Bob Dylan [Finally] Collects His Nobel Prize

Hello Gentle Reader

It were to appear the shadow of Bob Dylan, is all but through in haunting me in the news. Since the announcement on October 13^th, which stated Bob Dylan would be the Nobel Laureate in Literature for two-thousand and sixteen; Bob Dylan has been near to my thoughts— but not in a pleasing manner. First and foremost, I took to the blog, drafting a statement of viewpoints, in which I outlaid my complete disgust that (and I quote myself) a: “Singer,” a “Musician,” a “pop icon,”— would be chosen as the honored individual to receive the most prestigious literary prize in the world. Admittedly, I hissed and pissed at the announcement, and staked out my position on the matter, where in found Bob Dylan’s Nobel to be deplorable, abhorrent, unacceptable, disgraceful, and destructive to all future Nobel Laureates, and insulting to all prior laureates who had received the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Time does, however, calm one down. After seeing Patti Smith perform, one of Bob Dylan’s songs and falter slightly, I was struck with some empathy (more for Patti Smith), and have slowly learned to allow Dylan to slip from my mind; and his mistaken award has retreated along with him. I’ve learned to tolerate Bob Dylan, much like one tolerates a elusive pebble in their shoe. Now though, the Dylan Saga continues: from Nobel Nod, to Silence, to Snub, to Performance—it will now finally reach its final conclusion.

During the entire Bob Dylan saga criticism and controversy flew like a murder of crows. It first started with Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel nod; then came the criticism from a member of the Swedish Academy, who called Bob Dylan’s cold shoulder with regards to the announcement arrogant and rude; after which Bob Dylan broke his silence, but informed the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy: Sara Danius, that he would not be able to attend the Nobel ceremony, due to prior engagements. Now though Gentle Reader, the Bob Dylan catastrophe is coming to its final and overdue conclusion.

Bob Dylan will be meeting with the Swedish Academy this weekend, in a intimate and small setting—with no media presence; where he will receive his Nobel Diploma and Nobel medal, as well as receive warm congratulations from the members of the Swedish Academy (in attendance) on receiving the prize.

In a blog post outlying this weekend’s events; Sara Danius also notes, there will be no Nobel Lecture to be delivered this weekend. It should be noted, it is a fine print aspect of the prize, in order to maintain the status, diploma and medal; Bob Dylan must present his Nobel lecture six months after the December 10^th, or else the award is revoked. Danius did allude that a pre-recorded lecture will be submitted at a later date (and made it clear, this is not uncommon as both Elfiede Jelinek and Alice Munro had also sent pre-recorded lectures—though these lectures did take place on December 10^th.)

Finally though Gentle Reader, it will end. The Bob Dylan catastrophe will end at long last, and the pebble will slide away in the shoe; out of sight and out of mind.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

P.S. Gentle Reader, on her blog Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy Sara Danius, has uploaded two photos of herself wearing shirts designed to declare and support Bob Dylan and his Nobel nod. The shirts were designed by artist, Mu Wiesel. To see the photos, please see the following links provided:

Sara Danius - Bob Dylan 

Sara Danius - Bob Dylan (2) 

Best Translated Book Award 2017, Longlist

Hello Gentle Reader

One of my favourite passages from Mu Xin’s collection of short stories, is a description of spring:

“Spring doesn’t arrive so easily. Spring is like a melancholic yet dignified man. It is no wonder then that a person with deep addictions is sometimes is likened to spring,” – from “Weimar in Early Spring.”

In autumn we are ageless; come spring though, time it’s a more hurried and its pace is quickened. Fall back; spring forward. This spring has the real air of melancholy unlike the two years past; the sky is overcast with a thin sheet of cloud. The sun lurks somewhere overhead, but does not shine. The trees are bald, barren and brown. Yet this morning, a robin trilled and trumpeted the arrival of spring. Despite these signs of waning snow, and tweeting robins—we are not necessarily out of the woods just yet for winters last triumphant and vitriolic blast to still strike.

Spring is not a season which attracts my favour. It’s muddy, dirty, and barren—spring here is like looking at the edge of the world, and seeing the end. Thankfully spring is an adolescent season; it’s awkward in growth, inconsistent in appearance, and as sullen as they come. Yet thankfully it buds and blossoms into summer—who, only lasts as long as a one night love affair.

All said though, spring does herald the literary seasons beginning, with the Man Booker International Prize longlist, and now the Best Translated Book Award’s longlist for both fiction and poetry. The Best Translated Book Award is one of the more interesting literary awards for translated fiction currently at work. Its lists are often eclectic, exciting and invigorating. The awards longlist and shortlist for both fiction and poetry, is diverse and often includes the well-known with the up and coming, as there is always a chance to become better acquainted with a new writer. This year’s longlist(s) are as diverse as so those in past. This year’s longlist contains thirty-five works of prose and poetry. According to the data this year’s judges received more then six hundred nominations for this year’s award, of which there were writers from eighty seven different countries, fifty-four different languages, and published by one-hundred and seventy-nine different presses. The statistics are both staggering and welcoming; perhaps the English language or the publishing industry is more open to translated books from different languages, perspectives and people.

Without further ado though my Dear Gentle Reader, list below is this year’s longlist for the fiction and poetry prizes. First off is fiction, with the authors listed with country and book nominated, in no particular order; following suit is the poetry longlist with the author, country and nominated book, again in no particular order.

The Best Translated Book Award Fiction Longlist –

Maja Haderlap – Austria/Slovenia – “Angel of Oblivion,”

Basma Abdel – Egypt – “The Queue,”

Rafael Chirbe – Spain – “On The Edge,”

Lidija Dimkovska – Macedonia – “A Spare Life,”

Boubacar Boris Diop – Senegal – “Doomi Golo,”

László Krasznahorkai – Hungary – “The Last Wolf and Herman,”

Marie NDiaye – France – “Ladivine,”

Sjon – Iceland – “Moonstone: The Boy Who Never Was,”

Yoko Tawada – Japan/German – “Memories of a Polar Bear,”

Laia Jufresa – Mexico – “Umami,”

Sergei Lebedev – Russia – “Oblivion,”

Javier Marias – Spain – “Thus Bad Begins,”

Patrick Modiano – France – “In The Café of Lost Youth,”

Antonio di Benedetto – Argentina – “Zama,”

Banana Yoshimoto – Japan – “Moshi Moshi,”

Enrique Vila-Mattas – Spain – “Vampire in Love,”

Stefan Hertmans – Belgium – “War and Turpentine,”

Santiago Gamboa – Columbia – “Night Prayers,”

Jakob Wassermann – Germany – “My Marriage,”

Yoss – Cuba – “Super Extra Grande,”

Ananda Devi – Mauritius – “Eve Out of Her Ruins,”

Daniel Saldaña París – Mexico – “Among Strange Victims,”

Lúcio Cardoso – Brazil – “Chronicle of the Murdered House,”
Alessandro Baricco – Italy – “The Young Bride,”

Pedro Cabiya – Dominican Republic – “Wicked Weeds,”

There it is Gentle Reader, the fiction longlist for this year’s Best Translated Book Award. Twenty five books, by twenty five different writers. The list holds host to numerous new authors as well as established writers. I was delighted to see Maja Haderlap on the list with her beautiful and lyrical novel “Angel of Oblivion,” which tackles guilt and grief as both pandemic and personal affliction, as well as history and its tragic ability to be thwarted and interpreted. Nobel Laurate in Literature, Patrick Modiano also sits on the list with his novel “In The Café of Lost Youth,” which currently resides in my hands as I begin to read, yet another one of his wistful and melancholic novels, which most certainly will add another chapter to his mansion of half remembered memories. The Spanish language is well represented on the list with nine novels written in the language; yet only two writers herald from Spain itself: Javier Marias and Enrique Vila-Mattas. I always imagine Marias and Vila-Mattas, two of the best writers in Spain currently at work; in my mind they are always envisioned as great friends, but fiercely competitive with each other, in the friendliest manner possible. South and Central America are represented strongly with writers from Columbia, Mexico, Brazil, Argentina as well as Cuba; an exciting year for the southern hemisphere.

