Poignant shit. Not least because I read the whole thing in miserably autobiographical mode. Thanks for nothing, TH. You are, will always be the CounciPoignant shit. Not least because I read the whole thing in miserably autobiographical mode. Thanks for nothing, TH. You are, will always be the Councillor’s wife. ...more
Camus' account of two trips he took to the Americas - 1946 to the US, where he was quite taken by New York but eventually saw through the vapidity of Camus' account of two trips he took to the Americas - 1946 to the US, where he was quite taken by New York but eventually saw through the vapidity of American life, and 1949 to Brazil. This second section which I read first I found to be absolutely marvellous in its evocation of the country, its landscape and its peoples - so much so that I was compelled to go and do what I have not really done since the pandemic - which is to order online 20-21 of the latest in Brazilian and LatAm literature, cos I felt the bounden need to catch up, caution be damned!
All thanks to Camus. There is a poignant passage where he says I will be 57 in 25 years, 25 years in which to build a body of work, and then to grow old and die. He couldn't have known that he'd be dead by 47....more
All the postmodern trickery you would expect from the lineage of Borges - incidences and coincidences abound even in the person (and the past) of one All the postmodern trickery you would expect from the lineage of Borges - incidences and coincidences abound even in the person (and the past) of one hostel landlord, Enrique. Anchored for me by a terrific centrepiece - the burning down of the private school over ten pages, then repeated and refracted in faithful miniature immediately afterwards in ten more. Bravura performance, that.
As for trying to find a cosmic message in four discrete, disjointed narratives, your mileage may vary. ...more
This is a complicated book. Tsvetaeva is not an easy poet to begin with, and the skills that the translator brings to bear to the text, the choices thThis is a complicated book. Tsvetaeva is not an easy poet to begin with, and the skills that the translator brings to bear to the text, the choices they make are absolutely crucial. Unfortunately David McDuff isn't necessarily the finest interpreter of Tsv. He does just about okay with the shorter poems which make up three-quarters of this volume, and even so his insistence on form over clarity often leaves the reader lost. It all kind of falls apart in the last half dozen long poems, where Tsvetaeva's ardent difficulty is compounded by McDuff's frequently incomprehensible phrasing, so that this was the hardest part of the book for me. That she can be done better, that the long poems can be rendered much more clearly and skillfully became apparent when I found an alternate translation of Tsv's ode to Rilke, the final poem in the book. Lemak Brickman does it so much better. Makes you wonder what else you've missed in this book.
A story that works on many levels, but the one that stayed with me was Sharik himself as a metaphor. A metaphor for the Bolshevik system that piled inA story that works on many levels, but the one that stayed with me was Sharik himself as a metaphor. A metaphor for the Bolshevik system that piled into the nation, destroyed every single room, and left the old (deceptive?) peace and quiet of the place in utter ruin. Except of course, that same dog, which was at times as harsh as Stalin and as mild as Gorby, has since then reinvented itself again, revitalized and transmogrified itself into the 100-ft monster that is Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin.
I don't think Preobrazhensky or Bormenthal have, or ever had, a plan for that....more
Reminded me very much of similar works that erased the line between fiction and real lives - Juan Gabriel Vasquez, Javier Cercas, and Bolaño. What do Reminded me very much of similar works that erased the line between fiction and real lives - Juan Gabriel Vasquez, Javier Cercas, and Bolaño. What do you call this? Meta-fiction? Non-fiction fiction? In Labatut's case, his fascination is with science and the scientists who upended human civilization in the 20th century - Haber, Schwarzschild, Mochizuki and Grothendieck, Schrodinger and Heisenberg. ...more
From what I gather, this is regarded as something of a modern classic in Spain. Turned into a popular movie, I even find evidence of it being adapted From what I gather, this is regarded as something of a modern classic in Spain. Turned into a popular movie, I even find evidence of it being adapted as a play. It's not bad as a morality tale, although the frenetic spleen of the author in the early chapters, so enjoyable and entertaining, turns rather into soft mushy goo once he claps eyes on Rosana. That divine piece of jailbait rifts the story straight down the middle, and it all comes to a messy end, inevitably. Kinda bad, and kinda sad.
