On Literary Suicides

Hello Gentle Reader

In the end of April and the beginning of May, two writers—worlds apart—committed suicide. Both writers as well, were not what most would be considered the prime targets, or characters who would commit suicide. When we think of literary suicides, we think of them young, talented and prodigious; such as: the American poet, who single handedly reshaped poetry in the twentieth century, with her intensely personal and confessional style of poetry: Sylvia Plath (30); the Russian futurist and innovative poet: Vladimir Mayakovsky (36); the Japanese father of the modern day and contemporary short story: Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (35); the Argentinean poet who opened her world of shadows, torture, intense personal pain and suffering to the masses: Alejandra Pizarnik (36); the influential and young dramatist and playwright, who would go on and move the theatre away from the naturalist traditions, it found itself stagnating it: Sarah Kane (28).  There are many more that could salt and pepper the list, such as: Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, Primo Levi, David Foster Wallace, Yukio Mishima and Stefan Zweig. If the list could go on endlessly, it would give the impression that writing Gentle Reader, is by all accounts not a [mentally] healthy task or job at hand, and it would be wise to avoid giving off such impressions, as writing cannot be the blame for the unfortunate personal hell which most certainly afflict many great writers. For example, Stefan Zweig (who is finding greater popularity once again), committed suicide with his wife in Rio de Janeiro, after he escaped the Nazis in Europe, but suffered a great deal from depression and continual disappointment at the affairs taking place in Europe at the time. All the while, others suffer from severe mental health issues as in the case of Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, or David Foster Wallace. Then of course is the death by ego; in other words to make ones death as theatrical and a piece of legend, to accompany one’s life, such is the case of Yukio Mishima, and his own suicide by ritualist cultural means (seppuku).

Jean Stein and Karel Schoeman, could not be any different in their respective decisions, or their literary output and lives. Yet both committed suicide within days of each other.

Part I: Jean Stein,

Jean Stein was as much an icon and figure of the New York literary, an arts and culture scene, as much as she was an institution in her own right. Much like Dorothy Parker and the Algonquin Round Table, to landmark establishments like Broadway or the Statue of Liberty or Time Square; to the acerbic and sarcastic wisecracker, and famously slothful and sulking writer who does not write: Fran Leibowitz. Jein Stein, came from a wealthy family—her father Jules C. Stein, was an optometrist, musician and a businessman; and one of the founders of the Music Corporation of America Inc. Because of her illustrious and well off background, it should come to no surprise Stein was well educated from a boarding school in California to a boarding school to Switzerland, to studying at the University of Paris (Sorbonne). Despite her background with its education, and seemingly envious ideas of wealth; Jean Stein was not some rich heiress creature, who was found fame simply because she had fame like many nameless pop culture monstrosities, who are seen in tabloid stories and paparazzi photos, in compromising and attention grabbing positions. No; Jean Stein was something else entirely; she became a legend in her own right, and happens to deal with William Faulkner.

As the legend goes, while Jean Stein was studying in Paris, she had an affair with William Faulkner, and interviewed him. To solidify the story, it is propagated that Stein took the interview to The Paris Review, and offered to sell it to the magazine, on the condition they made her an editor.

Jean Stein met her early legendary status, and her own well off past, and created her own identity for herself, as she would go on to become a patron of the arts, editor, publisher, and author of three books of oral histories/biographies/personal anthropology studies, based off interviews she conducted and the stories of the people who were in the peripheral of the documented events. 

Stein’s apartment on Central Park West was a literary saloon of sorts. In it, Stein would host some of the most interesting and famous people within the New York scene, from writers, to show-businesses executives and managers, to artists and politicians. It is in her apartment that Norman Mailer and Gore Vidal would exchange barbs; but it also included the Leonard Bernstein and members of the Black Panthers group, who would go on to influence Tom Wolfe as he developed the concept of “Radical Chic.”

I personally think of Jean Stein, as someone of a privileged background, who was afforded the luxury, in which she could patron the arts, host her cultural saloons and conversations, as well as edit and publish the numerous magazines she would work for, and herself start up. Though, her life was privileged and Stein certainly recognized this financial security and independence, as being a great asset to her cultural activities, she also took aim and shot at this world. Her final oral history: “West of Eden: An American Place,”—Stein recounts the five larger than life families and characters of Los Angeles, would who go on to succeed and gather fame; but not everything is rosy at dawn and sunset; as much as these individuals are perceived as having life by the balls, lacking a care in the world—Stein shows that even they suffer the human frailties of every other common human being, with everyday mishaps, crisis, and griefs—in which case not even fame or financial success can fill the void of such suffering.

Despite her own success and cultural patronage and good will, Jean Stein also suffered at the cost of being human. On April 30^th, it was reported: Jean Stein had tossed herself—at the age of 83—from her fifteenth floor high rise apartment balcony, and fell to her death. It is stated, Jean Stein was suffering from depression and other personal issues. It has now also just been disclosed that upon her death, Jean Stein was worth an estimated $38.5 million dollars. As her will is becoming public knowledge with her contents and estate divvied up and sorted out, numerous institutions and individuals are expected to receive a gift from their patron, friend, muse, publisher and editor.

Part II: Karl Schoeman,

Jean Stein’s suicide was rarely mentioned in some obituaries. Many literary publications and cultural magazines had expressed their grief through the loss of a dear friend, but rarely was her death associated with the tragic turn, in which the individual herself committed the act. Perhaps it was out of respect; or perhaps it was to resist appearing sensationalistic or indignant in mentioning her death was a suicide. These very well maybe very true statements as to why they avoided to publicly acknowledge her death as being a self-inflicted act. Though I strongly believe, it was more out respect to Stein’s life—in which they celebrated, in their mourning essays, eulogies and obituaries; then it was shame or self-restraint to completely focus on her death. On the contrary though, Karl Schoeman’s death has been more public then his life.

Karl Schoeman, was often referred to as: hermetic, reclusive, withdrawn, secluded, and closed off from public life—and in all fairness, he was. Schoeman swatted invitations and request for interviews, down like flies. The moment they arrived in his inbox, mailbox, or answering machine, they were deleted, burned, or ignored. It’s not because he was a antisocial being, but rather he had no interest in partaking in the cult of celebrity, and any answer journalists or inquiring readers, wished to ask him, they would only need to read his books more carefully. Schoeman, after all, was not a public spokesman or writer of publicity means. He did not stand on soap boxes or milk crates, pontificating from the heavens above, trumpeting with the horn of Gabriel, promising the rapture to rupture that would cause a revelation of morality and revolution for the human race. No, Schoeman wrote historically poignant novels, of immaculate detail and scathing lyricism.

Karl Schoeman was more than just a writer; he was a historian, with a day job of course, where he worked in the South African National Library as a Archivist; and before that worked as a Librarian in Amsterdam and then as a nurse in the Glasgow, Scotland.  Though most well known as a prose writer, Schoeman is equally well known for his historical non-fiction, biographies, essays, travel reportage and autobiographies. During his quiet job in the South African National Library, surrounded by history recorded to Cleo’s detailed directions, numerous characters, personalities, thoughts, and writing material would populate his mind and thoughts as he woud walk amongst the records of a nation.

