NEW RELEASES
The Death of Francis Bacon by Max Porter $17
BOOKS @ VOLUME #217 (19.2.21)
Read out latest newsletter and find out what we've been reading and recommending, and about new books and book news.
| >> Read all Stella's reviews. | |
Blind Spot by Teju Cole {Reviewed by STELLA} When we can’t travel, we seek the unknown in our familiar environs, whether this is looking up at the sky on a bright day through your fingers, seeing your own back garden differently, or consciously taking a different route to work, to school, to the supermarket. Walking became a defining pastime for many in 2020 (remember the carless roads) and for some of us, it is the constant that keeps giving. When we walk we see. Perspective. The change in the way we view or in how we consciously look again or see anew is how we find out about our familiar worlds, how we see what we missed before helping us build layers of experience and understanding. In my own art practice, I have been always interested in how we view the world, how we interact with it and how art may see us, the beholder. That is why I find Teju Cole’s photography intriguing. Here are moments in time, memory. But more than that. In the postscript of his book Blind Spot he says, "I have used my camera as an extension of my memory. The images are a tourist’s pictures in that sense. But they also have an inquiring feeling to them and, in some cases, showed me more about the place than I might have seen otherwise.” Blind Spot is the accompanying book to a solo exhibition in Milan several years ago, an accumulation of his travel photography—150 countries plotted on a map. Over time Cole visited for numerous reasons, work, pleasure, study and invitation. The book doesn't follow a chronological or thematic framework, and while I imagine it is precisely planned, it doesn't feel intentional taking the reader on a tour where image and text build a network of internal images and thoughts. This is a book where you let the words and thoughts wash over you and the images pique your curiosity, where you will return to reread the texts, look again at the images and build new pathways, ways of seeing. Cole is an artist, writer (novelist, journalist and essayist) and art critic. The succinct pieces of writing that accompany each photograph are fascinating, intelligent and rewarding, taking you on their own journey of discovery. They are sometimes critiques of his own work, drawing on history, literature and referencing other art subjects, while at other times they are lyrical, personal and somehow familiar. Our experience is our own, but the observations are sometimes uncannily similar. Do we all get to the same place, emotionally and psychologically, eventually when we stop and observe or conversely fail to see? From cityscapes to creeks on the fringes of a road to poles, posts and pipes on the edges of our periphery, to people caught in their personal moment—asleep, looking at a sign, waiting for traffic or by chance catching the eye of the man behind the camera—to the debris of everyday human existence, to the form and edges of a hotel room, balcony or the view through the window, Cole captures what it's like to travel, to be elsewhere and somehow to be in any place—and to seek the known in our blind spot. |
| >> Read all Thomas's reviews. | |
![]() | The Disinvent Movement by Susanna Gendall {Reviewed by THOMAS} He could tell she was a serious writer because she had been photographed in front of a brick wall and it is well known, he thought, that all serious writers, or at least those persons who are keen to present themselves as serious writers, are so photographed, he knew that he would never be taken seriously as a serious writer unless he was so photographed and, actually, he had even been so photographed at some time but usually found that he had been cropped out of the photograph in which he appeared. He at one time had compiled an informal collection of such serious writers photographed against brick walls but he could no longer find this collection, he had perhaps left it on his old computer or deleted it as insufficiently interesting, but he remembered, or it seemed to him that he remembered, if that is not the same thing, that the serious writers in these photographs all looked squarely at the camera, staring down the photographer perhaps, or the reader more likely, each wearing a winter coat of some description, some sporting a cigarette, impressing upon us that they were not only serious writers but writers with grit, attuned to the disaffection of modern urban life. None of them, however, as far as he remembered, had been photographed with her head tilted to one side as had the author here, a posture he thought usually indicative of persons whose desire for approval outstripped their self esteem but in this instance accompanied by a glance so guarded and accusatory or just plain sad that he was compelled to look away, unable to decide whether this photograph reinforced or undermined the concept of a serious writer. He considered the possibility of ceasing the