The Best Translated Book Award 2018, Longlist

Hello Gentle Reader

I’d love to say spring is here with summer on the horizon; but as I look out my window tenacious snow clings with frozen resolve to remain. The sky is quilted and layered in whites and greys. The light is dull as nickel; and the air is chilled and uncertain. The meteorologist—a young doe eyed spring chicken, dressed in his slim fit snappy suits, and white smile—proclaims with a disingenuous smile: ‘it’ll be a slow start to spring. But we will get there. It’s coming.’ Such hallow words, from a shallow mouth, falling on tin ears. Winter won’t last forever, and springs arrival—be it delayed—will come in due time; though that does very little to console the present reality at hand. To move away from the dire weather; literary award season has once again begun. Though, it has started with controversy erupting in a few corners. The first (or perhaps renewed controversy) is the Booker Prize once again finds itself embattled in criticism over the decision to include American authors in nomination and selection; this has subsequently shadowed the Man Booker International Prizes longlist. On a further note, the Swedish Academy finds itself embattled in internal turmoil and strife. So far three members have already resigned publicly; a fourth as openly confessed she has not been a part of the Academy since two-thousand and sixteen, and fifth member is considering resigning. Members of the literary establishment within Sweden have called for the Royal patronage to dismiss all current members, on the grounds they have failed to operate and conduct themselves with integrity, and maintaining public trust. Needless to say, with the controversy erupting and swirling around the Swedish Academy many are curious and cautious about the future of the Nobel Prize for Literature. For now though Gentle Reader, we can take our gaze away from the controversy for a moment of respite and pause, and review the Best Translated Book Award, and this year’s Longlist for Fiction and Poetry.

We will begin with the Fiction Longlist. This year’s fiction longlist hosts twenty-five authors from all over the world and from a diverse linguistic and cultural background. The following list is organized at random; but is structured by: author – country – work nominated, in its English translated format.

Guðbergur Bergsson – Iceland – “Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller,”

Wolfgang Hilbig – Germany – “Old Rendering Plant,”

Anaïs Barbeau-Lavalette – Canada (Quebec) – “Suzanne,”

Santiago Gamboa – Columbia – “Return to the Dark Valley,”

Hanna Krall – Poland – “Chasing the King of Hearts,”

Naivo – Madagascar – “Beyond the Rice Fields,”

Antonio Tabucchi – Italy – “Isabel: A Mandela,”

Wu He – China – “Remains of Life,”

Amir Tag Elsir – Sudan – “Ebola76,”

Fleur Jaeggy – Switzerland/Italy – “I am the Brother of XX,”

Samanta Schweblin – Argentina – “Fever Dream,”

Johannes Urzidil – Czech Republic (German language) – “The Last Bell,”

Marie NDiaye – France – “My Heart Hemmed In,”

Rodrigo Hasbún – Bolivia – “Affections,”

Tomas Espedal – Norway – “Bergeners,”

Christine Angot – France – “Incest,”

Cristina Rivera Garza – Mexico – “The Iliac Crest,”

Rodrigo Fresán – Argentina – “The Invented Part,”

Mathias Énard – France – “Compass,”

Vivek Shanbhag – India (Kannada language) – “Ghachar Ghochar,”

Romina Paula – Argentina – “August,”

Daniel Kehlmann –Austria/Germany – “You Should Have Left,”

Antoine Volodine – France – “Radiant Terminus,”

Sergio Pitol – Mexico – “The Magician of Vienna,”

Pola Oloixarac – Argentina – “Savage Theories,”

One of the greatest reasons, why I love the Best Translated Book Award is the sheer diversity that is inducted into their lists. The award always is giving the impression that time and thought is allocated towards the compilation and decision making process. One can only imagine the intelligent discussions which take place to ensure the best results are shown; and great care (or at least it appears to be) is given to both established writers, and writers either just coming into their own or just being translated into English. This year’s longlist engulfs writers and prose works from all over the globe—from Iceland, to Argentina, to Madagascar, to Sudan, Poland and Italy, to India, to France and Germany, to China, and Quebec (Canada). The chosen novels vary not just in language or geography, but also theme, preoccupations and style. Guðbergur Bergsson’s novel (“Tómas Jónsson, Bestseller,”) is a viciously bleak comedy of vitriol, where a senile and miserable retired bank clerk, eviscerates and criticizes post-war Iceland. Hanna Krall’s novel (“Chasing the King of Hearts,”) is a potent love story during the Holocaust. Wu He fictionalizes in his novel (“Remains of Life,”) the remaining life of an aboriginal tribe in Taiwan, who in a headhunting ritual massacred the occupying/colonial forces of Japan, only to evoke the ire of the Japanese military of the 1930’s and were slaughtered to the point of virtual genocide. In experimental prose, Wu He imagines and conjures their lives and stories. Both Fleur Jaeggy in her stories (“I am the Brother of XX,”) and Wolfgang Hilbig in his novel (“Old Rendering Plant,”) evoke the tormented and tortured gothic ghosts of history and private life, and with lyricism and steel like precision they scalp and carve their dark renderings of life and society into works both haunting, admirable, and thoroughly delish—to describe these two authors would be to quote Nobel Laureate in Literature Camilo Jose Cela: “literature is the denunciation of the times one lives.” The longlist also probes the personal and private; first with Quebec actress and film director turned writer, Anais Barbeau-Lavalette, and her fictional biography (“Suzanne,”) of her where she imagines the missing and turbulent years of her artistic grandmother Suzanne Meloche; the second is Christine Angot scathing and confessional novel (“Incest,”) which recounts the story of a woman’s incestuous relationship with her father, and the lack of justice provided for her, and her mental collapse. Amir Tag Elsir writes a pointed caricature and satirically critical novel (“Ebola76,”) about the Ebola crisis which ravaged the Congo and Sudan in the nineteen-seventies. By contrast Pola Oloixarac has written a metaphysical and maximalist novel riddled with allusions, theories, trials, tribulations, eroticism; not to mention drug fueled debauched rampages and explorations, all the while those poor flawed characters seek to enact the theories and practices of eras now gone, to help themselves find their place in a modern and digitally fragmented world.

A special mention should be given to Naivo, his novel “Beyond the Rice Fields,” is a potent novel exploring the complicated history and past of the island nation, fit with colonial violence, missionaries, industrialism, and slavery; it’s a novel and a saga which explores the unfortunate preoccupations of human bondage, through experience, time, country, and life.  It is also the first novel from Madagascar to ever be translated into English.

Now the Poetry Longlist. The following list is composed at random; but structure by: author—country-work nominated; in its English translated format.