PS Some clunkiness in the translation, I think, stands in the way of a better reading experience. ...more
Interesting book by the old man. He wrote this in 1990 just as the USSR was about to blow up into bits, and he was about to return home from his long Interesting book by the old man. He wrote this in 1990 just as the USSR was about to blow up into bits, and he was about to return home from his long American exile. Book is pretty full of sage, unrealistic advice (in retrospect) on how to manage the terrible transition after 70 years of tyranny. Some of the central questions he asked back then on the fate of the nation/empire have just as much relevance today - if not even more so.
On the blessed question of Ukraine though, Solzhy reveals his true colours. He can’t give it up, just like that! He is happy to let go of all the Baltics, the Caucasus and the Stans. But Ukraine he wants to grapple to Russia’s loving bosom with hoops of steel. Little daylight between him and Vladimir Vladimirovich on this issue at least.
Anyhow, none of this anguished, hopeful questioning mattered in the end. Russia was destined to fuck it up, and that's exactly what it did. The 2nd half is full of such earnest optimism that you almost pity the fool, knowing the 25-year tyranny that is coming round the corner (it's still not over). And in page 68, Solzhy worried over the fire sale of state assets to crooks and gangsters who would bend the economy and the state to their own needs.. how true that scenario turned out to be. ...more
Something of a mini-cause celebre in his day, the sad history of Sinyavsky/Tertz appears to be utterly forgotten today. As per the GR count at least, Something of a mini-cause celebre in his day, the sad history of Sinyavsky/Tertz appears to be utterly forgotten today. As per the GR count at least, few people read him any more and fewer still can be bothered to comment on his work. Reading this grim fiction about the doctors' plot that preceded the death of Stalin, the one question that returned to me was - is this it? is this all? will nothing ever change there? 70 years later, some latter-day Sinyavsky could be writing pretty much the same tale of a grotesquely deformed society, bent out of shape by surveillance and repression and obedience, and he could be sent to the same gulag in Siberia or thrown out into the same exile that Sinyavsky himself suffered for writing the same kind of "dissident lit" ... it has all just become such a dreadful, tedious, repetitious cliche of Russian life, the Russian mind and soul that such a society can aspire to nothing better, can find no way out of the hamster cage, running the same fucking wheel it's been running on for nigh on centuries now.
1967, the height of the Cold War, and you can just about imagine the excitement when this brand new book dropped into the laps of western readers. A f1967, the height of the Cold War, and you can just about imagine the excitement when this brand new book dropped into the laps of western readers. A fresh and quirky poetic voice from behind the Iron Curtain, many of Holub’s poems retain even today, 56 years on, that sense of novelty, of discovery, a new way of looking at everyday things.
Fair warning though - when he gets abstract, he can be VERY abstract....more
Say what you will about WW2, it did give rise to some seriously accomplished art. This book reminded me so much of Boll's "The Train Was on Time". ExcSay what you will about WW2, it did give rise to some seriously accomplished art. This book reminded me so much of Boll's "The Train Was on Time". Except the lens is reversed here - Boll's was the story of a young German soldier riding the rails to inevitable death on the Eastern Front. Hrabal tells the story of a Czech lad, a railway apprentice in a sleepy country station, whose winter day starts off in confusion and befuddlement but which concludes with deep contentment and unwitting heroism. And, of course, death. Poignant, bloody, painful death - the like of which has returned to Europe after 30 years.
Hrabal studied law, but the Germans came and ruined any hope of a career. He became an itinerant worker - among the long list of professions listed in the back of this book are "..labourer in a steel works, baler of waste paper for salvage, and scene-shifter in a theatre." They don't make writers like this any more. Forged in the furnace of life itself. The book was made into a successful movie by Jiri Menzel - the bits and pieces I've seen on YouTube appear to emphasize the comic erotica of the story. There is that, of course, lots of laughs and lots of smut - but the ending is what really elevates this to the level of a classic.