Despite working and producing a extraordinary bibliography of fiction and non-fiction, and being considered one of the most remarkable writers in South Africa, Karl Schoeman evaded the lime light, avoided publicity, and for the most part exemplified the traits of the brown recluse spider—a small threatening creature, which for the most art was better left to itself the being disturbed. His works always dealt with the past, as the precedence they created for both the present and the future.

Schoeman’s life was deeply protected in secrecy as he avoided interviews, never returned calls for requests of his opinion, nor did he engage in public forums. Now though, on the contrary, Schoeman’s death has become a public and political statement in his native land of South Africa. There is no hiding the cause of Schoeman’s death; not out of respect for the reserved author, nor to avoid indignation or sensationalism, or to further celebrate his grand career—Schoeman committed suicide, and had made it public knowledge, as well as public and political protest, with a letter her wrote to his attorney.

In this letter Karl Schoeman confessed, he had aged enough and had very well had enough of it; and had attempted two years earlier to commit suicide, though he was hindered by circumstances at the time, and now at the age of seventy-seven, he succeeded in killing himself. He described his decision, not as a reaction or response of emotional distresses or crisis, but rather cold, clinical, detached and logically planned, deprived of any emotional thought processes whatsoever. He described how his literary inclinations and historical research and interests had become more a burden then they had become enjoyment, and was happy to have done away with them. Despite this, he admitted and confessed his refusal to become a burden on anyone or any system, as his spiritual and physical degradation by time, had slowly begun to whiter him away to a husk of his former self, and so Schoeman had resigned and resolved himself to his end by his own hands, leaving as one would put it with dignity rather than any further humiliation perpetrated by time, administered in punitive fashion.  The decision was not made lightly, and he could not profess that enough.

Karl Schoeman’s death has reignited the debate in South Africa about assisted suicide and dying with dignity—one of those social issues, which appear to be taken to the courts on grounds of appeal, because the legislative and executive branches of government, avoid at all cost, unless they are to fall upon their political swords, and die a politicians death, by attempting reform a social issue, or stand behind already set moral ideals of life over death.

Despite his intensely private life, in which he was renowned and recognized for his prose and historical research, Schoeman has left the world in a bang, and with a startlingly revelation which most certainly has ruptured the moral stagnation of: preservation versus termination. In his last hours, and now after his death, Schoeman has left a social activist mark on South Africa, as it coincides and stands in as much admiration as his life’s work and literary output.

There is no other way to describe Karl Schoeman other then: he certainly belonged on this world; though he was not entirely of it. His reclusive nature made him legend and all that more esoteric and precious; like a rare jewel, was one of a kind, and radiated solely on its own, in its own way.

Two very different writers, who were physically speaking: worlds apart; their literary outputs were vastly different; from Jean Stein’s oral histories of American culture through the ages; to Karl Schoeman’s vast personal library of literary works which stretched from fiction to historical non-fiction to biography and autobiography. Their deaths could not be any more different, nor similar. They both committed suicide, but on one account: Jean Stein’s was hushed when mentioned, in order to avoid offense; while on the other, Karl Schoeman’s was in complete contrast to his life: public and actively willing to begin debate and conversations on the right to die with dignity.

The truth is Gentle Reader, writers are human beings. Though in many minds eyes, they are next to Gods. If of course I am to quote Fran Lebowitz:

“When I was very little, say fix or six, I became aware of the fact that people wrote books. Before that, I thought that God wrote books. I thought a book was a manifestation of nature, like a tree. When my mother explained it, I kept after her: What are you saying? What do you mean? I couldn’t believe it. It was astonishing. It was like—here’s the man who makes all the trees. Then I wanted to be a writer, because, I suppose it seemed the closest thing to being God.”

Much like the Greek Gods and their pantheon of jealousy, envy, lust, rage, love, war, and hate—even these mortal gods, of imagined universes must suffer the human faults of existence. It is with great sadness the world would lose both writers, for very different reasons.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

On The Unique Culture of Sports

Hello Gentle Reader,

Working night’s dictates you walk home in the dark, which always allows plenty of time for reflection and speculation. Tonight there was a slight drizzle in the air – a delayed April shower, but how everything is radiating and come alive with the fresh green appearance of spring, who has bud and leafed.

On this particular walk home, I was able to reflect on a rather peculiar shift. I make no qualm or secret about the fact, I work part time at two jobs, while at a snail’s pace I complete my university studies. One of my part time jobs is a live theatre (on an extreme part time basis), where I handle front of house matters, i.e. tickets, customer service et cetera; while the other job I work in three different hockey rinks dealing with Zamboni, customer service and janitorial duties. I was a never a sport minded child, or took any interest in it. Of course in my childhood I played poorly organized and coached soccer (for European readers: Football), before I left it behind at the age of seven. I never learned to swim – now much to my more mature self’s dismay and disappointment (hindsight is always twenty/twenty). To be honest, as a child I was imaginative, shy and reserved. I lurked, slinked, and sleuthed about, always avoiding the company of other children; preferring the company of myself, and the imaginative worlds I would craft; which had yet to find a more literary output for, in which case I resigned myself to tell my own stories, scoffing at the books presented to me (reading for me Gentle Reader, was a late love affair).

Now though Gentle Reader, I have the unique position, to be a complete alien in a world of team sports and competitive spirit, and sportsmanship – a real sense of camaraderie and connection though the act of physical action, sport and competitive drive; all in good nature and enjoyment it appears. I watch how hockey players work to pass the puck to score; defend the net from the opponent, through measures such as checking. I observe figure skaters twirl, fly, do an axel, and dance with their partners. Yet, most of the time I do not admire these acts of technical physical skill or the pure athleticism in which they are displayed. Rather my time is further spent, hollering at them to get out of the dressing rooms, or not to shoot pucks in the dressing rooms, or down the halls, or in the lobby. More often than not, my role is both patrolling police officer of the rink, and then the poor unfortunate cleaner, who  is left to deal with the mess in which they leave in their wake: chew on the floor (or on the ceiling), spit on the floor, tape balls, spilled bear, tipped over garbage cans; the list is endless. With the infuriated patience of the unappreciated mother, I clean it up regardless; although cussing the entire time.

Through, what is called: “The Season,” which starts from the end of August and ends at either the beginning of March or end of March; I see nothing but hockey, figure skating and ringette – predominately hockey. Yet now as the season has ended the players and athletes, now move on to either enjoy their new found freedom or to other sports; while the dedicated few stay for what is called ‘Spring Hockey,’ – which are camps, which focus on refining or developing skills. It is now, that I am readily acquainted with the other sports which take place within the recreation complex.

The field houses were packed with lacrosse players, the basketball courts filled with a hodge podge of amateur players, playing just a good old game of basketball, the pool was packed with swimmers either in a practice or a meet, and the rinks filled with spring hockey camps.

Parking is not in a surplus, because parking lots do not make money, and are considered on most accounts, a waste of space. So different athletes park behind the rinks. For the most part I can tell who goes where. Lacrosse players and hockey players are interchangeable, only specifically identifiable by their different sticks; basketball players come as any other patron, and as far as I could tell, I wouldn’t be able to pin point or identify any swimmer if I tried.