Johannes Heldén – Sweden – “Astroecology,”

Ursula Andkjaer Olsen – Denmark – “Third-Millennium Heart,”

Hirato Renkichi – Japan – “Spiral Staircase,”

Ana Ristović – Serbia – “Directions for Use,”

Ghayath Almadhoun – Sweden/Palestine – “Adrenalin,”

Wilson Bueno – Brazil – “Paraguayan Sea,”

Aase Berg – Sweden – “Hackers,”

Bhaskar Chakrabarti – India – “Things That Happen,”

Marosa di Giorgio – Uruguay – “I Remember Nightfall,”

Ryszard Krynicki – Poland – “Magnetic Point,”

Eleni Vakalo – Greece – “Before Lyricism,”

[Multiple Authors] Chinese Migrant Worker Poetry – China – “Iron Moon,”

I can offer very little commentary on the poetry selection of the prize as I am not a poetry reader, and poetry is a literary form, that I have never grown accustomed to enjoy or read. But what I can tell is the list is once again diverse, with numerous perspectives on show, truly showing the thought being placed into the selection and compilation for the award.

Without disappointing this year’s award showcases itself to being diverse, open, and extremely thoughtful in how any nominated writer is chosen or selected to being included on the longlist. If one ever lacks any idea of what good translations are out there, or has no point in which to begin their search, the Best Translated Book Award always seem to cover the most ground, and is an excellent place to begin, when looking for a new and exciting literary adventure.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

Swedish Academy Controversy (Continued)

Hello Gentle Reader

The controversy of the Swedish Academy continues to reverberate and ripple. After three members have publicly resigned, and a fourth member admitting she has no interaction with the Swedish Academy and its business since two-thousand and sixteen, and an investigation reviewing the internal operations of the academy with regards to a members husband and his privately run artistic and cultural club, and the subsequent accusations made against him with regards to sexual misconduct. As the media has quite a piece of meat to chew on, more information has come to light; many institutions and figures have now been forced to offer commentary on the situation.

It has now been confirmed to the public that the resignations of three members: Peter Englund (former Permanent Secretary), Klas Östergren, and Kjell Espmark; have resigned due to the Academy’s inability to internally govern the situation and accusations levelled against  Jean-Claude Arnault, who the academy had close dealings with, and more specifically his wife Katarina Frostenson, who is a member of the Swedish Academy, and is now being accused of using her membership to financial assist her husband via lobbying the Swedish Academy, as well as leaking information about the Nobel Prize for Literature to him.

The Academy as already mentioned held a vote on whether or not to exclude (in essence remove Frostenson) from the Academy and any business or dealings which would take place in future. We know the votes require a majority, in order for the decision to be passed. It has been recently released that the votes where broken into the following:

Chair No. 1 – Lotta Lotass – No Vote Cast (considered an inactive member)

Chair No. 15 – Kerstin Ekman – No Vote Cast (considered an inactive member)

Chair no. 13 – Sara Stridsberg – No Vote Cast (no specified reason)  

Chair No. 2 – Bo Ralph – Vote to Retain

Chair No. 3 – Sture Allén – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 4 – Anders Olsson – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 5 – Göran Malmqvist – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 6 – Tomas Riad – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 9 – Jayne Svenungsson – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 14 – Kristina Lugn – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 17 – Horace Engdahl – Voted to Retain

Chair No. 7 – Sara Danius – Voted to Exclusion

Chair No. 8 – Jesper Svenbro – Voted for Exclusion

Chair No. 10 – Peter Englund – Voted for Exclusion

Chair No. 11 – Klas Östergren – Voted for Exclusion

Chair No. 12 – Per Wästberg – Voted for Exclusion

Chair No. 16 – Kjell Espmark – Voted for Exclusion

Chair No.18 – Katarina Frostenson – Could Not Vote (for obvious reasons)   

The eight members who voted to retain Frostenson in the academy gave the reasoning that they did not feel or think that the accusations level against her, were substantial enough to have her excluded from the academy. Needless to say this decision has divided the academy with the abrupt departures of three members, and a possible fourth (Sara Stridsberg) considering departing as well.

As the crisis continues to whirl, the Swedish Royal family has also made a statement regarding the issue currently surrounding the academy. His Majesty Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden has announced he is saddened by the current situation of the Swedish Academy. As the Academy’s patron, has informed the press that he is kept informed of the developments, and stressed the importance of the institution to strive beyond its current situation and come to a resolution sooner or later.

However, the Royal family is now being urged by some to step in and take control of the situation. One prominent literary critic, Ingrid Elam, has urged His Majesty Carl XVI Gustaf, to his patronage powers to remove all current members of the Academy and replace them. This sentiment appears to being gaining traction with other members of the public, as well as cultural institutions and literary establishments, as they feel the current members of the Swedish Academy has lost the trust of the public, damaged the institutions reputation, and even tarnished the Royal Family’s patronage. It has also been reported that His Majesty Carl XVI Gustaf, met with the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Sara Danius, on Saturday. The conversation and meeting was a private matter, and no information has been released about it. However, it was noted that the conversation was constructive, with regards to the emerging situation.

It has also been revealed that Katarina Frostenson is accused of disclosing on seven different occasions who will receive the Nobel Prize for Literature to the Forum (the club her husband is the director of).

The Nobel Laureates who have been said to have been leaked are:

Wislwa Szymborska (1996)

Elfiede Jelienk (2004)

Harold Pinter (2005)

Jean-Marie Gustave (J.M.G) Le Clezio (2008)

Patrick Modiano (2014)

Svetlana Alexievich (2015)

Bob Dylan (2016)

Thank-you for Reading Gentle Reader, I will keep you posted and informed as more information is released.

M. Mary

For further reading please see the following Articles:

https://www.svt.se/kultur/konflikten-kring-katarina-frostenson-splittrar-akademien

http://www.cbc.ca/news/entertainment/nobel-swedish-academy-resignations-1.4611048

https://www.svt.se/kultur/svenska-akademiens-utredning-visar-kulturprofilen-lackte-uppgifter-om-sju-nobelpristagare

Shocking News from the Swedish Academy

Hello Gentle Reader

The Swedish is Academy is known for being provocative, thought provoking, unconventional, controversial, and even shocking—at least with regards to some of their decisions on who they have chosen as a Nobel Laureate in Literature. Beyond that the Swedish Academy has always been cloaked in reticence and a sense of regality do to their concealment and statues of secrecy and silence. No one is entirely in possession of the facts (at least no one on the outside), with regards to how the Swedish Academy operates behind closed doors. There has been speculation with regards to in house disagreements, lobbying, divisions and divides—though nothing evidentiary has been produced; other than a few members publicly leaving on grounds that they disagree with a internal decision, such as when Werner Aspenström, Kerstin Ekman, and Lars Gyllensten symbolically resigned or stepped away from the Academy in 1989, over the Academy’s decision not to publicly condemned the fatwa issued against Salman Rushdie, over his novel “The Satanic Verses.” In 2005 Knut Ahnlund made a similar gesture, when he stepped away from the academy in protest of Elfriede Jelinek receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature. Beyond these sporadic moments of dissidence, the Academy is otherwise tight lipped over its internal operations and workings. However, over the past few years there have been speculative rumors about internal strife going on behind those clandestine doors. The speculation arose in 2016 when the announcement for the Nobel Prize for Literature was delayed by a week. Upon the date of its announcement the decision was met with cheers and jeers; and controversy would soon erupt with Bob Dylan officially on his way to becoming a Nobel Laureate in Literature. After the literary world reeled with apocalyptic malaise and existential questions about its relevancy in a world which could no longer guarantee it its attention; and the [pop] music industry lit a joint, snorted some rails, and did its own rendition of the Charleston as it felt it reached new cultural heights of importance (needless to say every burn out hippie and forlorn rebellious youth who gravitated towards the folkish music of Dylan rejoiced with nerve grating enthusiasm). Afterwards, it was back to work for the Swedish Academy, and in 2017 they announced Kazuo Ishiguro as its most recent Nobel Laureate; again the decision seemed odd and even underwhelming—but at least he wrote something, and published in some sense of the word ‘traditional.’