review of actual books and commencing the review of author photographs but he did not consider this possibility for very long. “Once I was in I wanted to get out,” writes the author of The Disinvent Movement, or, more precisely, states the narrator written by that author, if we can make such a distinction. The novel begins as a series of fragments, seemingly unrelated other than being what he called I-related, a grab-bag, if it could be likened to a bag, of snippets and impressions, writing course exercises perhaps, what else can you do with them, verbal jokes, somewhat smart, a bit too cute, lightly irritating, presumably deliberately so, he thought, phrases turned upside down to drain the meaning out of them, phrases expressing their lack of meaning. Fragments are the only truth, as the philosophers say, but these passages are a facade, he thought, a facade constructed of detritus, cast-offs, abandoned matter, abandoned phrases presented strangely, and all this verbal capering, what could it be but some sort of exercise in avoidance, an exercise in staying on the surface, dog paddle, an exercise in not sinking down to the heart of things. Despite, or because of, all that light shone glinting on the surfaces there must be something dark beneath, he thought, there is something horrible hidden but not very well hidden, the impulse to hide is the impulse also to reveal, once he began to look for clues they were everywhere, how could he have not seen them from the start, the narrator calling out for help but stifling her call in pleasantries and cleverness. Once you start to look for it, the truth reveals itself like an injury. What is it that makes people serial victims of relationship violence? Where lies the harm when the harm is endlessly repeated in different situations? “There was a basic outline,” states the narrator of her relationships, “which I filled with different stuffing. There was one role that always had to be filled. It was always a surprise to see who had got that role.” For her, people are interchangeable, everything is replaceable and therefore inescapable. Everything must be repeated. Escape is not possible and therefore has to be “attempted”, rather than actually attempted. One must go through all the motions. “In Switzerland the landscape was not mixed up in my problems yet.” This is my favourite sentence in the book, he thought. The narrator attempts to fool herself, knowing that she cannot fool herself, that running away is possible. “In Switzerland your actions in other countries were of such little consequence that it was unclear if they really mattered at all. I guessed my job didn’t exist any more. That was one way of dealing with it. It didn’t require much imagination to consider that the house we lived in and the unmade beds and the unpaid bills didn’t exist either.” But actually to escape would require a narrative and narrative is only a literary device of no real use in a world of fragments, he thought, narrative is impossible in such a world. The only option left, then, is erasure. The narrator forms The Disinvent Movement, a feckless group of sloppy idealists, or should that be anti-idealists, he wondered, who set out to disinvent the evils of the world but whose only action, if it actually occurs, is to paint the windshields of a few vehicles black to shock their owners with their inability to see. But is not seeing the same as disinventing, he wondered, or just the best we can hope to achieve? The narrator has a pile of ‘Disinvent Yourself’ T-shirts at the back of her drawer. Will the narrator’s self-obliterative impulses, he wondered, result in invisibility or self-destruction? What is the difference between these options? Is not being the only way of not being a victim? Why all these questions? I am guilty, he realised, because I do not help, even though I cannot help. No wonder the accusatory look. The narrator is completely I-obsessed, he realised, because she is intent upon the destruction of the I. Refuge in nullity. There is no helping her. “It turned out to be harder to hurt someone,” she writes, “whose personality kept turning blank.” |
This week's Book of the Week has just been awarded Australia's richest literary prize. Its author lives in Palmerston North. The Animals in that Country by Laura Jean McKay has as its protagonist a chain-smoking, foul-mouthed alcoholic grandmother who, as the result of a pandemic, is suddenly able to understand the speech of animals and sets off, accompanied by a dingo, to find her granddaughter in an Australia in which the relationship of humans to their environment and to other animals has been drastically reconfigured.
>>Read Stella's review.
>>Stella reviews the book on Radio NZ.
>>Laura Jean McKay talks with Kim Hill.
>>The author interviewed by a dog.
>>On winning the Victorian Prize for Literature.
>>Other consciousnesses and the the limits of language.
>>Stranger than fiction.
>>With her back to the sea.
>>A Kafkaesque crisis.
>>Interspecies Communication in Contemporary Literature.
>>The author's website.
>>Read the book!