The night progressed as usual. Flood rooms flood. I had to tell a few lacrosse players to leave the rink, as it’s not appreciated when they shoot their balls against the walls or the rink glass. As the night progresses, the groups get older, and the older they get, the longer they take to get out of the rooms. As I wait for the final groups to leave the rooms, I resign myself to the lobby where it’s at least warmer to wait. A few basketball players or gym patrons walk by as they go to head out to the parking lot. Now and then a lacrosse player strolls by with his bag over his shoulder; but for the most part the building seems to be quieting down. I hear more footsteps approach. The clink of dress shoes, and flip flop sandals, swatting at the heels of someone else. I at the moment pay no mind, as I sit on a bench waiting patiently with my eyes closed. Then I hear the footsteps stop, and two people sit down across from me, and open my eyes. In front of me sits a father and son. The father a lithe man in dress pants, dress shirt and the dress shoes, which I hear moments before. The son at least seventeen or eighteen, hair wet, dressed in a t-shirt, but at first glance appeared naked. The son keen to see my surprised face, and burning face, lifted his t-shirt to reveal he was wearing a speedo. His father noticed his son lifting his shirt to reveal his attire quickly commented:

“Why don’t you put on some shorts or something? You gave him a heart attack.”

His son replied: “Because my suit is still wet. Besides it’s just a swim suit.”

To which his father replied: “Well, why didn’t you bring a change of clothes.”

The son responded with the facts: “Because [the other brother’s name] was going to be late for hockey practice, if I didn’t hurry up. So I just put on my suit and put some shorts over top. I usually don’t bring clothes to change in. I’ve come home, just in a shirt and swim briefs before and you don’t say anything. But right now my car is pooched, so I had to get a ride with you [and the other brother’s name].”

The father of course could only respond with a sigh of slight irritation, and the son stood up and began to pace. At least though while he stood, it could be seen he was wearing something. Which only appeared to provoke his father to comment further.

“Why don’t you just sit down or wrap a towel around yourself.”

Which the song replied: “Dad it’s just a swim suit, I wear them to practice and compete in. You’ve seen me wear them before.”

To which his father replied: “we’re in public.”

At which point I interjected to inform both father and son, it was quite alright with what he was wearing at least he was dressed; besides I said the hockey players have walked around without their jerseys or pads on; in this place no one is shy of showing flesh.

A few hockey players began to leave and saw the swimmer and chuckled, after which a few lacrosse players passed by and said not a word but smiled and kept turning around to look and nudge each other, until one father or coach told them to knock it off and be respectful. Then silence once again. The swimmer sat down on the bench, pulled his shirt up to once again reveal his speedo, and sighed with irritation at being forced to wait; while his father began to vigorously tap his foot in impatience. The irritation between the two was static in the air, and attempting to quell the situation, I told the father I gave the players a warning to hurry up a few minutes ago, and that they shouldn’t be much longer. He only nodded his head in thanks.  Silence then fell once again again, as each of us waited for the same thing. After a while footsteps could be heard coming down the hall from the pool and field houses; the familiar sound of flip flops and the squeak of sneakers. A herd of lacrosse players walked by, without saying a word, followed by a small group of male swimmers, each simply dressed in either a track jacket or a t-shirt and their individual speedos. Noticing a fellow swimmer, they stopped and talked in a group, while the dad just looked and shook his head before stating:

“Don’t any of you wear shorts or something?” To which one of them replied, much like earlier, “it’s just a swim suit.” and they we’re all on their way to the cars anyway. At last more hockey players left, some whistled at the guys and giggled amongst themselves, while the swimmers ignored them. A few more minutes passed, and the swimmers chatted amongst themselves, when finally the coaches and the final hockey players left the room and the rink into the lobby, which included the other or rather younger brother of the swimmer, who was embarrassed by his brother wearing only a speedo, before shrugging it off in front of his friends. At this point swimmers and hockey players intermingled for just a few moments, before I politely told them it was time for me to lock up.

I watched the group leave through the door, and could only think what a strange universe this is to me. How the lacrosse players and hockey players arrive in their street clothes and change into their sweat saturated hockey gear; after their practice they shower and change once again, before packing up their gear in their bags which are slung over their shoulders. While on the contrary, the swimmers arrive in street clothes, with their backpacks, but leave in their small little speedos, which they appear to proudly claim is just a swim suit, and head out for the night, backpack slung over their shoulders, flip flops smacking at their heels.

Despite their shared commonality of completive spirit, sportsmanship, goodwill through competition, athleticism and the shared unity of team work and camaraderie; different sports are filled with their own unique cultures and idiosyncrasies. Hockey players trash, smell, spit, and cuss. Lacrosse players it appears are no different. The basketball players come and go without much notice. While the swimmers appear confident or at least slightly exhibitionist.

Though I’ve been in the rinks for many years now, I am still alien and out of place within it. Though I do the job, the culture – or rather the subcultures of recreation and sports. I view myself as some form of anthropologist or objective academic or scientist, observing the cultural discrepancies and intercultural exchange, with boy a curious eye and with great confusion, in an attempt to understand this foreign world.

I have viewed for a long time that sports and athletic pursuits, where inclined to those of higher energy people, who lacked intellectual curiosities (though this has been proven to be wrong), but also people who lack creativity or cultured pursuits (also proven wrong).  This being said: though I have painted with a broad brush prior, and have been proven wrong to my early adjudication and convictions, they have also been proven right as well.

As I finish my university work and continue to supplement my income between the two jobs, I gaze with unique fasciation at the world I am now becoming privy to. It’s strange and baffling, yet unique and odd at the same time. I often think of Elfriede Jelinek’s “Sports Play,” while observing it, in which she discusses sports and competition, as akin to fasciat ideology to a degree, and human cultures or individual desires, to be a part of a herd, a group, a sports team and a nation – in other words it’s the human desire to be a part of a larger collective. The play also focuses on today’s culture which is obsessed with the human body, the ideal concept of beauty, and fitness. Perhaps Jelinek has some merit in her critical social observations.

For the time being I cannot comment, as I am just beginning to find myself more aware and open to view the different cultures orbit each other, within the space of the recreation center, from the sweat saturated and destructive hockey players, to the arrogant lacrosse players, to the speedo clad exhibitionist swimmers. If at the end of today – after my walk home and reflection – that I learned anything from today: it’s just a swimsuit – and confidence  is something which must be radiated with a great deal of apathy and understatement.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Best Translated Book Award 2017, Winners

Hello Gentle Reader,

This year’s Best Translated Book Award seemed like a wildcard year on the shortlist. Heavy hitters and internationally renowned writers where quickly done away with, when the shortlist was revealed; leaving behind a shortlist, which was open to any writer to win the award. This year’s shortlist for fiction included, books ranging from the family plots of treason and treachery; to the complicated and personal histories of one middle class woman, who despises her working class mothers life, in contrast to her own, but finds erotic and sensual pleasure in sleeping with a rugged and blue collar working man; to the personal history of one man overlooked by history and time, only to gain recognition with his life being narrated and documented by his grandson, who showcases the hopes and dreams of an artist, destroyed by the duty one feels to their country and devotion to patriotic pride; to a novel of seven notebooks of a one sided conversation a man has with his grandson in preparation for his death. The shortlist was varied in themes, styles and geography; but in all it was a great shortlist which showcased the overlooked talent and the exciting translations currently being produced today and sold.