The festivities of the previous year have since subsided and the Swedish Academy’s doors are once again closed, where the good academy is hard at work to once again find and crown a new Nobel Laureate in Literature. The task is daunting, but for writers it’s the lottery. Yet the good work of the Swedish Academy is now under scrutiny. As already mentioned there has been speculation with regards to an in house divide amongst the members of the Academy, though no evidence has ever been provided, recent occurrences would now begin to show that the Academy is in the dire straits of a crisis.

Three members of the Swedish Academy have recently voluntarily left, whereupon they have become inactive members. Those members are: former Permanent Secretary Peter Englund, Klas Ostergren, and Kjell Espmark, have all vacated their seats at this time. Lotta Lotass, though has not left publicly, she considers herself an inactive member of the academy, as she has not had any contact with the academy since September of 2016. The most recent inductee into the Academy: Sara Stridsberg, has also publicly confessed to considering leaving the academy as well. By these statistics, of eighteen chairs, the Swedish Academy has at the moment: five (5) inactive members, with the possibility of a sixth member also choose to dissent. This peculiar for the Swedish Academy as its members are elected for life, and their seats are not up for election until the member holding the seat dies. Sara Danius, has confessed she is not working to see if statutes can be revised or amended to allow members of the academy to voluntarily leave, and have their seat open for nomination and appointment.

The question remains: what has caused such a quick exodus of members and dissidence within the Academy? Was it Bob Dylan’s Nobel Prize for Literature? Is it old allegiances blocking objectivity? Well the answer is perhaps a more controversial then either of those two subjects. The matter is the accusation with regards to the #MeToo movemen which has spawned via social media, where women accuse their predators (often bypassing general notions of legal and judicial proceedings). Anyhow, last November, eighteen women accused a well-known cultural figure of Sweden: Jean-Claude Arnault, of sexually assaulting them. Naturally and within reason, Mr. Arnault denies the allegations, but the allegations have spread like a fungus and into the Swedish Academy.

You see Gentle Reader, Jean-Claude Arnault ran an exclusive cultural and artistic forum or club in Stockholm. It was called ‘the Forum,’ and hosted numerous performing artists, musicians, writers and other artistic people in its chic basement setting. The Swedish Academy as its own separate entity had financial investments and dealings with the forum. Beyond that: Jean-Claude Arnault is also married to a member of the Swedish Academy: Katarina Frostenson. Since the accusations the Swedish Academy has cut its financial commitments to the Forum, and even hosted a vote on whether or not to exclude (in a sense expel) Katarina Frostenson from any activities within the Academy. The vote took place and Katarina Frostenson found it in her favour. Criticism would erupt once again, as many are asking themselves and the academy, how the cultural and linguistic institution of Sweden can maintain its integrity with this kind of scandal going on? Needless to say, after the vote and a perceived weak press release, the three aforementioned members have resigned out of protest, leaving he current Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy, Sara Danius to right the wrongs, and put on a brave face for the academy and move forward. But it won’t be easy.

Before all this unpleasant and public business took place the Swedish Academy had consulted and hired a law firm to perform an investigation into every member’s dealings and connections with both the Forum and Jean-Claude Arnault. The Swedish Academy does admit that though it cannot be held responsible for the accusations and assaults that may have taken place, members do feel the weight of the Academy’s reputation was used to facilitate and coerce victims into the sexual acts. The investigation by the law firm did conclude that Jean-Claude Arnault had no relevance or influence on the Academy’s decisions or the Nobel Prize for Literature. However, the investigation did prove that the statute of secrecy which governs the Swedish Academy with fundamental and fanatic virtue had been broken on numerous of occasions; and that by offering financial investments or assistance to the Forum and Jean-Claude Arnault, the Academy was in a sense in conflict of interest and awarding its own members. Subsequently, the Swedish Academy broke its own rules according to Sara Danius.

At the end of the day Gentle Reader, what the future holds for the Swedish Academy is uncertain. We do know that the departed members left with the following words:

Peter Englund: “Decisions were made that I don’t believe in nor can defend, and I have therefore decided to no longer participate in the Swedish Academy’s work.”

Kjell Espmark: “leading voices within the academy put friendship and other irrelevant considerations.”

Klas Ostergren: “The Swedish Academy has for a long time had serious problems and has now tried to solve them in a way that puts obscure considerations before its own rules and which constitute a betrayal to its founders.”

Admittedly, even Sara Danius had considered removing herself from the Swedish Academy, but has stayed on. As she put it, the work the Academy does is far bigger then personal opinion or internal disagreements, and will seek to right wrongs. Currently, she is seeking to revise the rules to allow members to voluntarily leave, and have their seats open for nomination and reappointment. Chair of the Nobel Committee for the Swedish Academy Par Wästberg has stayed strong stating the Nobel Prize for Literature is by no means at risk.

Still Gentle Reader, what lies in store for the Swedish Academy and the Nobel Prize for Literature is up in the air. There are fears the Nobel Prize for Literature may not be awarded this year due to the internal conflict and controversy. Time will tell, what will happen; if anything happens. All that one can say for sure is the Academy is embroiled in scandal and internal strife. Needless to say, I do not envy the position Sara Danius now finds herself in, as she is left with fires burning on all sides, and an institutions reputation tarnished and in ruin—at least for now.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

For Further Reading Please see the Following Links - (Please Note: Some links may be in Swedish) 


https://www.aftonbladet.se/nyheter/a/l1bOoo/sara-danius-jag-ska-fortsatta-sa-lange-jag-orkar

https://www.dn.se/kultur-noje/three-members-leave-the-swedish-academy/

https://www.dn.se/kultur-noje/klas-ostergren-lamnar-svenska-akademien/

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/04/07/world/europe/swedish-academy-abuse-accusations.html

https://www.sydsvenskan.se/2018-04-07/stridsberg-overvager-att-lamna-akademien

The Booker Prize Crisis Thickens

Hello Gentle Reader

Due to a leaked letter, earlier this year it came to the literary world’s attention that publishers within the United Kingdom, felt the Booker Prize had lost its unique edge as a literary award, since its decided to expand itself beyond the United Kingdom and the commonwealth, and include American authors. The decision was ambivalent then, mixed with muted praise, and assaulted by the hisses and groans of those who felt betrayed and deserted by the prizes decision. The criticism has been swift and severe. The Booker Prize defends its decision for being inclusive to American authors, as an attempt to diversify the literary map and showcase talent throughout the broad spectrum of the English speaking world. Critics have lambasted this attempt at diversification as doing the complete opposite; they have stated the award has only homogenized the award, where independent publishers are being choked out, unknown authors are smothered, and the award is dominated and prevailed by already established literary figures from the United States and the United Kingdom.