Third Kadare I have read - and I gotta say I still don’t see the fuss. Maybe all three have been among the lesser works - but you’d have expected to dThird Kadare I have read - and I gotta say I still don’t see the fuss. Maybe all three have been among the lesser works - but you’d have expected to detect something there by now. Not a fan of the airy-fairy world-building, the faux-mythical overtones when describing any stone or blade of grass of his “mysterious� land. For some reason, this process of wilful elision, Kadare’s style of ascribing - nay, imposing - meaning through constant assertion, all of it reminded me of Humayun Ahmed more than anything else.
Can’t buy it that easily, I’m afraid. Show, don’t tell. I’m yet to be shown his true merits. ...more
Not bad, all told. But this book has such a towering reputation in the canon of Arabic literature. It makes you wonder what the rest of that canon looNot bad, all told. But this book has such a towering reputation in the canon of Arabic literature. It makes you wonder what the rest of that canon looks like...
Mustafa Saeed's "struggle" never quite convinced me. Sure, he's the colonized turning the tables on the colonizer. But at a bone-deep level, he's just so basic. Just one more Muslim guy from a conservative society, whose only aim in life when he lands in the land of the infidel is to fuck as many white girls as he can possibly get away with. It's no more complicated than that. Whatever the intellectual veneer he - and the author - might be so assiduously applying to that sordid fuckathon.
Even the most ordinary white girls, the most unappealing of working-class women in London become impossible objects of lustful desire to this brown Muslim guy from the arse-end of nowhere. It's a story as old as the hills. Remember the Almighty Ottoman Sultans, lords of half the world? They kidnapped generations of hot blonde Slav girls from Balkan villages for the harem. The Pakistani guys in Rotherham? No white girl was too destitute or too desperate to escape their lust. Make no mistake. The great Sudanese intellectual Mustafa Saeed sits on that exact same Muslim-male mental continuum, somewhere between the Ottoman sultans and the Paki guys in the north of England.
Just don’t tell me there's some deep-thought decolonisation project at work here, that’s all.
The desert culture by the Nile is beautifully done though. Likewise, the London of a hundred years ago, my own city for the last 20. Finally that list once the narrator enters Saeed's locked room. What worlds of alienation and erudition lay therein?...more
নগণ্� মানুষে� জন্ম-মৃত্যু বিষয়ে এই সমুদ্র অনন্তকাল ধরেই উদাসীন।
*
১৯৭৭ সালে� একদি� ঠি� এই দৃশ্যটির মুখোমুখি হন টমাস গন্জালেস� অপঘাতে বড� ভাইয়ে� মৃত্যু হয়েছে শুনে ছুটে আসেন দুর্গম সৈকতে। কলম্বিয়ার একদম উত্ত�-পশ্চিম কোণে, যেখানে হাতেগোনা কয়ট� বিক্ষিপ্� জনপদ মাত্�, ঘন জংগলের মাঝে পানামা� সাথে আন্তর্জাতি� সীমানা কেবল� একটি কাল্পনিক রেখা� জায়গা� না� উরাব� উপসাগর, গাল্� অফ উরাবা।