Ananda Devi strikes me as unique voice amongst the listed writers. She heralds form Mauritius and writes in French. She is one of those literary prodigies, whose talents came through early on, when she won a short story competition at the age of fifteen. Her nominated novel “Eve Out of Her Ruins,” tracks the lives of four lust driven teenagers, in a poor suburb of the capital of Mauritius; they each tackle and fight with the concepts of identity and sexuality, beneath the unforgiving son of the southern island nation.

Marie NDiaye, is one of Frances literary prodigies as well. She began writing at the age of twelve, and was discovered early on by the late Jerome Lindon (editor of the famous Éditions de Minuit); who published such famous writers as Samuel Beckett, Marguirte Duras, and Claude Simon. Since her debut, at the age of seventeen Marie NDiaye, has been a literary star in France; though she currently resides in Berlin in self-exile, escaping the monstrous political atmosphere of France. Her longlisted novel “Ladivine,” was also longlisted for the Man Booker International Prize last year. Boubacar Boris Diop and Marie NDiaye have something in common. Boubacar Boris Diop is a Senegalese writer and Marie NDiaye, though French is half Senegal, from her father; though he had returned to Senegal when she was just an infant. Boubacar Boris Diop’s novel “Doomi Golo,” is a remarkable and extrodinary piece of translation, as it is the first literary work to be translated from Wolof, into the English language. “Dommi Golo,” is about the one sided conversation of a grandfather attempting to communicate to his grandson before he dies. The grandfather’s life and his observations are accounted into six notebooks. The novel has been defined as moving like a piece of musical composition, paradoxically, it is both meandering and loose, while also maintain a cohesive and interwoven to give a completed picture. “Dommi Golo,” is one of the most exciting novels currently on the list.

László Krasznahorkai is a giant on the international literary scene. He has won the Best Translated Book Award twice; in two consecutive years. First Krasznahorkai won the award with his debut novel translated into English “Satantango,” in two-thousand and thirteen; in two-thousand and fourteen he would receive the award again with: “Seiobo There Below.” This is a testament to László Krasznahorkai talent and reputation as a major writer on the world stage. Personally though, I often myself at odds with the Hungarian master of the apocalypse; his work is incredible in style, breadth and scope; yet I often find myself finishing his worth with a great sigh of exhaustion. His winding and seemingly endless sentences are a labyrinth, and much like the purpose of the Minotaur’s labyrinth, one gets the impression that they are insignificant, small and most certainly get lost within it. Despite my own hesitations with the writer, I cannot deny him his glory or praise, which I often agree he justly deserves. He is just not necessarily my cup of tea in all circumstances. Krasznahorkai is back as a veteran and seasoned writer with his short novel: “The Last Wolf and Herman.” It’ll be curious to see if precedence follows, and whether or not Krasznahorkai ends up on the shortlist, and the potential as a winner. The Icelandic writer, Sjon, also finds himself on the longlist once again, after making it there in two-thousand and fourteen with his novel “The Whispering Muse.” There can be no denying Sjon is a great writer. His short and beautifully crafted novel “The Blue Fox,” was much fairy story and folktale, as it was a heartbreaking piece of work of family and human cruelty. Reaching the longlist a second time, only solidifies Sjon’s growing reputation and respect. Another curious veteran writer makes on to this year’s longlist: Lidija Dimkovska, from Macedonia. In two-thousand and thirteen Lidija Dimkovska was on the poetry shortlist with her collection of poems: “pH Neutral History,” now four years later, she is back with her novel “A Spare Life.” Though Dimkovska did not win poetry section of the Best Translated Book Award, four years ago, her novel recently translated as “A Spare Life,” did receive the European Union Prize for Literature alongside eleven other writers.

Two Japanese writers also make their way on to this year’s longlist in fiction; and they could not be any more different. Yoko Tawada is one of the most unique voices currently at work in both Japanese and German. She is a writer of a dual identity and language. Her work is often noted for its distinct Japanese surrealism (with its slight focus on bodily functions as is the case of “The Bridegroom and the Dog,”) she is noted as a writer completely distinct from the influence of Haruki Murakami. Her longlisted novel “Memories of a Polar Bear,” is a unconventional family sage, recounting the lives of three generations of polar bears. The novel has been remarked to showcase the hallmark strangeness of Yoko Tawada’s previous work, as it recounts the unique polar bears living amongst the human society, from Soviet Russia, to Canada, to the former East German, to the tragic real story of Knut born in the Leipzig zoo. Yoko Tawada traverses the world. By comparison, Banana Yoshimoto is the more strikingly Japanese writer, of the two. Alongside Haruki Murakami, Banana Yoshimoto is considered one of Japans most popular writers. Much like Haruki Murakami, Banana Yoshimoto uses casual surrealism to discuss the existential dread facing the urban bound Japanese youth, as they do their best to carve their name out in a post-consumerist world. Yoshimoto has stated her goal in writing is to help people, and in her novel “Moshi Moshi,” Yoshimoto tackles the death of a parent, and the all-consuming grief. With light prose and her casual yet detached surrealism Banana Yoshimoto creates a coming of age ghost story.

Basma Abdel is the only writer represented on the list hailing from the Middle East and the Arabic language. Basma Abdel is a writer, psychiatrist and visual artist, as well as being a columnist with a leading newspaper in Egypt. She earned her nickname or badge: “The Rebel,” because she continually fights against corruption, torture, and injustice in her home country. Her longlisted novel “The Queue,” is a scathing and yet all too realistic perspective of life after the failed Arab Spring. It’s a potent novel which expresses through subtle and intelligence writing Basma Abdel explore the nature of authoritarianism, and how it manipulates the everyday populace in an information saturated age; and its complete disregard for all those under its thumb, including those faithful and supportive of it.

The Best Translated Book Award, Poetry Longlist:

Ashraf Fayadh – Palestine/Saudi Arabia – “Instructions Within,”

Sara Uribe – Mexico – “Antígona González,”

Anna Świrszczyńska – Poland – “Building the Barricade,”

Abdellatif Laâbi – Morocco – “In Praise of Defeat,”

Yideum Kim – (South) Korea – “Cheer Up, Femme Fatale,”

Michael Donhauser – Austria – “Of Things,”

Alejandra Pizarnik – Argentina – “Extracting the Stone of Madness,”

Szilárd Borbély – Hungary – “Berlin-Hamlet,”

Pierre Reverdy – France – “Thief of Talent,”

Víctor Rodríguez Núñez – Cuba – “Tasks,”

There is the ten longlisted poetry collections nominated for this year’s Best Translated Book Award in the poetry section. I am a casual poetry reader (at best) so my thoughts are limited and non-existence. Though it is interesting to note, on the poetry short list lies on writer from one of the most politically charged areas in the world: Ashraf Fayadh, a Palestinian born poet currently residing in Saudi Arabia. Also noted on the longlist is a lack of European domination with only four poets of the nine heralding from the continent, the rest come from Asia, South and Central America.

This year’s longlist is as expected: is it eclectic, eccentric and exciting. On the longlist there are numerous writers and novels which I am currently interested in pursuing further, while I begin compiling a new books I would like to read and buy in the coming months. The best part about all literary awards is the exciting venture of discovering a new writer, new talent, and a new book to enjoy.