Not everyone has agreed with the Armageddon prediction and criticism these publishers have voiced. Some as already stated support the decision as an act of recognizing the globalized world as a greater force of optimism and positive literary and cultural exchanges. Others have stated this desire for isolationistic principles is counterproductive, in a world which should seek to eliminate borders and boundaries of cultural exchange.

As for the American side of the argument, well they’ve been rather apathetic about the ordeal, and perhaps even slightly amused at what their presence has done for a literary award.

Now, however, prominent authors and leading critics have added their voice to the chorus, with regards to the debate surrounding the two-thousand and fourteen decisions.  Members from the Rathbones Folio Academy (the academy which awards the Folio Prize, a competitor to the Booker Prize), have added their voice of dissent against the Booker Prize’s decision. 99% of the academy members—which includes: Margaret Atwood, Jim Grace, Zadie Smith, Damian Barr and Kevin Barry; have all stated they believe the Booker Prize should reverse its decision to allow American authors for being eligible for the award.

A member of the Rathbones Folio Academy, Tessa Hadley, lamented loss the early uniqueness of the award, when it was exclusively open for writers from the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth (a term which engulfs: Ireland, South Africa, India, and Pakistan), in which the countries who share a unique post-colonial structure and history, were in a sense ‘talking,’ or having a ‘conversation,’ through the exchange of literature and perspective. Tessa Hadley explains with greater elucidation below:

“The Man Booker used to provide a point of focus each year for British and Commonwealth fiction: a sense that this had some identity-in-difference, and that British and Commonwealth novels were in some sense ‘talking to one another’ ... now it’s as though we’re perceived – and perceive ourselves – as only a subset of US fiction, lost in its margins – and, eventually, this dilution of the community of writers plays out in the writing.”’ (quoted from The Guardian article, by Sian Cain, link below)  

Even, John Banville, who originally supported the idea of the Booker Prize taking on a inclusion policy, has found the notion rather underwhelming and perhaps unsatisfactory. Banville claims the award has lost its cultural uniqueness, and as a result been reduced to a commonplace rudimentary prize, which exists only to promote and reward established authors. Banville then encourages the Booker Prize Foundation to reverse their decision, however uncomfortable it maybe.

Yet, the Booker Prize Foundation has not made any inclination it will reverse its decision and has in fact remained firm in its decision to include American authors in its selection process. Critics have also drawn up battle lines on where they stand on either decision of the award. Though the majority refute and claim the Booker Prize is now reduced to second hand glory with little to no relevance in the world; the few who support the rule change, claim the majority are paranoid and self-conscious about the new world’s competitive capabilities for an award. Yet interestingly enough, most of the squabbling and criticism comes from the United Kingdom itself, with its own writers and its own publishers. Once again, the elephant in the room remains either amused or apathetic to the situation.

Of course one only needs to wonder: the closer the prize comes to announcing its longlist and shortlist, what criticism and controversy will the judges have to endure? What accusations and allegations will they need to answer to? Needless to say, with an award fraught with discord and tension, I don't envy their position -- that is if they are influenced by this external white noise. 

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

"Top authors make mass call on Man Booker to drop American writers,"

by, Sian Cain 

When The Scene is Set or The Space is Vacant

Hello Gentle Reader

My one grandmother was a great admirer of landscapes. She could often be found surveying and walk the landscape. When the weather proved to be uncooperative for a walk, she would nestle down by a window and gaze. When she gazed at the world outside she was completely absent from the present surroundings; from the daily tasks which she would afford to put off for the time being; from the daily distractions of life, which continually vies for attention and resolution. For these briefest of moments I remember her admiring and meditating—she contemplated and wondered. What exactly she contemplated and wondered about, I will never know. Yet, there was never a look of longing or resentment, just a sense of being at ease for a restful moment. After a while though the call of life would trumpet her back to the present and she would—as she often said: “carry on.”

As a child, I often found my grandmothers momentary reflective observations bewildering and even strange. I wondered when she sat at the window, if she was longing to get away or had a desire to travel or escape wherever she currently was. Her meditative silence and solemn posture, often struck me as sad and even alien. When my grandmother admired and meditated beyond the windowpane, or would slip out for morning, afternoon and evening walks—there was always a guarded sense of privacy, as if she were keeping a private and personal secret to herself. She only opened the clam now and then to admire the pearl and then snap it shut when trespassers grew near. When I viewed the same window, I only saw the same grass, the sky, the same hills, the same prairie twig trees, the same buildings, the same world. I had no patience to find the pearl in the ordinary and boring. When I accompanied her on a walk, it was trailed and shadowed by solemn silence and a reflective air. Neither of which my childhood constitution could tolerate. I often desired to break the awkward silence; but never dared to open my mouth or make a move to betray my position or presence. All the while, my grandmother would continue on her walk taking step by step, pace by pace, and moving her head in all conceivable directions as if she were looking for something or someone, and never quite finding them. Now and then, though, she would stop here and there, and just observe with casual triumph, then continue on her wandering. Yet to me, at the time, these ritual of silence, observation, reflection and meditation where beyond my comprehension and were more frightening and awkward, then they were poetically or philosophically rewarding.

Age, however, has a way of smoothing out the roughness of youth, and polishing the lens for a slightly enhanced bit of vision. The peripheral vision grows more vibrant and there is less tunnel vision. Now that I am older I finally understand my grandmother’s silent love affair with observing landscapes. The revelation, however, was not strikingly clear as an epiphany—no rather it was a slightly more gradual understanding, which took place over time. At first it made its presence subtly known through novels, especially with authors who have a certain love affair with digressions in which they offer commentary on architecture and landscape. These authors are always Intune to set the scene, and often do so, with lovingly gentle care. These same authors, however, are capable of drawing parallels between the external landscape and the internal world of the characters, using one as a symbolic external depiction of the interior world of the other.