This year’s fiction winner is the giant of Brazilian literature, Lúcio Cardoso and his recently translated novel “Chronicle of the Murdered House.” Cardoso began writing, in a time where Brazilian literature was more regionalist, rural, and political (often left leaning); Lúcio Cardoso went in the complete opposite direction, than his more established colleagues; Cardoso would bring more modernist ideas to the Brazilian novel and prose, instead favouring introspection, the inner experience of characters, subjective perceptions of reality, and personal stories of tragedy and redemption. It should come to no surprise; Lúcio Cardoso was a mentor to famous Brazilian writer Clarice Lispector, who as a young woman was infatuated and in love with him. However, the love she felt towards him was not reciprocated, as Lúcio Cardoso was a homosexual, but the two retained close friends throughout their lives. “Chronicle of the Murdered House,” is considered his masterpiece, published at the peak of his creative output, the novel is described as a Faulknerian family saga, which precedes Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “One Hundred years of Solitude.” Alcoholism and an addiction to prescription drugs would end this giant of Brazilian literatures life prematurely. After suffering a stroke, Lúcio Cardoso was left partially paralyzed, and was inscape of regaining his speech and writing abilities. Six years after suffering the first debilitating stroke, Cardoso would suffer another stroke, and die at the tender age of fifty six. Clarice Lispector, ever the close friend would die nine years later also at the tender age of fifty-six, from ovarian cancer. Now with the publication of “Chronicles of the Murdered House,” Lúcio Cardoso is marveling English readers for the first time, who are left to appreciate the modernist masterpiece from South America.

The Poetry portion of this year’s prize has gone to the Argentinean poet Alejandra Pizarnik for her collection “Extracting the Stone of Madness.” Alejandra Pizarnik is a tragic literary figure as well; much like Sylvia Plath; Pizarnik committed suicide at the age of thirty-six. The poetry, however, which she produced in her short career and life time, is considered well formed and beautiful, in the brief strike of a match and the intensity in which it burned, before being snuffed out. “Extracting the Stone of Madness,” could not be a more fitting title for this collection of poetry, which screams of the personal exorcism Alejandra Pizarnik attempted, in which to cleanse her mind and life, through poetry. It did not work, and at the age of thirty-six, Pizarnik committed suicide by overdosing on a barbiturate: Secobarbital; the most frequently used drug, in doctor assisted suicides (or doctor sanctioned deaths) in the United States. Alejandra Pizarnik’s life, mimics those of the American poet Sylvia Plath and Japanese short story writer Ryūnosuke Akutagawa. All three writers found great success early in their writing careers, but would all succumb to personal demons and private hells, in which case they would each take their lives in their thirties: Sylvia Plath (thirty), Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (thirty-five) and Alejandra Pizarnik (thirty-six). The poetry judges for this year’s award, praised the translation of “Extracting the Stone of Madness,” for being able to relay in a new language the personal suffering of the poet, as she depicts her solitary world in jagged and beautiful compositions, which display the beautiful pain she experienced and found a literary output for.

Congratulations to both writers and translators—though sadly, both writers are now deceased; but this only reaffirms their literary talents, which is finding new barriers to cross and new readers to enjoy and empathize with. Another stunning year for the Best Translated Book Award.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

In the Café of Lost Youth

Hello Gentle Reader

Family, friends, co-workers, strangers: they all have the most audacious and asinine ability at their disposal. With thoughtless arrogance, they reserve the right to appear and disappear from one’s life without a reason to be given. They can come; and they can go. In and out. Through the door and out the window. It doesn’t really matter at any point. Sometimes they blow in like a spring breeze; while others burst through the doors like a summer whirlwind; or howl at you like a winter blizzard. It is the most threatening prospect of the concept of relationships though, how easily one is in it, and how easy they are capable of excusing themselves from it. Each of us are a sun in our own solar system, and passes through the solar systems of others, like planets behaving as asteroids, continually filled with wanderlust, eclipsing and replacing those who recently departed. All the while, others trespass and excuse themselves for disturbing us in our own self-absorption. The trouble with all this is, there is no real focal point in which we can retrace our steps. Once it’s extinguished, reigniting an old flame is as about as successful as breathing on the moon. On such matters each of us resign ourselves to the emotional fallout, as for the greatest of moments we think we are about to implode, due to the nuclear reactions of the emotional nature. Yet casually, we spin about on our axis of absorption, greeted and left with: ‘hellos,’ and ‘goodbyes.’ In any case, we pass through the interpersonal cosmos with similar devastating and fortunate greetings and passing’s. Relationships, or rather the desire of human connection is a virulent disease of desire, in which all individuals are afflicted with; and all individuals suffer it. Yet we rinse and repeat and move on ourselves.

Patrick Modiano has been referred to as one of the most important post-war French writers at work. Despite this, Modiaono bears no resemblance to other post-war writers such as: Claude Simon, Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, Francis Pong, and Alain Robbe-Grillet, among many others. Yet, Modiano is not a writer of grand epics or historical blockbusters. His work is not saturated in extensive historical research, with bibliographies taking up as much room as the actual novel itself. Rather, Modiano’s work is plain and understated in style and prose. While his themes deal with the elusiveness of time, the melancholy of memories, the displacement of place, and the casual and widespread amnesia and oblivion of guilt and compliance. On an individual or personal level, his themes range from the alienation of an individual, to their dislocation of identity in relation to their surroundings. This may stem from Patrick Modiano’s displaced childhood and youth; which has been described as a tragedy of sorts. Modiano’s father, Albert, was an Italian man of Jewish descent (Sephardic Jewish descent to be exact) who during World War II refused to wear the yellow Star of David to mark him as Jewish; it was during this time he met Louisa Colpeyn a Belgian (Flemmish) actress; and the two had a semi-clandestine relationship. Albert, was rounded up though during the Paris occupation, and was only saved from an end at a concentration camp thanks to the intervention of a friend. It was during this time, Albert would do business on the black market—specifically speaking with the Carlingue gang (who make specific reference in “Suspended Sentences,”) proxy agents to the French gestapo. The leaders of this group were recruited form the French underground. The relationship with Louisa and Albert was doomed to end, and did end at the birth of Patrick. After the War, both of Modiano’s parents were absent in his life: his mother on tour, and his father on matters pertaining to business. In their absence, Modiano was raised by his paternal grandparents on his mother’s side, who taught him to speak Flemish as his first language; and during this time he would become closer with his younger brother Rudy. Upon reaching age, Patrick Modiano was sent to boarding school after boarding school; until tragedy struck when Rudy was nine (or ten) years old, and the young brother died of illness. Modiano recalls being picked up by his father, and being informed of his brother’s death, which would become a hallmark tragedy on the writer’s youth. The abandonment, alienation, displacement, and strained relationship with locations of memory and contemporary present, as well as a desire for human contact, and the incompetency to engage in the warmth of another human being, can all be found in Modiano’s work; and to small degrees reflect the lukewarm atmosphere of Modiano’s early life.

