interesting and unique read.

“Tristano Dies: A Life,” has often been called one of Antonio Tabucchi’s masterpieces. It’s understandable, to see why it is referred to one of his major novels. It deals with the recurring themes of life, death, devotion, love and war. All mixed with Tabucchi’s keen style of always being vague in the middle, and giving the details around the edges. “Tristano Dies: A Life,” however is not an easy read. The style of the book, moves quickly through time, and without any linear direction; when the prose at the sudden shift in temporal perspective, do match up on a singular symphonic note, the majesty of Antonio Tabucchi’s talent become paramount and shine through. Other times though, the prose of “Tristano Dies: A Life,” came move in a direction, that becomes slightly off-putting; the use of extended letters or the attempt of language (both author and translator I presume), trying to use words to mimic the nonsensical sounds we make. But at its heights its witty, it’s thought provoking, and empathetic. I can imagine Frau smoking cigar in the garden, beneath a tree; or being spiteful and speaking German, despite the fact that her Italian is impeccable; and her tenderness when she reads a poem to Tristano every Sunday, just as if they were children again.

The novel itself, is not a book about death, or morbid sentiments or mortuary guilty pleasures. It is true that Tristano is dying; hence the title: “Tristano: Dies,” but it luckily enough has the subtext: “A Life,” to go along with it. “Tristano Dies: A Life,” is far more concerned with the life of Tristano, depicted throughout the novel in one long monologue; and death is broached and discussed as Tristano faces his own mortality. He offers a discussion on the parting of Elephants when they die:

“Speaking of elephants, of all the creatures of this world and all their funeral rites, I’ve always admired the elephants’ the most, they have this strange way of dying—you know about it? When an elephant feels his time has come he leaves the herd, but not alone, he chooses a companion, and they leave together. They start out across the savannah, often at a trot, depending on how urgent the dying elephant is feeling…and they wander and wander, sometimes kilometers and kilometers, until the dying elephant chooses his place to die, and he goes round and round again, tracing a circle, because he knows it’s time to die, he’s being drawn into death but needs to understand this space, as though he has an appointment, as though he wants to look outside himself, look death in the eye, and tell her, good morning madam death, here I am…of course it’s an imaginary circle, but it helps to “geography” death, if you will…and he’s the only one who can enter this circle, for death’s a private act, extremely private, so no one else can enter except the one who’s dying, and at this point he tells his companion he can leave, goodbye, thanks so much, and the other returns to the herd…”

All readers are invited to trot along with Tristano, in this novel.

Archipelago Books, outdoes itself again with another masterful translation, and another book by the late Antonio Tabucchi as well! “Tristano Dies: A Life,” took a while to read, it’s a dense novel, but a pleasurable read, and one must face the facts, the more forward the pages flip the greater the possibility that our time with Tristano is coming to an end; and so it’s best to take it slowly, and enjoy the journey and the route forward, with Tristano and the writer, and admire the prose of Antonio Tabucchi. The work is both empathetic, and humorous; cantankerous and thoughtful; philosophical and critical. Another rewarding book, from Antonio Tabucchi, and Archipelago Books.

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. Gentle Reader, because of considerable more energy being pushed towards, education and getting my educational requirements done and pushed through, I have been focusing more on those projects, which has taken time away from reading. Later this week I will also be leaving for a few days out of town, on a family matter, and will not be back until later next week, and will not have anything posted. I am hoping to get “Missing Persons,” wrapped up by Patrick Modiano, in this time frame. If not when I return I will hope to post some blogs about interesting literary news, that may have happened in my absence. Thank-you Gentle Reader for your readership, your understanding, and your continual kind support. ––– M. Mary 

Remembering Wisława Szymborska

Hello Gentle Reader

While watching Downton Abbey last night, I struck by the peculiar thought – I have my own Gladys Denker at my own work! Yes a Denker; the cunning, astute, and even a bit shrewd creature. Though perhaps referring to this co-worker as a Denker is a bigger compliment then it is a genuine realization or even insulting. Denker is not a character of many admirable traits or qualities. She manipulates Andrew Parker into spending his money, so she can drink at “The Velvet Violin,” at his expense; though thankfully the equally cunning and charming (if albeit sarcastic manner) Thomas Barrow rescues Andrew from another fateful night of Denker drinking on his penny. Yes, that does sound similar to a co-worker of mine; though Denker (as her name suggests – is a thinker) where my co-worker is nothing more than a window dresser of her work, and sloppy on who she steps on to achieve something substance via her perception. If only my work had a Violet Crawley and a Spratt, perhaps this would all be more entertaining; but for now it’s not.