When I try to recall these scenes now, they come up as fragmentary and misplaced, whereupon they only hint at the grander landscape now slipping into the oblivion of memory. Often, they melt and weld themselves together, creating a patchwork and surreal landscape. One moment there is the empty train tracks covered in the rose tint of a blushing evening sunset in summer, on the other side of the tracks is a white painted barbwire fence, oxidizing over time, beyond the fence is a barren field of dried and dead grass, with billboards set up for passengers to look out. There’s a sign for a cosmetic fad another one for a dental clinic and another for a gynecologists office. Past the field of dead and dried up grass jailed by barbwire and oxidizing posts, overseen by commercial billboards which no one pays any mind—is an abandoned field of appliances: washers, dryers, refrigerators, and freezers. Just beyond the hill which hides this surreal landscape from site, one can hear the rush and call of a motorway in the evening rush hour. A few years ago, the newspapers ran an article about the graveyard of appliances and the gruesome discovery of a little boy who had curled up in a refrigerator and suffocated to death. There was no explanation as to why the child did what he did. Now, as one passes this sole rusted washing machine, the entire scene shifts away from the dimming blue twilight, to an overcast day, complete with a thick fog which has settled over like a shawl. There are little shadows systemically lining the area in rows and columns—every now and then a statue or a monument appears. It is then one realizes: this is a cemetery. In the distance, in solitary ratification, a lone man stands and turns something over on a headstone. He stops and stares—engulfed in his own thoughts of the moment, before wandering off. When one approaches the headstone, they see it was a penny flipped over to heads, and just left there casually. As if playing a game of existential mystery, you turn it to tails and move in your own direction. The fog clears gradually, and when you turn around to inspect where it has gone, you find only the autumnal forest closing up for the winter. In the peripheral is a gardener in his cottage, who patiently watches, tends, and waits for his harvest to show. He suppresses his urges to dig and uproot anything, by checking progress and admiring the rewards of hard work. He’s painfully shy and even on the border of recluse. Yet he admires his hard work, and secretly wishes to talk to his cottage neighbor, whose flowers and a glorious testament to beauty. Much like his garden, this gardener understands the importance of waiting, in order to enjoy the succulent delights of his rewards. The light darkens and dims, and the landscape shifts and bellows like ink in water. Before long you find yourself seated at night in some late night diner, where coffee is brewing, truckers are eating, and the rain is splattering the window. The light bulb above is dim and on the booth table is a cup of black coffee. The waitress is young but uninterested in her job; she’s behind the counter absent mindedly reading a magazine. Across the way in another book is a young woman studying and drinking coffee. The midnight oil is burned by all.

It was during this time I discovered the contemporary French artist: Claude Lazar. Claude Lazars paintings are most famous for depicting common place but menacingly urban landscapes. The menace comes from the lack of population and people found within these landscapes. Instead the subject is object and silence. One is then left wondering when reviewing and admiring a Claude Lazar painting: is the scene set for drama and action, or, is the space vacant and abandoned?

His paintings are detailed and realistic and always give off inclinations of the inhabitants who are only eluded to inhabiting these derelict and abandoned spaces. In one painting, we see the work room of a seamstress or costume designer. To the left is the bust mannequin bare and naked, waiting to model and be sheathed in fabric—be it velvet or silk. The desk is fit with a sewing machine, in front of a window, which overlooks the Parisian streets below. On the right are boxes of fabrics and materials, threads and spindles of string which tie the masterpiece in a web of intricate bondage. On the wall, sketches and designs of dresses are pinned. Each one is elaborate and elegant waiting to be fashioned from pencil, paper, and the imaginary; whereupon they will be stitched and sewn into reality. In another painting we are offered the perspective and glimpse of an artistic studio, fit with garret style studio windows. The place looks a bit musty and disheveled and disorganized, but who are we to judge the artistic process. Outside an open window pane, the buildings across the street are tinted in the blue twilight of an early morning. The work counter is cloaked in shadow and guarded private secrecy—no one can see the work halfway through completion, and that is if it will make completion. If one wishes to see the work of this imaginary artist at work, they need to look to the right wall—but alas the paintings are facing away, their backs turned in bashful prudence and modesty, reflecting the artist’s personality. After all, not all art must be exhibitionist in nature. Sometimes it’s the quiet and the subdued which will always win the heart, over the blatant and obnoxious clichés of nudity and shock value.

In another painting we move from the intimate and interior to the external world. A blackened sky rolls through the cityscape. The scene is set in the back alley of the city, as if we were casually observing the private nature of the backside of buildings. We observe the fire exits, zip up and down, zig and zag down the exterior of the building. The windows are dark or the curtains pulled. On top of the buildings sit old water towers lonely and sentinel. The buildings are only light up by an elusive and unknown source of light, which fends off the incoming storm, but is destined to loose. One can feel the moisture in the air, like the whimper before a wail.

In order to escape the storm we are hurried inside. We find ourselves in an unknown and unassuming kitchen. The floor is checked blue and white, the walls a neutral earthen brown. With great relief we are thankful the door was left open for us, as we find ourselves curiously observing the kitchen. The stove has a kettle on for tea, but no fire has been lit within the old wood burner. The dishes have been recently washed, as the plates sit neatly stacked next to the sink, dry but not put away. The kitchen table with its sole chair is left abandoned, with no hint of its occupant. The copper pots and pans are hanging in their rightful place; and the shelves above the sink are populated by well-organized spices and ingredients. Everything has its place, yet someone is missing. As casual intruders we carry on as the storm has blackened and cut off the outside world. In the sitting room we find a sole lamp sitting on a fireplace mantel, turned on. The curtains for the window are pulled back but there is nothing to be seen outside. The room is warm and painted in the same earthen womb like burrow of the kitchen. Next to the window sits a comfy brown (or orange) armchair. Perhaps the resident in the evening settles down for the night and reads a book by the lamp, while a small fire crackles and snarls in the fireplace. Now would be the most opportune time for a book, as the rain sloshes and smashes against the window, and any outdoor activity is now rendered unadvisable. Yet still there is no sign or inclination of the resident. The light is on, the doors are open, the home is welcoming, but in this menacing silence, the fear of trespassing and being: alone, is unbearable.

I love the detailed Claude Lazar puts into his paintings, every object is painted and depicted with accuracy and loving personal attention. The light filters through—sometimes through windows, sometimes through open doors, sometimes endless down halls. But the menace persists as one feels they are voyeuristically invading the private lives of the absent inhabitants. Yet we explore the nonetheless. Sometimes the scenes are derelict, expressing a character in the wings getting prepared to leave or runaway. A half made bed makes one wonder of a lover sneaking off in the shameful hours of the morning. A shower curtain pulled back and a dripping shower head only eludes the man who had just walked out and returns to his half made bed empty, with no trace of his lover. The beauty of Claude Lazars paintings is we are able to create and draft the narrative, imagine the lives of the people who inhabit these spaces. We imagine the modest painter who hides his work from prying eyes; we can see the seamstress with gnarled knuckles and veiny hands expertly pin and stich the material into something wonderful; her thin lips holding onto the pins with expert care, and professional habit. We can imagine a business man strip his tie and trousers and finally relax in his arm chair in the evening, free from the yoke and calling of business and commerce. We can imagine the kettle whistle and cry with attentive desire as the water is ready and it’s time for tea and everyone always visits the kitchen at that time, as it’s the hearth and heart of the home. The joy is the fact the scene is set or vacant, and we are offered the liberty to narrate and create the story.