Best of luck to all the writers and it will be exciting to see how the difficult decision is made to dwindle down the list to a shortlist; a job I do not envy.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Derek Walcott, Nobel Laureates, Dies Aged 87

Hello Gentle Reader

Derek Walcott, the poet and playwright and Nobel Laureate (1992) died at his home in St. Lucia, at the age of 87, on Friday March 27. Walcott is highly regarded for his poetry which tackles both the microcosmic universe of his Caribbean homeland with its sparkling beaches, shimmering waters and oppressive sun; but he also framed his poems in historical context which often laced and exposed the brutal bondage of colonialism. Derek Walcott’s utilized different poetry forms to best showcase his themes and poetic language, from the short lyric to the epic. Poetry has been a part of Walcott’s life since he was young; his father (who died when Derek Walcott was an infant0 was a teacher, watercolour painter and poet, and his mother a school teacher, recited Shakespeare to him while he was just a child. At the age of 19 he had self-published his first collection of poems and sold them on street corners, before he went to study at the West Indies University on a scholarship. After studying Walcott would continue to publish poetry and plays, while he taught and lectured at universities. His poems are noted for discussing the almost paradise world of the Caribbean life, with its exotic blooming flowers and the livelihood of the sea, but the narrative is also quickly framed in historical context, where the discussion of the economies of such island life, was built on sugar plantations, forced labour and slavery. Paradise was also prison. In doing so however, Walcott was capable of pushing the Caribbean onto the literary map, and open the grander world into its beauty and colonial history, but also framing human experience as universal, not just limited to any geographical space. Derek Walcott is most famous for his epic poetic odyssey: “Omeros,” which re-envisions the classical Greek myth, to the Caribbean island of St. Lucia. It is often cited, this major epic of postmodernist epic poetry, would secure Derek Walcott’s Nobel in 1992, when he was awarded the prize with the following citation:

“For a poetic oeuvre of great luminosity, sustained by a historical vision, the outcome of a multicultural commitment.”

Derek Walcott is certainly a multicultural poet through and through. His allegiances reside with three distinct cultures: the Caribbean of his home, the English language as his tongue and pen, and Africa as his ancestor. Often Walcott struggles with which one he should belong to solely, before concluding he is the product of a multicultural spectrum.

Derek Walcott belongs to the great poetry renascence the Nobel experienced from 1980 – 1996, when great poets had achieved the great success the Nobel offers: those fellow poets are: Czesław Miłosz (1980), Joseph Brodsky (1987), Octavio Paz (1990), Derek Walcott (1992), Seamus Heaney (1995) and Wisława Szymborska (1996). Of the six laureates, Walcott is the last to pass.

Rest in Peace, Derek Walcott. Your poetry is admired, loved, and recited. It tackles the historical, the epic, the multicultural, and the ambiguities of the inedited, ancestry, history and the human experience; but no matter the sea shimmers as the sun rises.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Torgny Lindgren, Member of Swedish Academy, Dies Aged 78

Hello Gentle Reader

Torgny Lindgren was one of Sweden’s most renowned contemporary authors. Lindgren began his literary career in 1965, writing poetry, and was a teacher until the mid-1970’s. Success however, would not come for Lindgren until the 1982 with his breakthrough novel “The Way of the Serpent,” (“Ormens väg på hälleberget,”) the novel recounts the story of a poor farmer and his family as they struggle through the poverty and the cruelties of debt and credit, with their landlord(s), in the northern regions of Sweden during the nineteenth century. “The Way of the Serpent,” was noted by some as a scathing and unfiltered portrait of the struggles of poverty, debt, the earthly cruelty of man, and the fading hope of absolution and scripture. Moving past the poignant perspective the novel possess, the Swedish Academy recounts on Torgny Lindgren’s biography, the main character of the novel, is the language, in which Lindgren found his unique writing voice, which would help make him a renowned Swedish literary star, both at home and abroad. In 1986 the novel would be adapted into a film, directed by Bo Widerberg. In 1991, Torgny Lindgren was elected to Chair No. 9 of the Swedish Academy, filling the seat of his predecessor linguist, Ture Johannisson. Despite being 78 years old at the time of his passing, Lindgren was still publishing. His last novel came out three years ago in 2014: “Klingsor,” followed by a radio play in 2016: “Ring Game.” When he was asked after his last novel was published if he was frightened by death, he responded:

“I am not afraid of death, either, but it is more present to me now than twenty years ago. I know about it.”  

Many in Sweden remember Torgny Lindgren as a kind and witty, and a phenomenal writer, whose pages are graced with wisdom, and biblical musings, reflecting his decision to become catholic in the 1980s.

I leave off with one last extract from Torgny Lindgren’s novel “Norrlands Akvavit,” retrieved from Torgny Lindgren’s biography on the Swedish Academy website:

‘“A preacher cannot permit his teeth to decay’, said Olaf Halverson. ‘When you’re preaching you cannot have false teeth that clatter.”’

Rest in Peace Torgny Lindgren.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

For further reading about Torgny Lindgren’s passing please see the following newspapers (please note, they are in Swedish):

https://www.gp.se/n%C3%B6je/kultur/torgny-lindgren-har-d%C3%B6tt-1.4198832

http://www.expressen.se/nyheter/forfattaren-torgny-lindgren-ar-dod/

For a detail biography of Trogny Lindgren, please the Swedish Academy’s page dedicted to Chair No. 9:

http://www.svenskaakademien.se/en/the-academy/chair-no-9-torgny-lindgren

Man Booker International Prize 2017 Longlist

Hello Gentle Reader,

Now in its second year format as an annual award for an international writer and their translated novel into English, the Man Booker International Prize has released this year’s shortlist, showcasing a variety of translated fiction, from the well-known to the up and coming. This year’s longlist has strong contenders from Europe, China, Israel and South America. Commentator noticed a unique paradox with this year’s award. Of the thirteen nominated authors, translators and novels, seven of the translators on the list are women, while only three of the nominated writers are women. This once again asks questions about gender bias when it comes to publishing and literary awards by some. Though I do not have any experience in the literary world, besides being a casual reader of no particular standing, I don’t think there is any gender bias for awards or publishing. Literature is not (nor should be) patriarchal, though some would say it is harder to get published if you are a woman, and note statistical data, such as 26% of books translated are by women, and among other noticeable trends such as the Nobel Prize for Literature, throughout its long history has only fourteen women receiving the accolade, in compassion to the ninety-nine men who have won the prize. Yet, with all prizes with literature in general, it’s the work that gets the attention, it’s the merit which deserves the prize, not gender; and even though only fourteen women have won the Nobel Prize for Literature (for example) all fourteen have produced wonderful books with unique perspective of the human condition in an ever changing world. Though last year’s Man Booker International Prize, had received attention with a slight sparsity of women nominated for the award with four women on the longlist, and eight translators being women; Han Kang still won with her novel “The Vegetarian.”

This year’s longlist is again a uniquely complied list of writers, which includes Ismail Kadare, who won the Man Booker International Prize, in its first conceived format back in two-thousand and five. This year’s longlist also includes last year’s shortlisted author Yan Lianke, and two well-known Israeli authors, David Grossman and Amos Oz. Yet the award also celebrates the other writers not as well known or up and coming.

The following Gentle Reader is this year’s Man Booker International Prize, in no particular order:

Wioletta Greg – Poland – “Swallowing Mercury,”

Jon Kalman Stefansson – Iceland – “Fish Have No Feet,”

Alain Mabanckou – France – “Black Moses,”

Clemens Meyer – Germany – “Bricks and Mortar,”

Dorthe Nors – Denmark – “Mirror, Shoulder, Signal,”

Yan Lianke – China – “The Explosion Chronicles,”

Roy Jacobsen – Norway – “The Unseen,”

David Grossman – Israel – “A Horse Walks Into a Bar,”

Samanta Schweblin – Argentina – “Fever Dream,”

Ismail Kadare – Albania – “The Traitor's Niche,”

Stefan Hertmans – Belgium – “War and Turpentine,”

Mathias Enard – France – “Compass,”

Amos Oz – Israel – “Judas,”

There it is Gentle Reader, this year’s Man Booker International Prize for 2017. The list contains a variety of novels and themes, from a Robin Hood figure in the Congo, to the tragic and moral seriousness of David Gossman as he discusses a comedian, to family drama in Norway, to the short bildungsroman about a girl growing up in Poland. This year’s longlist celebrates the international renowned alongside the young and upcoming, with their talented and ambitious works.

Yet another exciting list of writers and novels from around the world; all that is left to be said, is good luck to each of them, and anxiously await the shortlist.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Thank-you: Jill Schoolman & Archipelago Books

Hello Gentle Reader

Jill Schoolman is a slightly unsung hero. Schoolman is the founder, editor and publisher of Archipelago Books, one of the most wonderful independent publishers whose sole focus is on translated and international literature. All of my Archipelago Books have a cherished spot on my bookshelves, and are often noticed by visitor’s who ask about ‘the small rainbow books,’ which I gleefully inform them, are books from one of my favourite publishers. An Archipelago Book—be it: “Dreams of Stone,” by Magdalena Tulli, to “To Mervas,” by Elisabeth Rynell, to “Mister Blue,” by Jacques Poulin, to “Time Ages in a Hurry,” by Antonio Tabucchi, to the massive “Blinding,” by Mircea Cărtărescu—is always a prized jewel in my forest of stories.