In his novel: “Out of the Dark,” there is a quote:

“We had no real qualities, except the one that youth gives to everyone for a very brief time, like a vague promise that will never be kept.”

This quote still resonates with me. It’s a great depiction of youth: how it misspends its time, it lacks any definitive character or experience; and is completely oblivious to the realities which will come to shape it its character, mold its mind and define its being. Until then though, the qualities of youth are brief, and glorious; shrouded in a haze of glowing nostalgia, but ensnared in gossamer which deceives the reality of the past in comparison to the present. Everything always looks more enticing and delicious in hindsight—because the work is already done; and as per usual conveniently one forgets the mess made to reach the end result. The quote is also a unique summary of the lost youth, which drifts and radiates through Modiano’s novel “In the Café of Lost Youth.” Despite a decade difference between their publication dates (“Out of the Dark,” published originally in 1995 and “In the Café of Lost Youth,” appearing in 1997) they are more sibling like then they are different; though only by thematic elements and connections. As in most of Patrick Modiano’s work his novels are continual doors leading to a new room or wing in a never ending house or run down hotel; where the remnants of his ruined characters essence lingers, by the objects of their departure, such as a blue ether bottle, ballet shoes, faded photographs, or simply an open window eluding to the unfortunate, the imagined, and the all but tragic.

“In the Café of Lost Youth,” is one of Patrick Modiano’s more unique novels; as it is his first (and to my knowledge) the only novel in which he employees multiple perspectives to narrate the novel. Besides the divergence in his literary format, Modiano’s novel progresses much in the same manner: an ambiguous relationship with time, an ambivalent association with memories, a displacement of landscape and location, and of course the lurking threat of danger, which never truly arises.

The novel itself revolves around a café ‘Le Condé,’ and its eccentric and eclectic clientele and patrons; superficially though it focusses on the haunting and elusive young woman, nicknamed Louki, who drifts into the café, and sits down with the locals, but does not participate in their conversations. Her wafting and waif like nature, often make her a point of conversation and desire. Throughout the novel, Louki is the focal point, specifically pertaining to questions of who she is, where she came from, and what is her story. Three men and Louki herself narrate the events of the novel, and through the melancholic tour of postwar Paris in the 1950’s/1960’s we come to learn her story and her own place within it. Despite the admiration, desire, and herself being the topic of speculation and conversation, she eludes being understood and caged—which only makes her personal mythology grow.

Through three different perspectives, and her own, we begin to understand what transpires in one’s life to truly shape their identity. Louki – or Jacqueline Delanque (a familiar name to those seasoned with Modiano’s personal flavours of streets and names) – grew up with an absent and nameless father, and her mother was poor, working as an usher in the famous Moulin Rouge. Louki (or Jacqueline) would spend her childhood wandering the neighbourhood and exploring its gloomy alleys, and hidden histories. Yet, like all youth born of transient circumstances, Louki finds herself walking down a path to ruin. Her friendship with a certain Jeannette Gaul would be an upstart of excitement, but would lead Louki’s life to its present situation of existential ennui, postwar disenfranchisement, and youthful lack of direction. Through the second narrator, a private investigator hired by her husband to find out about her disappearance, we learn about Louki’s desire for escape or some sort of revelation to awaken her. Safe to say she never truly realizes this. Its Roland though the final narrator of the novel, who may or may not be Modiano’s stand in—does his best to understand Louki; though he obsesses about the Parisian ‘neutral zones,’ dark matter, and all sort of physic, philosophical astrological curiosities.

At the end of the novel Louki remains an unknown and elusive creature, who wafts and drifts through the personal solar systems of the patrons of ‘Le Condé.’ She is admired, desired, sought after, speculated and discussed – yet all the while remaining completely unknown and even untouched by her fellow clients and patrons. “In the Café of Lost Youth,” Patrick Modiano returns to his well weathered themes and motif’s, the aimlessness of youth, and how youth is the focal point in which ones character is shaped and developed; and at times even destroyed. It’s a literary road map of a Paris not well traversed or discussed, one filled with starving artists, rebellious bohemians, and the aimless youth looking for the ecstasy and adventure of life—in the end though all that awaits any of them is: disappointment, disillusionment, discouragement and disenchantment. Reality is always a coarse pill to swallow in comparison to our dreams.

Much like all of Patrick Modiano’s novels, more questions are always asked then answered. The pleasure of reading a Modiano novel is how information just rises and is divulged in its atomized and fragmented format. “In the Café of Lost Youth,” employee’s different narrators, to offer a variety of information, which may contradict the information already presented, simply because the perspective itself is different. Unfortunately I found the novel, not as moving as Modiano is capable; but this may also stem from the fact that I read the book on and off, over the course of weeks, rather than settling down and devouring it in a single sitting. In the end Modiano portrays youth, childhood, society and location, as the defining environmental incubators, which shapes individuals we become. I look forward to returning to “In the Café of Lost Youth,” down the road and at such time reading it in one sitting.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

           

M. Mary

Man Booker International Prize 2017 Shortlist

Hello Gentle Reader

                                    

Hot on the heels of the Best Translated Book Award finalists, the Man Booker International Prize has now released this year’s final candidates for the award—in other words (or in a way to quote my mother): “Double Trouble,” my Dear Gentle Reader.

List below Gentle Reader is this year’s shortlist for the Man Booker International Prize for 2017, in no particular order.

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

Roy Jacobsen – Norway – “The Unseen,”

Mathias Enard – France – “Compass,”

Samanta Schweblin – Argentina – “Fever Dream,”

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

Amos Oz – Israel – “Judas,”

There it is Gentle Reader this year’s finalists for the Man Booker International Prize. In comparison to the Best Translated Book award shortlist, the Man Booker International Prize’s final list of candidates, is considerably more condescended and manageable—this is both a positive and a consequence; the greater the options the greater the ability for a nice surprise and diverse discussion of who the winner should be; but to many names in the hat, means more convoluted conversations must take place, in order to reach the inevitable and immediate conclusion, set out in the time line. This year’s Man Booker International Prize, lacking the eccentric, eclectic and exciting diversity the Best Translated Book Award possessed; then again the Man Booker International Prize (much like its parent prize the Booker Prize) has always been known for having its conservative literary leanings. For example on this year’s Best Translated Book Award shortlist, Nobel Laureate Patrick Modiano and two time winning author László Krasznahorkai were omitted from the shortlist, in favour of others, such as Boubacar Boris Diop and Ananda Dev; in contrast with this year’s Man Booker International prize, two seasoned and well known international authors make it onto the shortlist: David Grossman and Amos Oz. It was disappointing to see some authors and their works dropped from the initial list, such as: Wioletta Greg and her work “Swallowing Mercury,” and Jon Kalman Stefansson: “Fish Have No Feet.” Despite the compare and contrast, it should be noted, both awards are governed by different polices and regulations, in to what qualifies for the award. It is obvious that the Man Booker International Prize is strictly stringent in its eligibility for nomination, in comparison to the Best Translated Book Award.