Now older I’ve learned to find and enjoy the meditative silence of admiring landscapes. Autumnal landscapes are my favorite, how everything is closing up shop and leaving, and the fiery copper of autumn burning all around. Everything is ripened and harvested, and the fires of autumn nights cannot be compared. To admire the landscape is to look out beyond in the internal and the self-absorbed interior and to admire the external world one has the ability to interact with. No one could ask for much more, and what a pleasure and a joy it is to observe, to walk through, and to admire. If my grandmother taught me one thing: it was to find peace in those meditative moments, when you have the time.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

For more information on Claude Lazar please visit his website: 

http://www.claudelazar.com/

Little Misunderstandings of No Importance

Hello Gentle Reader

A hallmark of a great writer is their undying testament and willingness to resist the corrosive winds and sands of time. Even when all their books have been read and consumed, reviewed and analyzed, there is still a secret enjoyment between writer and reader to recreate the initial experience of reading them for the first time, in which they read and re-read continuously chasing the fleeting spark and magic of the first time. The late Antonio Tabucchi is that kind of writer. Every time I review and take stock of my books; trace my fingers along their spines, as if they were piano keys—they always hover and linger on Antonio Tabucchi. On restless nights, when I survey the books in their scattered disorganized manner, I find myself always pulling out a Tabucchi to sit down with. The other night I pulled “Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” and begun to read the stories once again, whereupon they delight and enthrall as they did originally oh so many years prior. I had initially reviewed many of the short stories collected in “Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” for the now defunct “The Short Story Review.” I have never reviewed the entire collection as a whole. After sitting don periodically and re-reading the short stories collected, I had decided to review the collection as a whole.

Two-thousand and twelve was a cataclysmic year for losing great writers. Among the great writer who passed were: Wislwa Szymborska, Carlos Fuentes, and of course Antonio Tabucchi. Their absence on the literary scene can still be poignantly felt. However, in a superficial and even limited manner, they are immortal. Though their last breath had passed their lips, their words, their stories, their narratives, thoughts and poems still live on. It’s not the same, as if they still existed; but inside every story, novel, essay, and poem exists a sliver of the writer who had put pen to paper and wrote and composed the finished product. Antonio Tabucchi’s work has always been imbued with the light touch of a magician, and the smoke and mirror perspective of the illusionist, wherein he is able to conjure the spectacular sensation in an otherwise mundane setting. His works (stories and novels) show how individual perspective influences the world, how chance, misunderstanding, belated comprehension, perceived divine intervention creates narratives and stories which escape and transcend history and time; as well ask some of the most unique philosophical ponderings pertaining to the human condition.

When mentioning Antonio Tabucchi one cannot escape the author’s love of Portugal, and its most famous poet: Fernando Pessoa. It was in fact, Fernando Pessoa, who influenced and inspired Tabucchi to learn Portuguese, become a scholar of its language, culture, and literature, and in doing so would spend half the year in Portugal and other half in Italy. The story goes, when Antonio Tabucchi was in Paris he came across the poem “The Tobacco Shop,” by Fernando Pessoa, with its pessimism and measured hope, a young Tabucchi became instantly interested in the writer and the sad and nostalgic world and language he inhabited. Inspired as ever by Pessoa and the Portuguese language, Tabucchi even wrote a short novel “Requiem: A Hallucination,” in Portuguese, in which he envisions an imaginary meeting between himself and the late poet Fernando Pessoa.

Antonio Tabucchi is often renowned for his novels, specifically speaking: “Pereira Declares,”—a political novel, about an overweight apolitical editor and journalist, who is awakened from his apathetic stupor by a young revolutionary, who seeks to fight and rebel against the dictatorship of Salazar. The novel granted Antonio Tabucchi continental success, and was picked up at home in Italy to use as protest against Silvio Berlusconi, who used his media companies to gain political influence and power. Despite his love and interest in Portugal, Antonio Tabucchi had a keen eye on Italy’s political and social situation, and was not above giving commentary on the situations, or dishing criticism out either. He was ever social and politically aware and conscious writer, and used this awareness and his writings to bring injustices to light, and protect freedoms of speech and expression in a world completely against contrary opinions.

“Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” portray the melancholic longing of middle age and time. The characters within the short stories, each grapple with memory and times progressive march, they suffer fits of nostalgia and longing. They desire to correct youthful mistakes, or seek to comprehend how their life ended up in its current predicament. They seek to share their stories with those who have an ear to offer, and time to spare. In his introduction, Antonio Tabucchi discusses ambiguities and the baroque writers who sought to utilize their incomprehensible nature as a metaphor of divinity and life. Tabucchi, however, confesses he is not looking for a grand metaphor of divinity and life, but rather that he seeks out these: “misunderstandings, uncertainties, belated understandings, useless remorse, treacherous memories, stupid and irredeemable mistakes,” as addictive and irresistible substance, which is distributed amongst all lives, and all people are afflicted and suffer from their trivialities and crisis all the same. Alas, there is no cure; but they do make for a great romp and poignant narrative and story. In the titular story a group of friends enter university and joke about ‘little misunderstandings,’ but as youth wanes and time ages each of them the same, the frivolity and youth is replaced with the concrete horrors of mortality and earthly justice. Where at one point this group of youthful cohorts would describe themselves as friends, over time they become more and more dislocated and disconnected, before a ‘Little Misunderstanding,’ of the past of no real importance, becomes a awkward and twistedly cruel reality. Fate as ever in Tabucchi’s hands has a malicious idea of irony, exercises it with metallic conviction.

In “Spells,” two children find themselves joking about the supernatural, magic, witchcraft and the devil himself. A young boy visits his aunt and his cousin, who is distrustful of her new stepfather—she believes he killed her father, by turning him into the Nazi’s and having him shot. She calls him the devil himself. Yet the boy himself finds it difficult to believe; after all this new man (Uncle Tullio) comes every weekend bringing cheer to the solemn and oppressive home. He brings ice cream, and trips to open air theatres, and even a cat—who his cousin despises, as she views the four legged intruder as a spy and a harbinger of her stepfathers wickedness. It’s a lovely story which explores the childhood ability to explore both the real world and the imaginary world to explain the odd happenings in the summer house, but as well adapt to change and life itself.

“Rooms,” is another striking tale of familiar difficulties, but this time through the power struggle and neglect of siblings. A sister now cares for her brother, who was once a renowned and respected academic, but his health has since fallen into miserable tides. Her earlier neglects and living in his shadow have caused her to feel greater resentment and bitterness towards her ailing and invalid brother, who now suffers at the rage of her own pity at him and resentment of her own life.