Wisława Szymborska has also immortalized this individual, in one of her poems: “Old Folks Home,” which displays the poets grace, humour, irony, and often keen sense of the human condition.

“Old Folks’ Home,”
                         By – Wisława Szymborska

Here comes Her Highness—well you know who I mean,
our Helen the snooty—now who made her queen!
With her lipstick and wig on, as we could care,
like her three sons in Heaven, can see her from there!

“I wouldn’t be here if they’d lived through the war.
I’d spend winter with one son, summer with another.”
What makes her so sure?
I’d be dead too now, with her for a mother.

And she keeps on asking (“I don’t mean to pry”)
why from your sons and daughters there’s never a word
even though they weren’t killed. “If my boys were alive,
I’d spend all my holidays home with the third.”

Right, and in his gold carriage he’d come get her,
drawn by a swan or a lily-white dove,
to show all of us that he’ll never forget her
and how much he owes to her motherly love.

Even Jane herself, the nurse, can’t help but grin
when our Helen starts singing this old song again—
even though Jane’s job is commiseration
Monday through Friday with two weeks’ vacation.


I’ve never been much of a individual for poetry; an obscure and oblique literary form as far as I was concerned for many years. The structure of lines made no sense at all; and though at times its use of language was pertinent and often was capable of metaphorically giving voice to emotional thoughts and ideas, it was at the end of day, still a form that existed beyond my own comprehension. Reading an Elizabethan sonnet or an Italian sonnet, was equivalent to torture. Poetry it seemed had been reserved for poets, and other poets – cryptic creatures, that corresponded via these odd landscapes captured in words, and emotional revelations.

Enter Wisława Szymborska; specifically her poem “Cat in an Empty Apartment.” The poem itself tackled the theme of death, but domesticated it, and was written via the perspective of a cat, who views its absent owner as negligent and neglectful in their care and duty of it. The poem makes light of a dark theme, but also discusses the concept of death, with a fresh perspective, and gentle way. The poem itself, from my understanding is learned by school children and recited often by them.

Wisława Szymborska was a quiet and modest giant of poetry and literature. She wrote it is estimated only three-hundred and fifty poems, and yet still achieved the Nobel Prize for Literature in nineteen ninety-six. However the Nobel was often referred to as the “Nobel Disaster,” (or the "Stockholm Tragedy) as with its announcement, the quiet poet, was soon sprung into a limelight that brought unwanted attention. Request for interviews, call of congenial congratulations poured in, and the telephone never ceased ringing. Then of course there was the incident at Stockholm itself. Being the year’s Nobel Laureate in Literature, Szymborska was put up in one of the most luxurious suites in the hotel; and as the story goes, she was a kind woman who lived a modest and simple life, in Krakow, in an apartment, which had been christened “The Drawer,” by close and dear friends; in the suite of this hotel however, Szymborska found herself sleeping in the bath tub, because she could not figure out how to work the light switches. During her time in Stockholm she delivered one of the shortest acceptance speeches, which was filled her humour and gracious gratitude to the Swedish Academy. The affair would soon end, but for Szymborska, her life had been changed from that point on.

The Nobel shockwave continued to ripple through her life, and she soon hired a secretary to assist with the management of her affairs. His first job: stop the phone from ringing; though the position was planned as temporary, her assistant Michał Rusinek, and the poet had become close friends, but professional nonetheless.

Szymborska was profound, accessible, humorous all wrapped up in her earthly poetry with a penchant for understatement. She was a quiet giant of literature, who passed away on February 1st, 2012, was dearly mourned and missed by not only the Polish public but by those who had come into contact with the poet. Her love of kitschy objects befits her personality; her misplacement of her Nobel medal in her drawer of an apartment; her love of creating her own postcards showcasing her humour – they each describe Szymborska, the modest, shy, quiet giant of poetry who has reshaped poetry as not a literary form locked away in the ivory tower, but a lively, earthly conversation about all the aspects of what it means to be human.

Rest In Peace Szymborska. To this day, your poetry is a bed time reading for me. When I have a bad day, I turn to you. When I require a thought to mull, I read you. When I need comforting, I long for you. Because of you, I have learned to have a greater appreciation for drawers, and their capacity to hold, treasure, and keep; and for that I smile for you.

Life is sometimes bearable My Dear Szymborska, and at times only with you.

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

M. Mary

P.S. Now if only I could get my hands on the two documentaries of Szymborska herself. But for now her books certainly do.

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