Archipelago books have done a phenomenal job at producing the underappreciated, the overlooked, or the unknown into English language markets. For this the publishing company has received praise by newspapers for its uniquely stylized books, for the quality of the translations, and for the diversity of the works translated and published—from the metafictional worlds of Magdalena Tulli, to the banks of Quebec with Jacques Poulin, to the existential ponderings of the Japanese short story master Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, to the scandalous as well as exaggerated life of the declining Catalan aristocrats of Catalonia, depicted in Josep Maria de Sagarra scathing and satirical grand novel.

Now Jill Schoolman and Archipelago Books have received further recognition, by being awarded the Words Without Borders Ottaway Award, for the Promotion of International Literature.  In choosing to award Schoolman with the Ottaway award, the Board Chair of Words Without Borders, Samantha Schnee stated the following:

“As physical and political borders close in around us, Jill Schoolman’s Archipelago Books offers a safe harbor to literary talent from around the world, infusing our bookshelves with vital and original work in translation. We are thrilled to celebrate her heroic efforts with this year’s Ottaway Award.”

At one point in time, it may have been odd to call translating literature a heroic endeavor; but the political climate in the world has become increasingly xenophobic and distrustful of others. Every day the news reports a story about borders closing, missiles ready to launch, people seeking refuge and soon turned away. Though literature cannot change these realities, it cannot solve these problems or even change the perspective of the masses or the politically governing, but it does offer an exchange of language and culture between languages on a literary level, which has the ability to bring to light the human universalities or love and suffering, but the unique cultural trials of different individuals in different cultures.

I’ve always looked at reading international literature as a form of traveling—at least at a more affordable price. It is with great thanks to Jill Schoolman, Archipelago Books, and the talented translators that I have been able to experience such unique worlds, read great writers and books, and seen the world though I can’t quite afford to travel. But now translation has become necessary, to showcase via literature human is not atomized into different countries or religions or races. Human is human, however weak or fragile, however corrupt and immoral; human is human, through its compassion and ability to grow and move forward. There’s a lot of work to be done, but becoming isolationistic is not conducive to a greater or grander world. There is work to be done, and at least Jill Schoolman is working on it and allowing access to the world through books, as it becomes increasingly barred from us and others.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Good News Required

Hello Gentle Reader

There can be no greater sense of preserving forward then the call of some good news. Sometimes it’s because the person in front of you bought you a coffee, or a co-worker brings you a coffee unexpectedly, or you get invited out for a date, or you catch up with an old friend. Its these small wonders, of no great miracle, and filled with the most mundane elements of life which push us to push just a little more forward in going through life; despite the fact that we swing blindly for the most part, and are completely lost in trying to figure out: where we belong in the larger scheme of these chaotic machinations. Ali Cobby Eckermann, was a unemployed Ingenious Australian poet living in a van with her mother in Adelaide, Australia. This is, until a serendipitous e-mail would change her fortunes. Eckermann received an e-mail stating she was one of two poets to receive the Windham-Campbell Literary Prize in poetry, an award that is worth $165,000 (American).

Ali Cobby Eckermann was awarded specifically for her writings in which she confronts the violent history of the Stolen Generation of Australia. Through language, poetry, and story she is able to give voice to the unspoken traumas and loss which was conveyed during this time; and in a sense begins the process of reconciliation. In reading about her work, Eckermann immediately struck me as an advocate of Australia’s hidden pain, just as Canada attempts to reconcile and make peace with its own dark ghosts with ingenious Canadians, who suffered at the hands of the residential school system.

The Windham-Campbell Literary Prize is a relatively new award. It was inaugurated in two-thousand and thirteen. Since then the award has garnered recognition for its secrecy and the often humorous ways in which the lucky writers have been informed they’ve won; such as one of last year’s fiction winners: Helen Garner (also Australian) thought the award was a hoax, when she found it in her spam folder of her e-mail.

The award has four categories: Poetry, Drama, Fiction and Non-Fiction. This year’s winners are as follows, split into their respective categories and country of origin:

Poetry –

Ali Cobby Eckermann – Australia

Carolyn Forché – United States of America

Drama –

Marina Carr – Ireland

Ike Holter – United States of America

Fiction –

André Alexis – Canada & Trinidad and Tobago

Erna Brodber – Jamaica

Non-Fiction –

Maya Jasanoff – United States of America

Ashleigh Young – New Zealand

Congratulations to all writers and their grand pay day of $165, 000 dollars each!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Reader

M. Mary  

Paula Fox, Dies Aged 93

Hello Gentle Reader

Paula Fox was a distinguished writer for children and adults. Her work dealt with themes of dislocation, dysfunction, alienation and abandonment; which were attributed to come from her early life experiences as a child, in which she was rejected by her mother, and would be left in the care of others. It is reported in her memoir “Borrowed Finery,” when Paula was reunited with her mother at the age of five, the young Paula was treated like a prisoner of war. The experience was of course traumatic for the five year old, and she would later theorize that if her mother could hide the deed and get away with it, she would most certainly have killed Paula. It is at this point, Paula would have little contact with her paternal mother, and life would go on as usual, with a few missteps of her own. Paula became pregnant at the age of twenty, and give birth to a daughter, whom she would give up for adoption. This daughter would become Linda Carroll; who would become an author and couples therapist. Linda Carroll’s daughter is none other than the grunge queen and singer and musician Courtney Love, who is also the wife and widow of tragic musician Kurt Cobain, and mother of visual artist of Francis Bean Cobain. Looking at this family tree, complicated family relationships exist between mothers and daughters, as is the case of Paula Fox with her mother Elise Fox; to her daughter Linda Carroll’s relationship with her daughter, Courtney Love, and Love’s relationship with her daughter Francis Bean Cobain.

Paula Fox did not immediately turn to writing; as Fox did not start to write and publish until well into her forties. Yet, when she began to publish and gain recognition for her work, Paula Fox’s work was noted for complex characters, a pared-down economic prose along with minute observations, and she gain special praise for her ability to control the pace of her prose. She won the Newberry Medal (often considered the Pulitzer Prize for children’s fiction) for her novel “The Slave Dancer,” which became a controversial novel, about the slave trade in Atlanta during the mid-nineteenth century. Fox is most well-known to adults for her novel “Desperate Character,” in which she dissects the dissolution of a marriage. Despite her foray into adult literature, and the bit of success she found, her work for children often took greater precedence then her work for the more mature audience, and would soon fall out of print. Yet with the praise of Jonathan Franzen, Paula Fox’s work found a new renaissance during the nineties, as many new readers were reintroduced to her work.

Paula Fox is best regarded as the dark horse of American children’s literature. She won numerous awards for her outstanding books in this field, including the Hans Christian Andersen Award for her output in that genre. Her children’s literature, often dealt with themes and issues, some would claim were best left alone for children; yet Paula Fox appears to understand the child like capacity to understand, to show compassion, and to have empathy for the human condition, in which many would wish to shelter children from. Despite her mature treatment and understanding of children, Paula Fox and her writing has not been accepted without protest—as is the case of her winning the Newberry Medal.

Despite being a dark horse of children’s literature, and slightly underappreciated for her prose for adults, Paula Fox, is cherished by those who have read her, and swear by her unique understanding of the human condition. She has been called a unsung genius; and a master at work in which she depicts the modern plight of the ordinary and their tragic mundane lives, better than most.