If it is one aspect which can be gathered from the two awards; it is Argentina is entering the literary map with greater quality work, as Samanta Schweblin debut in English “Fever Dream,” has been described as hallucinogenic, feverish and brilliant—it should also be noted, “Fever Dream,” is the shortest novel on this year’s shortlist, and   Samanta Schweblin is also the youngest nominated writer. If “Fever Dream,” were to win, it would go on to show short novels, can pack a far greater punch then the doorstop novels, some writers continue to write; as well be another feather in the cap of the independent publisher Oneworld, who had published and promoted two other high profile winning writers for the Booker Prize: Marlon James, “A Brief History of Seven Killings,” and Paul Beatty “The Sellout.”

For now though Gentle Reader, there is this year’s finalists for this year’s Man Booker International Prize.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

The Best Translated Book Award Finalists 2017

Hello Gentle Reader

This year’s Best Translated Book Award, is as eccentric, eclectic and exciting; as to be expected from the award. The longlist of twenty five novels and ten poetry collections was diverse which strengthened the awards objectives and mission. No two novels were alike. The themes were wide ranging and human in universal appeal; which allowed for the list to be a unique quilt and patchwork of languages and styles. The following is this year’s shortlisted works of fiction in no particular order:

Marie NDiaye – France (Exile-Germany) – “Ladvine,”

Stefan Hertmans – Belgium – “War and Turpentine,”

Boubacar Boris Diop – Senegal – “Doomi Golo,”

Pedro Cabiya – Dominican Republic – “Wicked Weeds,”

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

Antonio di Benedett – Argentina – “Zama,”

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

Sergei Lebedev – Russia – “Oblivion,”

Lúcio Cardos – Brazil – “Chronicles of a Murdered House,”

Laia Jufresa – Mexico – “Umami,”

This years shortlist is just as strong as its predecessor. However, it is striking to see which authors and their respective works who have been omitted from this year’s shortlist. I had expected Boubacar Boris Diop and his novel “Doomi Golo,” to be on this year’s shortlist, and am happy to see Marie NDiaye is also included on the list. The omission of László Krasznahorkai, was a shocking sight this year. Generally speaking, whenever the Hungarian master of the apocalypse is nominated for a award, he is usually inducted on its short running list, and more or less considered the bookie favourite to win. This year to see his short novel “The lost Wolf and Herman,” to be excluded from this year’s shortlisted titles, is a paradox of disappointment and joy; disappointment, because there can be no denying, Krasznahorkai as a literary master and international giant of literature, and the elimination of his novel as a front runner, appears slightly taboo and insulting; while on the other hand, there is great joy, to see László Krasznahorkai take a back seat this year, while other writers and their works are promoted in favour of him, offering a greater breath of fresh air for the award. It is personally shocking to see Maja Haderlap and her novel “Angel of Oblivion,” not included on this year’s shortlist. The language of “Angel of Oblivion,” was poetic and personal in touch. The beginning of the novel is its greatest strength; its baroque like language and description of the mundane and magical daily routine of the farm, where the young girl is left in wonder and awe at the mystical and occult traditions of her grandmother, whose wisdom and experience is a guiding factor of the young girls early life, as her parents are almost incapable of raising a child, let alone living together with a sense of civil cohabitation, and these issues would later be explored later in the novel, as the narrator does her best to understand and comprehend the dark scars history, had left on her father, mother and grandmother, as the narrator slowly is left to inherit the mess of memories, along with the grief and guilt alongside. The novel itself was a great piece of testimony, but lacked the cut and dry perspective of a purely academic or historical approach; rather with poetic language, baroque memories, and a light personal touch on the border of autobiography, Maja Haderlap, created a wonderful novel of language, division, grief, guilt and memory, which happened to include historical points of reference.

Pedro Cabiya and his novel “Wicked Weeds,” is one of the more surprising works inducted on this years shortlist. The novel “Wicked Weeds,” carries the subtitle: “A Zombie Novel," which did not strike great confidence in me. Yet upon further research, the novel appears allegorical in nature, as it grapples with the concept of what it means to be human, but also the ecological and environmental apocalypse which may await all of us around the corner. Both Mexican writers made it onto the shortlist, in favour of two well known giants of Spanish literature: Javiar Marias and Enrique Vila-Mattas. The Spanish language also retains the most represented language on both lists: with nine writers and books, working in the language on the longlist, and now four writes appearing on the shortlist. In all though Gentle Reader, the shortlist is just as strong as its predecessor, in a more condescended version. Though I initially thought Maja Haderlap, Patrick Modiano, and Laszlo Krasznahorkai, would have been included on the shortlist, with their respective works.   


The following Gentle Reader, is the poetry shortlist for this year's award. Again the list is not presented in any particular order:

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

Yideum Kim – (South) Korea – “Cheer Up, Femme Fatale,”
Szilárd Borbély – Hungary – “Berlin-Hamlet,”
Alejandra Pizarnik – Argentina – “Extracting the Stone of Madness,”
Michael Donhauser – Germany – “Of Things,”

I make no qualm or issue about stating openly and frankly that I do not read poetry, and have little appreciation for poetry. Though I confess adamantly my love and admiration for Wisława Szymborska, among a few other poets; and have done my best to advocate personally and privately the genius of Doris Kareva (Estonia), Hasso Krull (Estonia), Sirkka Turkka (Finland) and Tua Forsström (Swedish Language/Finland), among other poets who I happen to discover online. But beyond reading one or a couple poems, by a minimal pantheon, is as far as my poetry reading goes. I am not a digester of poetry collections or poets, though I often wish to learn from them and their unique sense and feel for language. My admiration for poets is only apparent with vehement conviction is when they turn their pen from the line to the sentence, and their poems become prose.

Of the poets shortlisted for this year’s poetry, only two appear familiar:Abdellatif Laâbi a well known man of Moroccan letters, but has been forced into exile into France, after being arrested and tortured for crimes of opinion. Laâbi though is regarded as one of the most prominent and important voices of poetry to have come out of Morocco. I am familiar with Alejandra Pizarnik from New Directions Books, which has been introducing her work into the English language over the past few years now, as well as being on the Best Translated Book award shortlist for poetry back in two-thousand and fifteen. Though I find Pizarnik’s poetry heavy handed and a bit unmoving, her life itself is interesting, though tragic. At the age of thirty-six, Alejandra Pizarnik committed suicide. Despite her tragic end and short career, Alejandra Pizarnik was noted for being a poet who was profoundly uninterested in politics, and her poems never went into the political atmosphere of discussion. Pizarnik’s poems were rooted in the symbolic and romanticism of European poets such as Arthur Rimbaud. Alejandra Pizarnik tuned and toned her poems towards subjects of death, childhood, pain, and loneliness. In it she wrote dense poems which reflected the unfortunate and unforgiving world which surrounded her. With her tragic death and short career, she is considered a legendary poet of Argentina and a formidable force of the Spanish language and Latin/South American literary culture.  There they are Gentle Reader, the shortlists for this year’s Best Translated Book Award 2017, both for fiction and poetry. Of the two lists, it appears the Spanish language is represented the most frequently with a combined total of five works originally written in the language; four from the fiction shortlist and one from the poetry shortlist. Still the award is anyone’s game from now on, and the judges have their work cut out for them, as they work to adjudicate the best book to be awarded this year’s Best Translated Book Award.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always  