বছরখানেক আগ� সমস্� সঞ্চয় ভাঙিয়� এলেনাক� সংগী কর� এখান� চল� এসেছিল হুয়ান এমিলিয়ানো� একটি ছো� খামা� কিনেছিল। ইচ্ছ� ছি� বই আর ঢে�, হাওয়া আর হুইস্ক� হব� বাকি জীবনের সম্প�, শহরে� একঘেয়� ইঁদু�-দৌড় থেকে ইস্তফা দেয়ার পুরস্কার� ফিরিয়� দা� অরণ্য� ভাবে তো কতজনাই, কিন্তু এলেন� আর হুয়ান এমিলিয়ানো সে� স্বপ্ন বাস্তব� রূ� দেবা� প্রয়া� পেয়েছিল�
লাশে� বোঁটকা গন্ধ জানিয়� দেয় যে স্বপ্ন সফ� হয়নি। সা� তাড়াতাড়ি সেখানে� কব� দিয়� দিতে হয�, ভাইক� শহরে ফেরত নেবা� মত অবস্থা ছি� না�
*
তি� বছ� পর� বেকা� টমাস কা� নেয় বোগোটা� এক বারে� বারে বারে ফিরে আস� হুয়ান এমিলিয়ানো, ওর ফেলে যাওয়া ডায়েরী, হারিয়� যাওয়া এলেনা। টমাস সিদ্ধান্� নেয় বই লিখবে। প্রথ� উপন্যাস। তি� বছ� পরিশ্রমে� পর� বইটি যখ� প্রকাশের পথ�, ঠি� তখনই অর্থকষ্ট� জর্জরি� টমাস ওর পরিবার সমেত পারি জমায� যুক্তরাষ্ট্রের উদ্দেশ্যে। পরের ২০ বছ� কেটে যায় মায়ামিত�, মেহনতি মাইগ্র্যান্টের জীবনযাপনে। দুয়েকটা ভা� রিভি� পেলে� প্রথ� বই হারিয়� যায় অতলে�
*
২০ বছ� পর� বিস্মৃতি� তলদে� থেকে বইটিকে তুলে আন� বার্সেলোনা� একটি প্রেস। এইবা� ভাগ্� সুপ্রসন্�, বইয়ের সুনা� ছড়িয়� পড়ে দিকে দিকে� অনুবাদ হয� ইংরেজী সহ আর� অনেক ভাষায়� মনোনী� হয� আন্তর্জাতি� পুরস্কারের জন্য�
বইটি পড়ত� গিয়� মন� হচ্ছিল সান্তিয়াগ� নাসারে� কথা। একজন মানুষে� পূর্বঘোষিত মৃত্যু নিয়� গন্জালেসের গল্পটি যে� ওর স্বদেশী গার্সিয়� মার্কেসে� সুবিখ্যা� উপন্যাসে� উপযুক্� সহচর� দুটো� বাস্তব ঘটনা অবলম্বনে, দুটো� ক্যারিবিয়ানের প্রেক্ষাপটে। তব� তফাত আছ� সময়� আর সমাজ�, দু� লেখকের স্টাইল� আর দু� হত্যার নেপথ্য কার্যকারনে�
সত্তুরের দশকে� আদর্শবাদী, ভ্রষ্টচারী তারুণ্� নিয়� অনেক সাহিত্� লেখা হয়েছে দেশে দেশে� এই নাতিদীর্� উপন্যা� সে� ধারায় একটি ভিন্নধর্মী সংযোজন� আর নতুন বছরে� বইপড়া� চমৎকার উদ্বোধনী�...more
The thing about Europeans (or white people, more generally) is how special they are in their own eyes. Their history is special, their systems of knowThe thing about Europeans (or white people, more generally) is how special they are in their own eyes. Their history is special, their systems of knowledge and philosophy are special, the way they order their societies and conduct their politics is special. Their revolutions are more revolutionary than lesser people's, their wars more heroic, their monsters more monstrous, and their tragedies more poignant than ours.
There is a very specific quality to the self-flagellation of writers like Vuillard when they discuss historical episodes like the Nazi takeover of Germany, or the Anschluss, or the Holocaust. Beneath all that self-conscious dolor, a key trait of this kind of narrative - one more rehash of the World's Worst Tragedy Ever - is its self-reflexivity, an unbearable smugness. This history is artfully aware of its own specialness, is forever trying manfully to hold up under the staggering weight of its own inestimable sadness. Not unlike an angsty teen who is totally into his own tragic angst. Europeans - in particular, the French - appear to always return to this story from ever newer angles, dogs in love with the stench of their own shit.