Rest in Peace, Paula Fox.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Stone Mattress

Hello Gentle Reader

The short story is a genre which is plagued with an inferiority complex. It is often passed over and looked down upon when compared to its literary relation the novel. It wasn’t (it appears) until recently that the short story begin to gather overdue attention. The most spectacular recognition came for the short story in two-thousand and thirteen, when Alice Munro, would be crowned the Nobel Laureate in Literature. Munro in her usual modesty, sloughed off any personal pride of the award and shifted the attention to the short story, by stating the award was a wonderful thing, but certainly a wonderful thing for the Short Story. As Alice Munro often voiced, the short story, was often seen as something a writer did as practice—in order to prepare themselves—for the great novel they were about to publish. Munro herself admitted and lamented her own dissatisfaction with the short story genre at first, she continuously told herself after this she would get ready to write ‘that novel,’ in which she was meaning to write. Yet every time she would set around to write it, the work in which she produced, would lose its steam and become, yet another short story. Eventually, Alice Munro would stop thinking about the great novel she dreamed of writing, and resigned herself to the short story. In what many writers would see as failure or a shortcoming, Munro had appeared to take this ‘set back,’ in stride. Rather than giving up Alice Munro pushed forwarded with the short story genre, and began to make it her own. As her career began to mature, and each new short story collection was refined and produced, one after another, critics began to see and claim that in a span of thirty pages, Munro had depicted a life; better than most novelists could in three hundred plus pages. A hallmark of Alice Munro’s fiction is the ordinary lives of the characters in which she depicts. She once claimed that every life she can muster is extraordinary—never ordinary.  In an interview in nineteen-eighty six, Munro is quoted to have stated:

“I don’t know who the ordinary people are. Because everyone is extraordinary to themselves. In fact, I read one review that said: ‘These people don’t have any extraordinary experiences. They’re civil servants, farmers, accountants, nurses.’ Well, nurses have about the most dramatic life I can think of. I don’t know about, it’s probably that I don’t write about—what secret agents? Or people who have psychic experiences or something like this? But I never consider these people ordinary. But then I never meet anybody I do consider ordinary.”

Such is the truth with Alice Munro’s work. There are the quiet dramatic moments of a life which gradually unfold in her clear prose. Despite the ordinary and mundane being present and her characters varying from nurses, to accountants, to farmers and civil servants—tragedy can still strike. Much like Doree from the short story ‘Dimension,’ from the collection “Too Much Happiness,” who at the age of twenty three, finds herself emotionally and socially isolated—and be aware this is the clincher; her husband Lloyd was abusive, and in a fit of righteous delusions, asphyxiates their children to death. Beneath the quiet surface of household chores, motherhood, careers, and small town values and the quiet and nameless luxuries of the ordinary, Alice Munro, shows just how unordinary, gothic, and tragic the lives of her characters are; and just how little we anyone may know about the person sitting next to them on the bus, or their neighbour. The short stories of Alice Munro, are gentle stones tossed into a pond, and the ripples orbit out, caress only briefly—they never crash. Yet, just as soon as they were there, the surface of the pond falls back into its stable self once again; and life goes on.

Alice Munro’s short stories are written with grace and ease. The language is plain, ordinary, and rooted in an almost colloquial manner. They are written as if someone is relaying neighborhood gossip to another over a cup of coffee; or a chance encounter confession from someone, whose is casually feeding the ducks at a pond. There is never a hint if literary pretentions to one of her short stories. Alice Munro never eviscerates, dissects, vivisects; pokes or probes her characters, nor does she display their internal workings, or seek to understand the reasoning by their actions. Rather, Alice Munro depicts their lives as they are—no frills—and observes them as they putts about or go about their daily lives; it just so happens, a moment happens in their life, be an abnormal event or one of those everyday tragedies, their lives change course, and as the story begins to wrap up; the tomorrows; their futures are endlessly set forth before them, while their pasts whisper and haunt from in the background.

Writers like Alice Munro and Anton Chekhov may have brought the short story out of the literary shadow of the novel; but their own success with the genre comes at a price as well. Success for the short story is now marked by the success of Alice Munro and Anton Chekhov. Munro wrote short stories, which could rival and battle novels. Her work moved forward through time, and often depicted not a slice of life; but a life which had been lived; recounting all events that lead to that particular moment, or characters reviewing and reflecting on a particular moment, which lead to their current circumstances, and it is there at the end, Alice Munro leaves her characters to the uncertainties of life, of a future which goes on, with the usual routine. Life in these instances just goes on.

It should seem unfair that any writer writing in the short story format would require themselves to attempt to replicate or duplicate the success of either Alice Munro or Anton Chekhov. Though the two writers—among many others—have found great success in the format, they’re way of kneading it into their own functioning literary form of expression, should be left to themselves; while aspiring and veteran writers should swath their own literary achievements and successes in the genre, by their own merit. This is not to state that there is nothing to learn from reading Alice Munro or Anton Chekhov; but what they have accomplished, is their own success; in moving forward the genre should find greater success by writers who practice the form, and take in to new adventures, such as Alex Epstein and  Gyrðir Elíasson, have done.

Contrary to what I have just stated: Alice Munro and her short stories are now considered the reluctant measuring stick of short stories. Her work has found international success and appeal, as it has always reshaped how serious the short story is taken on the literary stage. In order to become a great master of the form, one must first be measured to a standing grand master of it. Aspiring writers, who now are being pushed through the marketing molding machine of Master of Fine Art degrees with an emphasis on Creative Writing. It is here (or so I am told) these writers are taught to formulate their short stories on the similar vein of Amy Hempel, Raymond Carver and Ernest Hemmingway. What an unfortunate thought. Those who have written great short stories (and yes Hempel, Hemmingway and Carver are talented and worthy writers), often have done so without the requirement to lean on these writers. Antonio Tabucchi is one great short story writer. “Little Misunderstanding of No Importance,” hints at often great and grand narratives, of unique lives lived of adventure, and now reflect and tell their tales, of incidental moments of their lives, as they attempt to recapture that youth, but beyond that asks questions of: is it a touch of chance or simply magic which makes life worth living and pushes each of us forward. Ersi Sotiropoulos’s stories are short, bare bones, but not minimalist; rather they are frank and cautious of a precision of words and poetic detail, which often litters her works which orbit in relationships, miscommunications, and general mundane absurdities. The hallmark of great short story writers such as Alice Munro, Antonio Tabucchi, Anton Chekhov, and Ersi Sotiropoulos, is they are not a slice of an individual’s life presented in its entirety; they hint beyond what is left on the page to an uncertain future, a knowable past, and a grander life which the reader is not privy too, but can dream about.

In the acknowledgements of “Stone Mattress,” Margaret Atwood, makes clear the works collected in this volume of work are best defined as ‘Tales,’ (as is the subtitle of the book) not ‘Story.’ She further explains the semantic and inherent difference between the idea of a story and that of a tale:

“These nine tales owe a debt to tales through the ages. Calling a piece of short fiction a “tale” removes it at least slightly from the realm of mundane works and days, as it evokes the world of the folk tale, the wonder tale, and the long-ago teller of tales. We may safely assume that all tales are fiction, whereas a “story” might well be a true story about what we usually agree to call “real life,” as well as a short story that that keeps within the boundaries of social realism.”

“Stone Mattress,” was published in two-thousand and fourteen, a year which many noted, showed a resurging interest in the short story. Many believed this renewed interest came from Alice Munro’s Nobel; and in following year, many well-known writers (Graham Swift, Lydia Davis, Hilary Mantel, and Margaret Atwood) would publish a collection of short stories; be it to capitalize on the short story’s unprecedented success, or perhaps in celebration of its success.

I stumbled upon “Stone Mattress,” after a hellish day and in a frenzied night of my mind whirling about. I rarely stop by the local library; its shelves are packed with the populist demands and general requirements of the reading public. The library does not (with no one at fault) even begin to scrap the surface of my niche literary tastes. Upon arrival though, I stumbled upon Atwood’s limited selection available. To be honest, it was difficult to say what I was looking for—perhaps just a familiar old friend who I haven’t chatted with in a while and desired to meet again, if only briefly. The works available of her extensive bibliography did not begin to quench my desire to read her work. First and foremost I looked for the final volume of her “MaddAddam Trilogy,” the eponymous novel “MaddAddam,” but could not find it. Then I decided perhaps there will be something from her back catalogue worth exploring, which I had not read. The only other books available were: “Oryx and Crake,” “The Year of the Flood,” “Hag-Seed,” “Blind Assassin,” “Cats Eye,” and “Stone Mattress.” I had known “Hag-Seed,” was the most recent publication and picked it up first, after which I made my way to an office chair (because all the comfy chairs were taken by a gaggle of gabbing girls, swooning and awing amongst their juvenile gossip), and sat down to read. My first impressions after reading the prologue, was that I was not in the mood for a novel written in the format of a play—now after further research, the only hint of a play like format at first glance was in the first part, while the rest moves with greater ease of controlled prose, with its sentences and paragraphs. After that it was “Stone Mattress.” I rationalized the decision by stating, I’ve read most of all the other works, and I do enjoy short stories—so “Stone Mattress,” it was; after settling into the office chair again, I read the first story “Alphinland,” and decided, the book would return home with me.