NEW RELEASES
The Call Me Ishmael Phone Book: An interactive guide to life-changing books by Logan Smalley and Stephanie Kent $48>>Like this!
| >> Read all Stella's reviews. | |
The Kiosk by Anete Melece {Reviewed by STELLA} If you sat inside a kiosk all day what would you dream about? Olga dreams about a place far away, watching a beautiful sunset. Olga has worked in the kiosk in a busy city for many years; some may think too many. Every day regular customers come by with their wants and needs, some like clockwork, running past at exactly 10:35 am to buy water, and others collecting their morning papers or magazines or just stopping for a chat. There are always tourists who have lost their way and Olga is adept at giving instructions on how to get to the art gallery or museum. Every night Olga settles down with her magazine about faraway places and armchair travels. Olga has worked in the kiosk for so long she can no longer fit out the door. One day the bundled newspapers are left a little further away from her door than usual. While she reaches out with a stick to drag the papers closer, two boys take the opportunity to grab some goodies from the front of the kiosk! Olga in her attempt to stop them topples over, bringing the kiosk with her. Upright again, she goes about making order in her small world and surprises herself. She can walk about—and so she does! She goes for a walk, encased in the kiosk. It’s a fine feeling, even if some of the locals look either startled or a bit bemused. All is fine until she meets one of her regular customers, the man with the excitable dog, on a bridge across the river in the park. The dog runs around her feet and she topples over into the water. Olga floats, which is a good thing—the kiosk is proving to be a suitable vessel—but where will she end up? Let’s just say it involves ice cream... Anete Melece’s illustrations are delightful, with plenty to seek out in the pictures adding to this simple but charming tale. Whether it’s the expressions on people’s faces or the funny magazine covers (No Time) or the bird’s-eye-view pages of the city or Olga floating on the river, each page is lively in content and colour palette. The front of the book has a square cut out—the window to the kiosk—while the back is, of course, the door. Open the cover and the front endpaper is Olga’s wonderful home inside. She’s happily eating a biscuit and reading a travel magazine (palm trees and sun) surrounded by toilet paper rolls, bags of chips, lotto cards, lollipops and so on. The text is both funny and a little melancholy, but this story is mostly joyful and has a wonderful ending—you never know where an unexpected incident may take you! |
| >> Read all Thomas's reviews. | |
![]() | Good Morning, Mr Crusoe The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, published in the year MDCCXIX, which for 300 Years has instructed the Men of an Island off the Coast of Mainland Europe to Contemn all Foreigners and Women by Jack Robinson {Reviewed by THOMAS} When Robinson Crusoe in Daniel Defoe’s novel of the same name discovers the footprint of a stranger on the margins of the island he considers his domain, he builds defences and prepares violence. He wants to keep for himself his table, made with his own hands, his rude bowl, likewise the project of a man who has brought to DIY the gravitas of a spiritual exercise, and his parasol, but even more he wants to keep for himself the puritanical practices of useful labour, useful thought, austerity and self-restraint—he made a very small amount of rum last for ten years!—that are both the expression and the perpetuation of his isolation. He remains resistant to all that is not him. When given the opportunity, upon a suitably disadvantaged other, he shows himself prepared to teach but not to learn. The propagation of Defoe’s novel as an English classic over the centuries has both epitomised and contributed to a particularly noxious strand of Anglo-Saxon masculinity compounded of an arrogance and a superiority complex on the one hand and a concomitant deep insecurity and fear on the other, resulting in an instinct to devise rules, build defences and prepare violence. Jack Robinson, in this quick and subtle little book, not only sketches the deleterious effect upon English society of this thread of Englishness, leading to the Brexit crisis resulting from the projection of threat onto difference, but also traces the literary offspring of Ur-Crusoe, so to call him: Robinsons in books by Franz Kafka, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Muriel Spark and others, and in the films of Patrick Keillor, each either or both perpetuating or degrading the character with whom they are inescapably associated. ‘Robinson Crusoe’ remains a central topos for reactionary British nativism. It is no coincidence that, in the space of populist disaffection resulting from Conservative austerity policies, a prominent contemporary British fascist adopted the pseudonym ‘Tommy Robinson’ in his xenophobic campaign for “respect for British heritage, values and tradition.” Robinson Crusoe, despite circumstances that make his attitudes increasingly ridiculous, cannot help but insist, with increasing violence, that he is master of ‘his’ island. Jack Robinson’s quarrel “is less with Defoe than with Crusoe and the uses which the book has been put to.” He observes that “Crusoe has amassed such gravitas—or rather, his emblematic status in British culture became so far reaching—that the natural development of his descendants was inescapably stunted.” Can this be healed? In Crusoe’s unthinking adherence to ‘heritage, values and tradition’, he is incapable of change or growth or understanding, incapable of opening himself to new experience, of accepting as an equal anyone different from himself. When Crusoe leaves the island he remains the slaver and misogynist he was when he arrived. All he has done is survived. “Defoe denies Crusoe self-doubt, which is another way of infantilising him. His blind trust in God shuts off all radical introspection.” Without that self-doubt and introspection there is no hope. |
>>The author takes us through her book.