The final story “Cinema,” is perhaps the most melancholic and nostalgic of them all. It traces the failed careers and personal lives of two actors, who once again meet to remake the film, which twenty years earlier had spring boarded their careers into hopes of starlight and glamour. However, glitter wares and glamour tarnishes over time, and when it’s all said and done with, neither leading actor’s lives or careers amounted to much beyond their breakthrough film. The regret and resentment runs deeper between the two, as at one point one was romantically interested in one, while the other evaded these romantic advancements to which she swooned over another. The relationship between herself and the other man, however, did not last. Now remaking the film of their youth, the two middle-aged actors recount former glory, love, and loss—and in an melancholic ending goes off script, complete with the Tabucchi monologue discussing loss, nostalgia, and the chance at changing the course of time and clearing history.

“Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” is an early collection of short stories written by Antonio Tabucchi. It shows the precious and unyielding influence of Portuguese language and culture, as well as Fernando Pessoa, in how the themes of fate, misunderstandings, chance, and belated epiphanies create and influence the perceptions and lives of the characters within the collection. Yet, it does have Tabucchi’s one preoccupations, such as his use of allusions by writers he has admired, philosophical discursions, and the authors own keen eye for social and political situations and scenarios. The collection as a whole is masterful. At times its melancholy is wistful and dreadfully oppressive, lingering to long on the pages, while at other times its ascents the philosophical topic and questions being proposed by the writer, and at its best its poignancy its piercing and enlightening. Antonio Tabucchi was ever a masterful short story writer; and a great writer (period). His work is never dull or mundane, drab or tedious—it always carries an air of curiosity and a playful delight in ambiguity, but is not riddled pomp or pretentiousness. His work is always keen to flex the mind, and pull the heart from its hibernation; while retaining political and social conscious attitudes. If anything, “Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” are jeweled dragonflies, damselflies, butterflies and moths, each one flapping their own seasonal tint regarding time, place, and memory. They are subtle in depiction, but linger like cobwebs far after the final story or last page has been turned, and the book shelved. Tabucchi has always been a delight of a writer to return to time and time again, “Little Misunderstandings of No Importance,” is of no exception, and is a great introduction into a marvelous magician of a writer who died too soon.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary

At The Edge of the World

Hello Gentle Reader

It’s never been much of a secret that I came from a small hamlet in the Canadian prairies. My hometown was nestled on the wind bare prairies, but also just over seven kilometers from a river valley, complete with a wooded campground and the frightening river itself. Just shy of five kilometers south sat the weir, complete with roaring damn and marsh like woodland.  My hometown was nothing out of the ordinary or special. There was a store, liquor store, restaurant/lounge; a post office and fire hall; as well as a bar (also known as the local watering hole), and the community hall, which was never used; and a slapstick/slapdash trailer cum church. There is also a school, which has educated students and children from pre-school to grade six; who in the previous year had just released its 25 year old time capsule. It also houses two four large baseball fields and adjacent soccer field, though both are not maintained and grow a seasonal crop of thistles, clover and dandelions every summer. For a child there were two parks located in the confines of its borders: the school park—which was the more extensive of the two—it had swings, jungle gym, seahorses, spinning attractions, monkey cages/bars, among numerous other playground allures. The other park was colloquially called: ‘The Tot-Lot,’ at one point it may have been a baseball diamond—for some reason the hamlet had been obsessed with the sport in some way or another—despite the fact that I never witnessed one adult play the sport, and the youth league was a motley crew of limited talent but eager spirits, which died off early. The ‘Tot-Lot,’ was minimalist in compared to the school park; it only housed an ancient wood crafted jungle gym, complete with two rusted slides, the blue paint casually peeling away in the long summer days, the old acrobat rings hanging on the north side above a permanent barren dirt trench, scrapped by years of tiny feet and shoes; in the west set the monkey cage, equally as old and ancient as the rest of the lot, but climbed on with great certainty and vigor. In the east on gallows like structures sat the old swings. The rest of the lot was nothing but scant grass and of course a crop of the usual weeds which sprung and bloomed all over these public spaces. Back then you didn’t have to scurry home until the street lights came on, or your parent would come grab you. Some had watches and had specific times to back at the house for dinner. Generally when one left the pack everyone else followed suit—and so the day would come to its close.

Despite coming from a hamlet, whose recent population (according to the census) is just over five hundred people; the saving grace was the close proximity to a more urban centre—specifically the city. Going to the city was a mundane event, but also a thrill. Of course every trip had its usual agendas: clothes shopping, grocery shopping, and specialty shopping—or on occasion visiting relatives. The city—despite our monotonous reasons—was always a wonder. The malls were cracked full of people, and of course I was more interested in people shopping (or complaining I was bored) then to be bothered with new clothes; or sit on a sofa to see if I thought it was comfortable (not that my opinion held any more water in the decision then a spoon). Being in the city saw the hustle and bustle, but it was also a strange world. Here no one knew who you were or who you belonged to; you were just an aimless face in a crowd, who was expected to make it to their own destination. When we would leave the city at the end of the day, I loved to watch the lights whiz by in the window, and marvel at the streets and at the people. I wondered about the office buildings and the people who worked there; I enjoyed driving through the industrial park, and seeing how deserted and quiet the area was. Yet, I often felt envious of the children of the city. They knew life, they knew the rules of crossing the street, using the lights, how to get around, and the basic street smarts they picked up by experience, or handed down to them by their older siblings or by hearing it. They knew the dos and they knew the don’ts. In comparison, where I came from there was no regimented logic; we crossed the road when no cars were presenting or coming, we jaywalked with ignorance, we loitered in ignorance, we were positively anarchic in comparison to the civil city life. Yet, I envied it. I envied the vastness, the beauty, the uniqueness of it all.

Both of my grandparents lived extremely far away. One set lived six hundred and twenty three kilometers in the mountains, lakes and greenery. The other set lived six hundred and fifty six kilometers away, in the flat and hilled world of the prairies under the protection of a Saint; or so I thought. Visiting my grandparents was a lesson of obscurity and sparsity. The one set that lived in the mountains valleys on a large piece of land on lake front property had created a heavenly landscape. Flower beds, bloomed a variety of different flowers, in a spectrum that rivaled the rainbow. There was always the buzz of bees within the beds, which was treated with fear and distance. The docks were old and rickety, which bopped and swayed in the water. The lake itself was cold and chilled you straight to the bone upon touching it—after all it was glacial fed. The trees were massive and offered shade everywhere; these weren’t your average prairie trees, which comprised of poplars or sickly evergreens, no these trees were massive and unique, there was the cedar trees and the beautiful magnolia; maple trees, and thick spruce trees. Beyond the flora and vegetation of the property, the fauna was in abundance; there was never shortage of some unique bird to be seen from osprey to blue jay, crow to finch and swallow, to black starlings, and of course hummingbirds. However, the property was remote in many ways. As a child, one lacks agency, autonomy, and freedom; and so we were often confined to this patch of green mountain and lake heaven, which after a while grew boring. When every flowerbed has been inspected, every tree admired, all birds observed and every bee run from, one grows bored and desires a bit of wanderlust. To this day if imagine heaven, I imagine a pristine landscape, but overall a gilded prison, whose charm wears off quickly.