First impressions are dangerously important. “Stone Mattress,” begins with three strong interconnected tales, titled: “Alphinland,” “Revenant,” and “Dark Lady.” These three short stories recount the encounters of three individuals, who were involved with artists and poets during the sixties. The three works recount two women who orbit and revolve on the axis of infatuation, lust and even love for a poet by the name of Gavin. Gavin is introduced as a poet, who is bloated egotistical nature, is remarked with crystal cold clarity that is afforded to those of age. Gavin becomes well known for his sexually charged poems of his youth, where he discusses sex and immortalizes his lovers in his sonnets. One such lover is Constance (from ‘Alphinland,’) who lived and loved Gavin in their shared youth. They lived in abject poverty, which she rationalizes the circumstances, by adding a bit of glamour to the situation, with the romantic notion that she was supporting the great poet Gavin as he starved for his art and lounged around for inspiration, while she worked monotonous and mundane jobs to pay the rent and get some food. Solace comes for sweet Constance in her fantasy writings titled ‘Alphinland,’ which she sells off and makes a pretty penny from; though her fantasy writings are looked down upon by both Gavin and his friends; though when it came to pay for beer or pick up a tab they would always sing praise with undercurrents of mocking malice:

“They’d tease her by saying she was writing about garden gnomes, and she’d laugh say yes, but today the gnomes had dug up their crock of golden coins and would buy them all a beer. They liked the free beer part of it, and would make toasts: “Here’s to the gnomes! Long may the roam! A gnome in every home!”’

Youth is not without its pitfalls. Gavin who is defined by his own self-assurance he is genius; and this vanity does not stop simply at his confident state that he is creative genius—his physical appearance also allows him to be equally as vain, and show off his sexual prowess. As it would happen, he would cheat on Constance with a certain woman by the name of Marjorie. Constance and Gavin would then split apart, and Constance would move to become a multimillionaire, with hordes of fans devouring and devoting themselves to her personal sanctuary of ‘Alphinland.’ A fact which only later on, would drive Gavin to be resentful of the success of Constance with her “juvenile pablum,” then he was with his literary superior poems. Though he would resign himself to his own fate, as a professor of creative writing in Manitoba before taking up with a third wife and heading to the west coast, to reflect and spew his vitriolic contempt at those who come near; much like the young scholar:

“This idea is dismaying: having some estrogen-plumped babe a quarter of his age contort his stringy knobbled limbs while comparing the dashing protagonist of his earlier poems, replete with sexual alacrity and sardonic wit, to the atrophied bundle of twine and sticks he has become.”

Yet what could be more insulting, but to find out that Gavin—the mediocre ego driven poet—is not the subject of her research and thesis, but rather Constance, and her subpar literary achievements in the realm of fantasy.

Its Atwood’s wicked and vicious commentary via her narrators and her own authorial voice is what makes this collection worth the read. It turns out rather quickly that Atwood has little patience of the grieving of loss youth and beauty, or the mindless comfy thoughts of nostalgia, in an attempt to make life feel all that much better. It is in these moments her humorous venom seeps through with the greatest criticism attached, as she asks more daunting questions about the indignity of youth and the arrogance of youth, in the context of a new idea and form of discrimination such as ‘ageism.’ Her commentary on the crumbling boundaries between high literary art and that of genre fiction is lively and enticing; just as is her depiction of the indignities of age and the arrogance of youth, in the context of ageism. Her social viewpoints contain just as much merit as they do delightful rancor with her scathing candor.

Admittedly while reading “Stone Mattress,” I picked up the meter stick of measurement for short story collections, to hold up against Margaret Atwood’s recent collection. Currently, “Family Furnishings: Selected Stories 1995-2014,” by Alice Munro sits next me. I often dive (much like an Olympic diver—speedo and all) into the selected work of Munro’s fiction presented to me, from her later career. In it is there is much to savour and enjoy. Some short stories are better than others; but the usual Munro charm exists regardless. While reading a Munro short story such as “The Love of a Good Woman,” with its spectacular opening narrative, with the three young boys who find the submerged car of the town optometrist; Munro gracefully and briefly sketches the different homes lives of each of the three boys, and then the narrative once again shifts to a different perspective. Throughout reading the short story, once is able to see the endless and grand potential of the short story. How it is capable of twisting and twining through a complex and multilayered narrative, and still concludes with Munro’s typical understated understanding with a great dosage of uncertainty. It should come to no surprise when reading “Stone Mattress,” by Margaret Atwood; I would compare the two short stories, and what the two writers do with each form.

With the exception of “Alphinland,” “Revenant,” and “Dark Lady,” the remaining six tales collected, often leave something to be desired. The eponymous tale “Stone Mattress,” left one with a certain hankering for more. Verna is a compelling creature. Despite her age she retains a certain vanity, coupled with a well-earned vitriolic perspective towards life and men, which she has carefully disposed of, like unwanted luggage left at the airport. As the short tale progresses, we grasp the connection between Verna (and her unfortunate past) with a fellow member of an artic cruise, by the name of Bob. The story reaches its eventual conclusion, with a fair great dose of Atwood’s wicked and scathing sense of humour. Yet Verna remains in my mind undeveloped. Youthful naivety coupled with a sheltered childhood, led to a recipe for disaster. Though we gather a glimpse of this through Verna’s reflection of the time, and how quick she learned to survive in a world which would quickly abandon her, as it tosses her aside as a disposable creature. Her resilience is admirable, though her resentment is disturbing (though understandable). In this instance, greater elucidation would have been more enjoyable to have seen, to grasp a better understanding of Verna. She’s not entirely evil or nasty (a murderer yes) but not inherently evil; it brings to mind these vicious words of wisdom from Veira from “Dolores Caliborne,”: “Sometimes you have to be a high riding bitch to survive. Sometimes being a bitch is all a woman has to hang on to.” We are given a glimpse of Verna’s character before and her realization, beyond that we are only given the vitriolic husk in which she has become, and her darkly twisted vengeful self.

Reading, “Stone Mattress,” after a rough go, was a delightful read; made pleasurable by the scolding sarcasm which is populates the collection. Margaret Atwood is considered one of the best of Canadian literature, by merit and statistical evidence with her critical acclaim and reader popularity. Her work is noted for its social observations and dire warnings (“The Hand Maids Tale,” and “The MaddAddam Trilogy,” come to mind); but beyond the possible pessimistic doom, which may lurk around the corner; Atwood is profoundly wry lively and delightfully dark in voicing her brutal candor with a delightful rancorous characters.

Not many books have made me guffaw loudly, as some of the tales in “Stone Mattress,” have. It was an enjoyable and required read, which, given the circumstances helped diffuse a rather explosive situation in my personal life. Though some of the works collected succeed, it is often apparent, that the novel is a literary form which is perhaps more suited for Margaret Atwood, in which she is allocated the room necessary to fully develop and discuss her observations and ideas. But this judgement is once again being measured next to the work of Alice Munro, Anton Chekhov, among other great short story writers, who found great success in the form and were capable of making the short story their own. When Margaret Atwood as at the pinnacle of her abilities, they shine with her wit and her keen sense of social injustice or observations regarding where society is at; when it does not reach that same level, they come across as under developed and a bit dissatisfying. Yet if this collection of work is to be read, for anything above else, the first three tales, are wroth the read!