Emphasis on the word "own". Because the other quality of these books is their bottomless insularity - look, how beastly we were to ourselves, to our own kind, oh weren't we ever so terrible, how COULD we? It's all about us, and we, and our. Sometimes I think that people like Vuillard don't just lack knowledge or awareness of other histories, other European atrocities, they lack the very curiosity or interest to think about them and write about them, even though those were far more numerous, vaster in scale and impact and duration.
"We'll always have Auschwitz" - just about sums it up for me.
PS The only useful thing I picked up from this was the eerie parallel with Putin and Ukraine....more
“Weird� definitely seems to be a key theme with the New Gen LatAms. Samanta Schweblin, Mariana Enriquez etc seem to be operating at the eerier end of “Weird� definitely seems to be a key theme with the New Gen LatAms. Samanta Schweblin, Mariana Enriquez etc seem to be operating at the eerier end of the spectrum, while folks like Garcia Robayo and Guadalupe Nettel still situate their fucked-up folks in some broadly recognizable, shared universe. That doesn’t make Nettel’s stories any less bizarre though - from the very name of this collection (Bezoar) to its unsettling tagline, from the first story to the last, it is way the fuck out there. Eyelid surgeons and sex voyeurs, teenage tittysuckers and compulsive hairpluckers, and in Bonsai, the weirder than weird story of a Tokyo guy headed straight for the rocks. There is so much latent body horror under the surface of these stories; it reminds me of Han Kang’s outrageously fucked-up novel. It is to Nettel’s great credit that she shows such judgment and control, steadily ratcheting up that pervasive tension, malaise, unease, without ever quite letting it fully break.
Las mujeres continue to impress. Still a couple of titles to go but this reading project has already been a sweeping success....more
My habit of reading at least a couple of Simenons every year goes back to 1991 - "Inquest on Bouvet" was not only my first Simenon, it was also the veMy habit of reading at least a couple of Simenons every year goes back to 1991 - "Inquest on Bouvet" was not only my first Simenon, it was also the very first used book I ever bought with my own money. (The first of many thousands). The joys of reading Simenon are invariant - it evokes a certain mood, a certain nostalgia in the reader, a series of snapshots that are almost sensual in their cumulative pleasure, and yes, above all else, they present a certain eternal vision of France, a vision that became fixed in our collective minds sometime in the 20th century - now almost a caricature! - but one that lingers on, if only because it hews so close to reality in important ways.
Take Liberty Bar, for example. This was the 17th Maigret that Simenon produced in an extraordinary phase of productivity; the first Maigret came out in the early summer of 1931 (Peter the Lett) and by the late summer of 1932, the author had published the 17th in the series! That is almost 1.5 Maigrets every month, sustained for well over a year. How he did it, God only knows - especially when you read volume after volume and realize the absolute consistency of quality in his output. It reminds me of my favourite food joints; no matter how often I go back to Nanna Biriyani, I always know that they will serve up a perfect plate of kachchi - the first whiff of fragrant polao and mangsho will always be a reminder of that wonderful reliability. Maigret is a bit like that; within the first couple of pages, you are transported back to your idealized France. This book came out some 90 years ago, but if you have been to the Cote d'Azur even once in your life, you will know just how true its impressions are of that magical coast. Sunlit, indolent, decadent, diverse - a pleasure like no other.
That's the stage-set on which this specific whodunnit plays out. The particulars are not important, though it's a robust story as always. An Aussie wool magnate, hiding out in the Riviera for years and years, away from his family, his estate and his cares. Dissolute women, contested money, a murder that Maigret has been called to solve. In our heart of hearts, how many of us would wish to swap lives with Monsieur Brown, do what he chose to do? Is there a better place to kick the bucket than in the shade of the pines and cypresses of that southern paradise, even if it does mean a knife sticking out of your back? Methinks not.
So. This one was good. I might just pick up another one after this. In closing, all I will say is that if I can keep reading a couple of Simenons every year for another 30 years, it will not have been such a bad way to live after all....more
Loading...