My other grandparents lived on what I once thought was: “The Edge of The World.” They lived on the barren terror of the prairies—far worst then we did. When we traveled on the six hour drive out there, we passed through numerous small communities; many of these communities looked like they were ghost towns; completely abandoned and waiting to be blown away. I often wondered who could live here. Why would someone want to live here? Or in some cases: does anyone live here? When we would stop for gas and take a short recess, we noted the gas stations were employed or run by the elderly or the dissatisfied young. The elderly looked lost and foreign, as if waiting for their life to just come to them, or worst riding it out now until its eventual end. The youth were dreamy and airy, dissatisfied with their current predicament, but dreaming and contemplating how to get out of it. After purchasing it was time to go, again. The roads were rough and the closer we got to their place, the more abandoned and forlorn the landscape became.

Everything was flat and covered in farmland. Here and there, old farm buildings stood guard with windowless eyes. Over there: a bare popular on the verge of its end. Then: nothing, just prairie, sky and cloud.

The flatness would later be usurped the closer we came to our destination. As we neared closer to my grandparents place, we dipped into coulees and over them, and skirted around hills, only to come upon this unique little oasis in the an otherwise rolling but treeless landscape. As we reach their home, we passed beneath the shadow of its cross on a hill. At last check the population of this small little hamlet was forty-two people. It is nestled and perhaps protected by the hills and surrounding coulees. The main trek of road runs straight through, and the town is divided on either side. The infrastructure or buildings of the town speak of better days and nostalgic times. There’s an old office building—which I would later learn used to be the headquarters of a nationwide insurance company—is the most imposing building in the community. It’s stoic and static with its red brick face. However, I often found it eerie as a child to walk by that building. When passing by its pebbled mason fence I could only wonder about ghosts living in its abandoned recess. Thankfully there are no ghostly residents in the building, as it has been converted into apartments. Yet, it remains a strange building in this desolate little world; miniature in its minutia, anything related to commerce or business would always be strikingly out of place—even the post office, the federal outpost and symbol of federalism, is located outside of the community, at the beginning (or the end) of a hill on a farm. To the right of the office building turned apartments, there is a swimming hole—literally a swimming hole. Throughout my years of visits I never saw the hole or its baby blue admissions office open. The gate always locked closed, to the point where one thought the key was lost. From the chain link fence all I could observe was the forgotten slide rushing down to the water, which had over time been covered in a thick sludge of algae, under the shade of the framing poplar trees. 

Across the main road (and my grandparents home) sits an old white catholic church, shielded by poplars, but has certainly seen better days, where its pews were filled, mass was held, and its cathedral ceiling rung with the chorus of its Sunday worship. Now it’s locked up and boarded shut. The paint is peeling off its siding. The steeple shingles are weathered and blowing away, along with the rest of the roof. The transom windows—round and gothic—are caked with a cellophane of dust and age. The bell in the steeple has never rung its iron gong. The Virgin Mary remains in her alcove above the gothic transom window and doors, but beneath the bell itself. She’s aged and yellow, but resilient still; her hands and arms open wide and welcoming, quick to forgive and save the sinners of such an earthly mortal realm. The grounds are scabby with patches of different and turfs of grass pimpled about. Loathsome weeds grow lazily by the church: common tansies, wild parsnip (dangerous), dandelions, and quack grass. Here and there are uninspired but hardy crocuses. All around, however, on the borders of homes are untamed bushes and old trees. I remember probing the grounds, wondering if there was a hole or a forgotten door to slip inside. But everything was accounted for, and everything locked, boarded and nailed shut. All that remains in the church now are its secrets, whispers and sermons. I often imagined mice sitting in the church, dutiful, solemn, and pious praying in the pews, giving thanks for the meals, and asking for forgiveness for their transgressions and trespasses. There is no sanctuary to be found here.

Behind the church, through some unkempt hedges, with twisted branches, is the parish cemetery. It too has seen more forgiving and kinder times. The gate when was I younger was rusted and old. It would best be described as a wired farm fence, with an ancient cattle gate complete with rusted padlock and chain as the entrance into the cemetery; which of course you had to climb in order to get over. When I was a child, I did not have a conceivable concept of what the cemetery was. There were statues of angels: weeping, praying, trumpeting; monuments, stone crosses, and other memorial plaques and headstones. I admired them all. However, the cemetery was old; many of the older graves had lost their markings, while others had poorly constructed wooden crosses which through time and weather had been reduced to twigs and splinters nailed together. The grounds themselves had fallen into mismanagement. The grounds were barren, the grass flippant between patches of burned and brown, to a small verdure of green, while dirt and baked earth crept along like a slow infection. The graves were mostly overrun in weeds, just like the church. A few had been weeded and manicured, but many had fallen into disrepair. There were a few grave liners, whose initial encasement had been chipped or worst vandalized. Other graves looked like they were sinking. I used to play the cemetery, talk to the angel statues, and seen beneath the variety of crosses. I told myself stories, and tried to imagine somewhere else where I could be. When I looked south, I saw the imposing and unwavering black metal cross on the churches steeple. I couldn’t help but day dream of what or who lurked inside. I never paid any mind to the people I stood on or sat upon, as I had no clue there were people beneath me, in which I stood or sat on. That is until a relative older then my childhood-self came along and informed of where I was sitting and what exactly this ‘statue park,’ was. I was mortified, I was surrounded by the dead—and many of whom were lost and nameless.

When I think back to that small little hamlet complete with is tree lined main road, it’s boarded up church, and of course the white cross on the hill entering town, I always imagine it being on the very edge of the world.  The place was so remote, that walking out of its hamlet or parish boundaries, one was immediately entering the void of the prairies, the large expanse of space which would go on until the hills evaporated, the clouds dissipated and the grasslands just petered off into nothingness or rather into a bottomless canyon. The vastness and emptiness of the space was alienating and frightening. When I was older I often wondered through the hills and coulees, scrounging and scavenging cattle bones which had been picked and pecked clean, as well as bleached by the sun. The openness and endless space is still frightening, despite being so free and on the verge of being flat, one can’t help but feel like they were always on the verge of being consumed and lost in the world where all there was, was sky, clouds, and grass.

Returning home always felt like a return to comfort, but also a return to civilization. There seemed to be more life brimming and scuttling about. The roads had vehicles zipping by; lights were on in houses, people were out and about, everything seemed less silent, open, and empty. If that tiny hamlet split by a road, complete with its abandoned church, and commerce building turned apartments, and cross on the hill, was the edge of the world, then home was certainly the centre of the world.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader

Take Care

And As Always

Stay Well Read

M. Mary