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Love in a Fallen City

Hello Gentle Reader

When Mo Yan became the Nobel Laureate in Literature in two-thousand and twelve, I among others decried the decision as political panhandling and appeasement towards the Chinese governments lobbying for a officially recognized Chinese writer, to receive the Nobel accolade, which in part would be seen as an official acknowledgement on an international stage, of China’s cultural significance. The decision was divisive, with little room for neutrality. Fellow Nobel Laureate in Literature (and a personal favourite) Herta Müller called the decision: ‘a disaster.’ Salman Rushdie, who is no stranger to controversy and his well-documented public opinions; called Mo Yan a ‘patsy of the regime,’ in reference to Mo Yan’s known camaraderie with the Communist Government of China. Yet apologists of Mo Yan would come to his defense. They asserted the criticism of Mo Yan, were baseless and political at best; merely slandering his character, and undermining his literary achievements; in which (they state) that he criticizes the Chinese government on a regional or provincial level, showcasing mild dissidence at best. They further elucidated their arguments by stating the award is literary not political, and therefore Mo Yan’s political inclinations (if there are any) are not valid criticisms of his literary output, which obviously helped him become a Nobel Laureate in Literature. However, others such as Perry Link, who wrote for the ‘New York Review of Books,’ that he took aim at Mo Yan not only because of his political convictions and instead embrace the ubiquitous political ambiguities which are expected of him, but also because of his lack of engagement (or rather complete engagement) with twentieth century Chinese history. As Mister Link notes, when it comes to some catastrophe of twentieth century Chinese history, Mo Yan deflects the event with what he calls ‘daft hilarity,’ which may involve sheep seamen and rabbits or turnips carved into the likeness of donkey dicks. Yet a defender of Mo Yan stated this is not a evasion of the event, but rather a satirical approach to it. Though Mister Link and I obviously share a common idea of what satire is (and no, donkey dicks and seamen are not high on my list of satirical merit).  This method of satire diminishes the tragedy of those events, like the Great Chinese Famine, where 30 million people died, from more than just uncooperative weather, but also mismanagement by the government. Of course other atrocities were also committed during this time such as people being burned alive, or cracking individuals heads open with a shovel (called: opening the flower). Yet in the case of Mo Yan, the issue, the atrocities, the catastrophe is also skipped around in favour of crude humour, which offers a good guffaw (I suppose) and does not upset the political perspective or position on the matter. I myself had defended my own position on Mo Yan, by stating: when one comes from a documented and known authoritarian state, which has blatantly disregarded the idea of human rights and acceptable basic freedoms; there is no middle ground, the writer either stands with the government or dissents against it. In this sense, and by this position, Mo Yan had obliviously allowed himself to settle on the lap of the government.

Mo Yan maybe seen as a victim of political atmosphere and ulterior motives, which involuntarily affect him, and often put him in the middle of a controversial storm, which is engaged more about a lack of political stances then it is about literary quality; but it should be noted: if Mo Yan is a victim of such circumstances, then Eileen Chang, was a neglected causality because of political revolution and reform, despite the fact Eileen Chang was politically indifferent.

Eileen Chang’s early life was a life of contrast. Her mother was a westernized, refined and educated woman of great sophistication. Chang’s mother had left for the United Kingdom when Eileen Chang was two years old, because her father had taken a concubine (mistress) and had become addicted to opium. Though her mother would return years later, her parents would get divorced in 1930, and Eileen Chang and her brother Zhang Zijing were raised by their father.

Chang’s education began when she was four years old. Along with her Chinese education, Chang showcased a strong affiliation with English as well. Despite the fact that her family was not religious, she had graduated from an all-female Christian high school, and had plans to study at the University of London on a full scholarship, but was unable to achieve this goal, because the Second Sino-Japanese was had broken out. During this time, it is noted that Eileen Chang had a argument with her father and her stepmother, and contracted dysentery; rather than receiving treatment her father had locked her in room for six months. During this confinement, Chang had experienced vivid hallucinations. Shortly after her eighteenth birthday, Eileen Chang would run away from her father’s dark and dingy world of addiction and abuse, and would seek refuge with her mother. Afterwards Chang would leave to study English Literature at Hong Kong University, but one semester short of finishing her degree, Eileen Chang would have to abandon her studies as Hong Kong fell to the Empire of Japan. Though she moved back to mainland China (specifically Shanghai), Eileen Chang did not complete her studies do to financial complications. Despite the lack of education, in which she received, Eileen Chang was known as a literary prodigy. She had published numerous of her short stories in the school magazine, and at the age of twelve she had already written her debut novel. At the age of twenty three in 1943, a story by Eileen Chang had reached a prominent editor of the time, Zhou Shoujuan; that story was: “Aloeswood Incense: the First Brazier.” The story would be Eileen Chang’s publishing debut, and remains one of her most well know works. After the publication of “Aloeswood Incense: the First Brazier,” in Zhou Shoujuan’s magazine ‘Violet,’ as a special feature, Eileen Chang would become a literary sensation. Afterwards, Eileen Chang would publish more short stories and novella’s (known as her Hong Kong stories) and collected them in a volume titled: ‘Romances.’ Though the stories are set in Hong Kong, Chang wrote them through the perspective of someone from Shanghai, and hoped the island city depicted in the works, would resonate and be enjoyed by those of Shanghai. Though Chang found success during this time as a writer and screenwriter, praised for her mature voice, which exceeded her young years, it was short lived.

Romance and love for Eileen Chang was much like the relationship she witnessed between her mother and father growing up. She married Hu Lancheng secretly in 1944; and remained loyal to her husband, despite him being branded a traitor and collaborator with the Japanese occupying forces during the war. However, the marriage was not salvageable, as Lancheng was a philanderer, and the two divorced in 1947.

After the end of World War II and the end of the Chinese Communist Revolution, the political atmosphere of China changed, turning even dangerous, and in the fifities, Eileen Chang would leave her beloved Shanghai behind, and immigrate back to Hong Kong. It was here Eileen Chang wrote more, and worked for three years in the United States Information Service. During this time Chang wrote “The Rice Sprout Song,” which is unique as it is the first novel Chang wrote solely in English; but going further “The Rice Sprout Song,” details Chang’s own ambivalence towards the new Chinese regime, and its egotistical structure and demand for complete compliance. After completing “The Rice Sprout Song,” the USIO (United States Information Service) commissioned Chang to write another novel, with a specified outline, which would become “Naked Earth.” Chang commented that writing “Naked Earth,” was a miserable ordeal as well as painful, as the work itself did not come from her originally. In 1955 Eileen Chang would leave Hong Kong for the United States, and she would never return to China.

Despite immigrating to the United States, Eileen Chang did not stop writing, though she mainly worked on writing screenplays. From 1957 – 1964, Eileen Chang wrote nine screenplays which were produced. Chang never expressed any disdain or lack of fulfillment with screenwriting which other writers do. Chang treated writing more as a profession then a passion; she excelled in all its form such as screenplay writing, and would find success in it, just as she had with her earlier pre-war shanghai novella’s and short stories.

Chang’s later life in the sixties and seventies were less and less well documented. She married for a second time to a screenplay writer Ferdinand Reyher, but tragedy would once again strike, as Reyher would be struck by numerous strokes and die in 1967. After which Eileen Chang would hold short-term jobs at Radcliff College and University of California, Berkeley. In 1972 Eileen Chang moved to Los Angles; from there she worked on translations, and became increasingly reclusive. Eileen Chang would die in 1995 at the age of seventy four. Chang was not found until a few days after her death, in her sparely furnished apartment by her landlord, which testifies to her reclusive lifestyle. She was cremated and her ashes were unceremoniously dumped into the Pacific Ocean. Her estate was left to her old friends back in Hong Kong.