>>Indigenous philosophy and vernacular architecture.
>>The power of Traditional Ecological Knowledge.
>>How to build a resilient future using ancient wisdom.
>>Nature-based technology.
>>The author's website.
>>Your copy.
>>No relation.
NEW RELEASES
>>Read an extract.
>>'Karaka—Tau'.
>>'Karaka—Wana'.
>>Writing in his head.
BOOKS @ VOLUME #215 (5.2.21)
Read our newsletter and find out what we've been reading and recommending.
| >> Read all Stella's reviews. | |
Spellslinger by Sebastien de Castell {Reviewed by STELLA} Looking for a bit of magic and wit? Then Spellslinger might just be the next teen read for you. Kellen from the House of Ke is ready to face his four trials to become a spellcaster. The only problem is that his magic has gone. His bands haven’t sparked and no one seems able to help. Neither his powerful mage parents, his friends who try to help him duel, nor his teacher. Yet Kellen is cunning and able to perform tricks. Maybe it’s all trickery anyway? Why can’t he keep up with his friends or even his younger sister? If he doesn’t succeed, it's a life of shame and servitude as a Sha’Tep. As the trials progress, Kellen has more questions than answers—if he can’t make it in the Jan’Tep world is there a place for him in his hometown? Why can’t he summon the magic when he needs it? And what’s behind all this anyway? Shadowblack. A curse—a powerful one. One which is feared and abhorred. This fantasy builds and twists moment by moment. Kellen is an excellent sixteen-year-old: useless and brilliant by turns—wanting to fit in but ultimately knowing he’s different and will become an outcast. But not so fast in this fantasy world (a series that gets better as it goes on), as we are introduced to our main players. Enter Ferius Parfax—a mysterious redhead cardshark—an Argosi wanderer with a curious pack of painted cards and some sharp-edged ones useful in a fight. She’s sardonic, clever and not above playing dirty when needed so long as it meets her Argosi code of ethics. Why is she here and why is she keeping an eye on Kellen? Even more strangely, Kellen finds an unlikely partner in a squirrel cat. Reichis, who loves stealing baubles and loves an enemy—especially if he can eat their eyeballs, has his own issues and is keen to avenge the Jan'Tep. Reichis will consistently lead Kellen into trouble and always fight alongside him—it's a love/hate bond with each suspicious of the other's motivations and simultaneously deadly loyal. Ultimately, Kellen is destined for the Spellslinger road with his explosive powders, perceptive mind, and small sparks of magic. For answers, he will have to journey further. Luckily there are six books in this series, each more intriguing. Dangerous, exciting and hugely enjoyable, Sebastien de Castell blends ancient civilisations with the wild west in a fantasy that is sure to please. |
| >> Read all Thomas's reviews. | |
![]() | Sleepless Nights by Elizabeth Hardwick {Reviewed by THOMAS} “Fact is to me a hindrance to memory,” writes the narrator in this remarkable collage of passages evoking the ways in which past experiences have impressed themselves indelibly upon her. The sleepless nights of the title are not so much those of the narrator’s youth, though these are either well documented or implied and so the title is not not about them, but those of her present life, supposedly as “a broken old woman in a squalid nursing home”, waking in the night “to address myself to B. and D. and C.—those whom I dare not ring up until morning and yet must talk to through the night.” As if the narrator is a projection of the author herself, cast forward upon some distorting screen, the ten parts of the book make no distinction between verifiable biographical facts and the efflorescence of stories that arise in the author’s mind as supplementary to those facts, or in substitution for them. Elizabeth the narrator seems almost aware of the precarity of her role, and of her identity as distinct from but overlapping that of the author: “I will do this work of transformed and even distorted memory and lead this life, the one I am leading today.” Hardwick writes mind-woundingly beautiful sentences, many-commaed, building ecstatically, at once patient and careering, towards a point at which pain and beauty, memory and invention, self and other are indistinguishable. Spanning over fifty years, the book, the exquisite narrowness of focus of which is kept immediate by the exclusion of summary, frame or context, records the marks remaining upon the narrator of those persons, events or situations from her past that have not yet been replaced, or not yet been able to be replaced, by the ersatz experiences of stories about those persons, events and situations. “My father…is out, because I can see him only as a