Stay Well Read

M. Mary 

Jon Fosse’s: Trilogy

Hello Gentle Reader

Theatre is a commodity for both entertainment and second hand emotion, which is to be delivered with the greatest talents of oration and body language. Actors however are only human puppets who give voice and body to the characters in which they are told to represent with the greatest powers of their ability. Actors are merely voice and body to characters far from their imagination. Theatre technicians are more or less magicians and landscapers, who through smoke and mirrors are able to conjure and project the image necessary for the theatrical envisioned reality to find its physical space in which to occupy. Now working both at a hockey arena and a live theatre, while slogging my way through school—I have the unique position to watch the imagined take its illusionary physical form. Yet who you don’t see the writer of the production. You meet the actors of course; wound up to the point that they are as tight as ticks, the introverted technician doing their best to interpret direction into the desired form; and the director who sees fit to oversee the production, and ensure it’s a swimming success. No line is dropped; no light out of place, no movement improvised—everything must be tightly controlled. But the writer; they most certainly have washed their hands of this project; they’ve completed their task and moved on to something new. A writer (as it was once stated) is next to god. They are introverted and quiet creatures, but beneath their bookish appearances lay the most egotistical creator. In their minds resides a personal paradise, a place reserved and untouched by others, populating this world are the most subservient of people, who will do as dictated and instructed. With a scribble of a pen, this world will come into existence; with a strike of eraser or pen, the world can change. Magdalena Tulli herself had commented on the absentminded ability of people to create worlds with impulsive fervor and then soon lose interest in them, where they pop and dissolve back into the nothingness in which they were fabricated from. Writers I can only presume write, and once the craft is honed and completed its left at that; what is on the page is the beginning and the end of their involvement. Actors are to bring to life the characters which have been envisioned, while technicians use light, smoke, and mirrors to decorate the world imagined. Beyond this though, writers it appears have no interest in their creations. Too many chefs in the kitchen is after all rather damaging to the ego; and when someone else has a different idea as to how your characters should act or behave, will certainly leave ones toes throbbing. The meddling of other associates and reality itself can never truly come to achieving the imagined world, which has been documented on the page.

Jon Fosse is the worlds most performed living playwright. He has written around forty plays including adaptions; with his debut play: “Someone Is Going To Come,” written in nineteen-ninety two to nineteen-ninety three, and was first produced in nineteen-ninety six. The theatre has not been Fosse’s greatest love or even h is foray into it. His first love and debut into literature was prose, in which he debuted in nineteen-eighty three with “Red, Black.” He did not turn his eyes to the theatre until he was in his mid-thirties. Yet in two-thousand and fourteen, Fosse has ended his affair with the theatre, stating he would prefer to write more slowly and less of course, and the thought of writing a new play does not bring any sense of enjoyment or pleasure for the writer.

Though Jon Fosse has written many plays, novels and poems, and has been translated into more than forty languages, the reception of his theatrical dramas in the English language, have been polite but ambivalent or muted at best. There is no denying Fosse’s talent for the theatre, with his splintered dialogue, silences, pauses; all reminiscent of Samuel Beckett and Harold Pinter; yet Fosse brings something else to the table with both his prose and dramatic texts; there is a certain poetic stream of consciousness movement, and a lack of absurdity or humour, and a more cooler and apprehensive take to his desolate scenery and equal hesitant characters, completely uncertain with regards to life. The characters of Fosse’s universe are marooned and are often at odds with their life and their surroundings; and yet they always appear apathetic or incapable of doing much else beyond brooding over the casual existential anxiety which looms well overhead. It could be said the English stage is less welcoming or forgiving of those it deems of foreign languages. Despite the lack of appreciation or warm enthusiasm Fosse has received in the English language world, he is world renowned and successful. There is not a year that goes by in which Jon Fosse is noted a noted possible contender for the Nobel Prize for Literature; were in two-thousand thirteen looked like his year.

Two years ago Jon Fosse received the Nordic Council Literature Prize for his Trilogy: “Andvake,” (“Wakefullness,”) “Olavs Draumar,” (“Olav’s Dream,”) and “Kveldsvævd,” (“Weariness,”).

                                                                                                                           

The adjudicating committee for the prize had the following to say about Jon Fosse’s win:

“This year’s prize winner is a rare example of innovative style hand in hand with content that has the ability to touch readers across time and place. Conveyed in a highly poetic form of prose and with a wilfully playful attitude to the narrative, this love story spans all times and no time. Like few others, the author manages to chisel out a highly personal literary form. Weaving biblical allusions, Christian mysticism and poetic imagery into the tension of the plot in a way that opens up the story of two people in love to a wider world and to history.”

Jon Fosse’s trilogy is less then two-hundred pages in length, but in its small packaging, it packs a poetic punch, which novels twice or tripe its size fail to achieve.

“Andvake,” (“Wakefulness,”)

The first in the Trilogy, introduces the characters Asle and Alida, two poor and unfortunate souls lost and wondering – whose circumstances mimic that of Joseph and Mary, in the famous nativity story. Alse and Alida are poor, homeless and Alida is pregnant. The short novella showcases Fosse’s renowned style: his long meandering sentences, his repetitive and stream of consciousness style, and his almost simplistic (yet hypnotic) vocabulary, not to mention the hallmark of his theatrical works, the splintered dialogue.

Through the novella the reader is given witness to the plight of Asle and Alida, orphans left abandoned to the world. Asle’s father had died when he was younger, but he remembers the fiddle his father played at weddings (where by happenstance he would meet his future love: Alida), and as the novel opens his mother is also now deceased, which leaves Asle to the cruel world on his own. Unfortunate turns to misery shortly after, where the boat house in which he lives in is repossessed by its owners who informs Asle and Alida to vacate. Alida’s prospects are no better either, her mother and her are at each other’s throats. Ma Herdis has greater faith in Alida’s sister Oline (described as the ‘good one,’ or ‘the white one,’) was more capable of taking over the farm. Desperate times call for even greater desperate measures; thievery and perhaps some murderous intrigue in the mix. Fosse however allows such dramatic events to play off stage and are commented on with an understated inclination.

The novella finishes with Asle and Alida in Bjørgvin seeking a room for rent, where they are out of the rain and the autumn chill. Much like Joseph and Mary though, they are met with insult, injury or a slammed door. No one could possibly desire to take such people in. Salvation can only come when it is once again taken, and so Alida should release her child into a cruel world, which has only been capable of receiving him through cruel actions. Yet despite the actions of Asle and Alida, there is always a sense of pity and sympathy which radiates from their souls and shadows; where forgiveness is sought, and through kind portrayals given.

“Olavs Draumar,” (“Olav’s Dream,”)

No one can escape their past. Change your name. Sweep your past beneath the rug. Stay in the fog. Solitude and silence is ally and lover. Yet every shadow follows like a stray dog. No one can retain opaque perspective or image forever.

In “Olav’s Dream,” Asle and Alida now run hide among assumed aliases: Olav and Asta with their new born child Sigvald. They live on the outskirts of town, scrapping together a meager existence, for themselves, but it was better than their previous life and circumstances. Olav has decided to head off to Bjørgvin where he will procure rings for Asta and himself, to solidify their status as an item. As Olav leaves the house however, Asta remarks it will be the last time she will see him.