Throughout her later life, in which she lived in voluntarily exile, Eileen Chang was forbidden in her homeland of mainland China. Her works were representative of a bourgeoisie lifestyle and undermined the communist revolutionary ideals. All of this would best be considered unfortunate, as Eileen Chang showed no political interest in any of her works. The only novel in which she displayed any independent political stance would be “The Rice Sprout Song,” in where she casts a skeptical eye on the Communist party’s revolutionary ideas; and “Naked Earth,” by contrast was commissioned by the United States government to be used as anti-communist propaganda, and Chang herself had found the work laboriously dissatisfying. Eileen Chang though overall was not interested in the political situations of her country. She preferred to write about the relationships of individuals, and the subtle complexities of societal traditions and independent desires. Yet she would be forbidden and forgotten for much of her later life in her home country. Chang herself represented a previous China, one in in which the Communist Revolution sought to distance itself from – if not completely obliterate from recent memory. She was not ideologically suitable, for the communist propagating machine. Her lack of political convictions saw her unjustly forgotten and forsaken from her beloved Shanghai and homeland. Considering the personal upheavals and challenges Eileen Chang faced in her personal life; this persecution against her must have simply been the final obstacle which she took on and then resigned herself too, choosing to live quietly and alone, utterly unknown in Los Angeles.

I often imagine Eileen Chang and Mu Xin, as the two most prominent and forgotten writers who found themselves as victims of ideology and history. Yet the two writers remained resilient towards the persecution. Unlike Mu Xin, Eileen Chang never found herself physically in danger of the Communist oppression; though she was close enough to the fire too be burned with her first marriage, and it could be discerned, she preemptively removed herself from the dangers of being burned. The two writers share a common story of exile, and reconciliation. Both writers are now well revered in China, Hong Kong and Taiwan. Eileen Chang has once again found her successes and early literary stardom reinstated, as her vintage, sophisticated and graceful work has fond new readership, and much admiration.

For English language readers though, Eileen Chang is still foreign. Many may be acquainted with Eileen Chang from Ang Lee’s espionage film “Lust and Caution,” which is based off a manuscript by Eileen Chang; but beyond this, Chang would be more known in Chinese literature classes, then a casual read. This is rather disappointing, considering her scathing insights into human relationships, refined into fine silk prose, whose pessimistic overtones only begin to veil after the reader is engrossed.

“Love in a Fallen City,” is a great starting point for any reader wishing to get introduced into the works of Eileen Chang. It’s a collection of her novella’s and short stories, which detail the independent lives of people living in Hong Kong and Shanghai in the 1930s and 1940s. In these works, Eileen Chang offers a time capsule of a fading world, now completely alien (or nostalgic) to the China of today, which its blend of communist ideology along with its straddled capitalistic ventures. The stories presented here showcase traditions trying to maintain relevancy in an increasingly modern world, with revolutionary ideas, being stroked down alleys and in basements. The titular story itself “Love in a Fallen City,” presents the vindictive viciousness of the traditional ways of life, but offers hope with the modern sensibilities taking over. It’s a slight tale of two cities: Shanghai representing a traditional conservative center of Chinese culture; versus Hong Kong and its bright future and its metropolitan air. The two cities are presented during the Japanese occupation, and traces the relationship between Bai Liu-Su, a divorcee who suffers her extended family’s barbs and jabs, for their understanding she has brought shame upon them; and the charming Malayan business man Fan Liy-yuan, who takes an interest in Bai Liu-Su. Through the occupation of Hong Kong and the devastation, Eileen Chang presents only a small glimpse of hope for the young lovers, this will be the only inclination of a happy ending to appear in the work.

“Love in a Fallen City,” retraces the themes of relationships of her characters. The woman are oppressed by old feudal desires, they desire and dream of a pure idea of love, but over time become pessimistic with the notion and disenfranchised by their existence, to the point of desolate despair. The saving grace however of this rather dark perspective presented here, is the glitz and the glamour in which these disturbing acts take place. My personal favourite of this collection: “Aloeswood Incense: The First Brazier,” is an expert example of the ideal youth attempting to better their life, but are engrossed then ensnared and finally entrapped.

“Aloeswood Incense: The First Brazier,” documents the life of the young girl Weilong who seeks out her disgraced aunt Madame Liang, in order to seek her support in her studies, in which she can further her future and better her life. Wisdom, cunning, cleverness, a sharp mind – these are not attributes which are often attributed to youth, and as the novella progresses, we see and understand why. Weilong’s aunt is scandalous and there is good reason her brother has distanced himself from her. Yet Weilong possess the most wonderful qualities of youth: stubbornness, headstrong,  self-assurance; which inevitably will be her downfall. Weilong is enticed in the luxurious world of her aunt, Madame Liang; where she lives a life of glamour, fashion, and of course her house is equipped with servants. In this setting Weilong is a child placed within the centre of her dreams, and begins to understand the cost of it, and even willing chooses to go down a path of prostitution (as Madame Liang, was a rich man’s concubine), in order to emulate the life of her aunt. When confronted with the reality of her decision—by observing real prostitutes—Weilong considers the difference herself and the prostitutes she observes, and yet with almost frank revelation, she admits with cool reasoning, there is no difference, between herself and the prostitutes, with only one exception: they have no choice in their profession, while she readily took to it like a cat to milk.

“Aloeswood Incense: The First Brazier,” is a striking portrait of a young girl who makes an attempt at bettering herself—education, getting a job, going to work, and living a respectable life for herself; she becomes a shining example of the possibilities of modernity in contrast to the stifling traditions of prior societal cultural traditions. Yet, Chang makes a startling statement with regards to Weilong: she lacks the certainty to be a modern woman, and falls into the same entrapments and roles of women, that have plagued them for many years, and what is worst, Weilong shows no remorse or shame in her decision, but rather embraces it.

“Love in A Fallen City,” is a collection of Eileen Chang’s work. The prose glitters, with luxury and a unique and local world of China, in which many of us will not know now; but beneath the jewelry, the fine fashion, the money – they all hang on the spiders web, and while one is busy and distracted trying on the luxuries of life, they are slowly consumed by the grander web, which laid hidden beneath the fineries which always catch our attention before the trap or the cage is even considered. It’s not a light read, but it’s made bearable by its often lightness of scenery, which only fades when the eventual price tag and interest come to collect the payment for those refineries.

Eileen Chang at the height of her powers has a keen critical eye of individuals who fall prey to their own foolishness. She coldly dissects the relationships between individuals and the sexual politics at play within those relationships. Now considered a genius and a legend, Eileen Chang is now renowned in her homeland, as one of the greatest writers to have worked in the Chinese language, during the twentieth century. Her novels are more than just doomed romances, they critically cast a skeptical eye over society, but the observational findings are only noted in the most myopic or smallest of places; but that is exactly where they are felt, lived and understood the most—in the most intimate of places, between lovers, between husbands and wives, between family members.

It should be mentioned, the collection itself can be difficult to understand, because of the unique local culture and atmosphere (as well as time period) that Eileen Chang writes about. Thankfully the collection is a well cited and documented source of wealth of resources. The introduction by Karen S. Kingsbury, and the subsequent footnotes, gives one an understanding of the writer, as well as the cultural landscape of the time.

Eileen Chang died alone as a recluse in her apartment in Los Angeles. Her body was discovered four days after her death. She voluntarily went into exile, perhaps with a understanding she would end up there if she stayed in China regardless. She was a victim of history and ideology; but she was also a victim of personal tragedies. Her childhood was unhappy, and she only appeared to experience success early on, before political atmospheres had obliterated her happiness. Eileen Chang however is now considered one of the most influential Chinese writers, of the last century, and she retains a devoted readership to this day. I do think because of Eileen Chang’s voluntary exile and seclusion from the world, is the only way she escaped the political decision, in which other writers have been forced to make. If Eileen Chang had stayed in China I wonder if she would have been faced with the decision of imprisonment, re-education and persecution so many other writers had suffered; or would she resolve herself to the gilded birdcage, as a sweet songbird, in which to praise the reigning ideology. Only by complete removal I think was Chang able to avoid the decision. It should be noted other writers have not been so fortunate to have had that freedom. Yet Chang’s own personal decision came at its own price; a price of seclusion, exile, and abandonment from the world, where she was overlooked and forgotten, and only later on was she to be reinstated and appreciated for the talents in which she possessed.

Eileen Chang is a tragic legend, but it makes her work even more potent and more relevant to be seen through those lenses to a degree. There can be no doubt: Eileen Chang is certainly a genius and a legend.

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

M. Mary