On his journey to Bjørgvin Olav is referred to by a similar name: Asle. He does his best dissuade this remark as nothing more than a mistaken identity. Yet the man who calls him Asle does not let up on Olav, and again refers to him as Asle. Thankfully Olav is capable of shaking the unwanted spectator off, and makes it Bjørgvin—though it’s not much a sanctuary in itself. It is here though Olav is treated to a few tankers of beer, and even finds the most beautiful bracelet in which he is able to gift Asta. The most wonderful bracelet, which she so fittingly deserves. Luck and love is always in short supply; and unrest is quick to absorb such a small commodity within its quantity. The man from the past resurfaces once again, and this time confronts Olav about questionable actions he has done when he was Asle.

Innocence, love, crimes of desperation with passion as reason—these are no longer excusable; as fate now requires payment and penance, through the noose of justice. Olav’s life (or lie) quickly shatters and dissolves around him. The bracelet for Asta stolen; the life he dreamed for his family and himself is quickly tied off with a tourniquet. Asle is brought forward on accusations of murder, and by the law of the day (whichever unfortunate day this is) he is to meet his maker through the same shadowy old geezer who exposed him, who now is given the satisfaction of ruining and taking Olav’s life, as hangman.

“Olav’s Dream,” is perhaps my personal favourite of Fosse’s trilogy. It is often reviewed and stated with Jon Fosse’s prose, that when one reads Fosse’s work, there is a rhythm which one must get in sync with in order to truly appreciate the repetitive and poetic qualities of Fosse’s prose. Often I’ve found myself slightly out of step with the waltz of Fosse’s work, and yet now finally, with the final passages of “Olav’s Dream,” his miraculous prose finally revealed their poetic ingenuity and beauty, and left me cold with an uncertainty whether or not it would be possible to continue. Finally it seems I got Jon Fosse’s work, and it was a startling and welcoming revelation.

“Kveldsvævd,” (“Weariness,”).

Conclusion and curtain call. “Weariness,” opens with Ales an old woman ruminating on her life. She recalls Little Sister who died young, and her older brother Sigvald had left when she was still young and never return, though he played the fiddle—much like his father Asle (Olav) and his grandfather Pa Sigvald. Ales see her mother Alida through her living room window, and follows, her aged mother into the kitchen the coziest place in the home. For the kitchen is heart and hearth of any home: with stove, coffee and tea.

Through Ales we see the conclusion of Alida’s life without Asle. Salvation was to be found for Alida, now homeless and starving, doing her best to take care of her still new born child: Sigvald. With the beginning charity of Åsleik, Alida is treated to a meal and beer, and then a home, where she would work as his house keeper, before finally marrying him. Though Asle still lurks deep in her heart—and with a serendipitous hand of fate, she would find his stolen bracelet, in which he planned to place upon her wrist; the most beautiful bracelet in the world.

“Weariness,” recounts with great clarity the events of Asle and Alida’s life. How Asle murdered Alida’s mother, the boat house owner, the midwife; and through these crimes, he is hung for them, leaving Alida in the cruel and unforgiving world, where she returns to Bjørgvin to find Asle but in return once again finds doors locked and slammed shut. In contrast to the depraved and uncertain world of Alida enters Åsleik whose life appears to have gone in its mundane usual certainty with no major hiccups or acts of desperation. He informs Alida of the fate of Asle, though she cannot bear thought of her husband a murder who has been hung.

Tragedy however is in large supply for the lovers Asle and Alida. As Alida points out Asle is in the waves, the sea, the clouds and the sky. He is there, around her, enveloping her, and yearning for her. Ales comments early, she never saw her mother Alida old. As the novella ends, Alida is caressed and carried out to the sea, to be with her beloved Asle.

Concluding Thoughts –

Jon Fosse is an expert in the miniature and the minimal requirements to get the biggest impact in his writing – a trait that is greatly admired (at least on my end). However, Fosse’s language a already noted requires a certain amount of synchronization in order for the affect to be profound, provocative and to truly realize how he has staked his claim as one of the greatest writers at work on the international literary stage. Personally, I find I either read to fast, or skim lightly and often am not capable of slipping into his rhythmic language often; but when I have, it’s an amazing impact, which leaves one completely cold in the way the best writers are capable of managing it. Fosse’s use of simple repetitive language to create a profound poetic love story and love song to the unfortunate lovers fighting against fate and life is an endearing read. It has many mystical as well as theological overtones, with comparison to the nativity story; but all inclinations of religious themes begin and end here. Fosse’s work is his own, and it’s a sharp shard of a gem which pierces and penetrates, with sly mastery which evokes real sentiment, not second hand emotions or panhandled sympathies. The plight is human, and the world is cruel; but through it all love exists and moves forward, on the smallest string of a fiddle.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

                 

M. Mary 

Folio Prize 2017, Shortlist

Hello Gentle Reader

Three years ago, the Folio Prize was conceived and born to rival the Man Booker Prize—a literary dispute of sorts. In two-thousand and eleven the Man Booker Prize created controversy, when its judges decided to emphasize readability, at (what some perceived) the expense of literary merit. The Folio Prize also did something to rival the Man Booker Prize, by stating it was inclusive to all English language novels, and not limited to books published in the United Kingdom or Commonwealth. The Man Booker Prize would meet this challenge in two-thousand and fourteen by widening its scope to include the same mission, and opened its doors to books published beyond the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. This broadening perspective could be witnessed in two-thousand and sixteen when Paul Beatty (an American writer) won the award with his novel “The Sellout.” In its first two years, the Folio Prize has awarded the American short-story writer George Saunders and the Indian-American writer Akhil Sharma; in two-thousand and fourteen and fifteen respectively. In two-thousand and sixteen, however, the Folio Prize was not awarded as its organizers were on the hunt for a new sponsor; now the prize is back and has up the ante, by including non-fiction work on its shortlist. It will be interesting to see if the Man Booker Prize will retaliate, against its obvious rival.

With the inclusion of this year’s non-fiction work, the shortlist is strictly split between fiction and non-fiction. The following is this year’s shortlist for the Folio Prize.

China Miéville – “This Census-Taker,”

Laura Cummings – “The Vanishing Man: In Pursuit of Velázquez,”

Hisham Matar – “The Return,”

CE Morgan – “The Sport of Kings,”

Madeline Thien – “Do We Say Nothing,”

Francis Spufford – “Golden Hill,”

Maggie Nelson – “The Argonauts,”

Robin Yassin-Kassab and Leila Al-Shami – “Burning Country: Syrians in Revolution and War,”

There it is Gentle Reader, the eight finalists for this year’s Folio Prize. It will be interesting to see if the Man Booker Prize will begin to change how it conducts business, in order to further compete with its literary rival. Though the two awards, seek to complete the same objective, by different measures and methods; they do bring to mind an often unique literary pissing match, which brings unique attention to both the writers and books listed. It is also great fun to observe how the too attempt to remain relevant over each other—the Man Booker, however, does have age; while the Folio still remains in its infancy, with much support behind it from David Mitchell to Margaret Atwood.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

           

M. Mary