character in literature, already recorded.” Hardwick and her narrator are aware that one of the functions of stories is to replace and vitiate experience (“It may be yours, but the house, the furniture, strain toward the universal and it will soon read like a stage direction”), and she/she writes effectively in opposition to this function. Observation brings the narrator too close to what she observes, she becomes those things, is marked by them, passes these marks on to us in sentences full of surprising particularity, resisting the pull towards generalisation, the gravitational pull of cliches, the lazy engines of bad fiction. Many of Hardwick’s passages are unforgettable for an uncomfortable vividness of description—in other words, of awareness—accompanied by a slight consequent irritation, for how else can she—or we—react to such uninvited intensity of experience? Is she, by writing it, defending herself from, for example, her overwhelming awareness of the awful men who share her carriage in the Canadian train journey related in the first part, is she mercilessly inflicting this experience upon us, knowing it will mark us just as surely as if we had had the experience ourselves, or is there a way in which razor-sharp, well-wielded words enable both writer and reader to at once both recognise and somehow overcome the awfulness of others (Rachel Cusk here springs to mind in comparison)? In relating the lives of people encountered in the course of her life, the narrator often withdraws to a position of uncertain agency within the narration, an observatory distance, but surprises us by popping up from time to time when forgotten, sometimes as part of a we of uncertain composition, uncertain, that is, as to whether it includes a historic you that has been addressed by the whole composition without our realising, or whether the other part of we is a he or she, indicating, perhaps, that the narrator has been addressing us all along, after all. All this is secondary, however, to the sentences that enter us like needles: “The present summer now. One too many with the gulls, the cry of small boats on the strain, the soiled sea, the sick calm.” |
NEW RELEASES
Nativity by Jean Frémon and Louise Bourgeois $30>>Read an excerpt.
>>Read our reviews of Now, Now, Louison.
For better or worse, Wagner is arguably the most widely influential figure in the history of music. Around 1900, the phenomenon known as Wagnerism saturated European and American culture. Such colossal creations as The Ring of the Nibelung, Tristan und Isolde, and Parsifal were models of formal daring, mythmaking, erotic freedom, and mystical speculation. A procession of writers, artists, and thinkers, including Charles Baudelaire, Virginia Woolf, Isadora Duncan, Vasily Kandinsky, and Luis Buñuel, felt his impact. Anarchists, occultists, feminists, and gay-rights pioneers saw him as a kindred spirit. Then Hitler incorporated Wagner into the soundtrack of Nazi Germany, and the composer came to be defined by his ferocious anti-Semitism. His name is now almost synonymous with artistic evil. Wagnerism restores the magnificent confusion of what it means to be a Wagnerian. The narrative ranges across artistic disciplines, from architecture to the novels of Philip K. Dick, from the Zionist writings of Theodor Herzl to the civil-rights essays of W. E. B. Du Bois, from O Pioneers! to Apocalypse Now. Neither apologia nor condemnation, Wagnerism is a work of intellectual passion, urging us toward a more honest idea of how art acts in the world.
>>How a Wagner opera defined the sound of Hollywood blockbusters.
What is decolonisation? Why is it urgent? What would Aotearoa be like if it were decolonised? Certainly the way in which Aotearoa was colonised is responsible for many of the social, ethical and environmental problems we face collectively today—could a process of decolonisation remedy some of these problems and create a more equitable, healthy and sustainable approach to living in this place in the twenty-first century?
Our book of the Week is Imagining Decolonisation by Rebecca Kiddle, Bianca Elkington, Moana Jackson, Ocean Ripeka Mercier, Mike Ross, Jennie Smeaton, and Amanda Thomas.
>>What is decolonisation?
>>With stories, anything is possible.
>>Why colonisation is bad for everyone.
>>Where to next?
>>Why colonisation was bad for Pākehā too.
>>'Decolonisation, Irish summer camps and my dumb Māori Dad.'
>>Why decolonisation is good for everyone.
>>Matters arising.
>>Your copy.
>>Other BWB texts.
| >> Read all Stella's reviews. | |
Memorial Drive by Natasha Trethewey {Reviewed by STELLA} In Memorial Drive, Pulitzer Prize-winning US Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey lays out the path to her mother’s death at the hands of a violent partner. Moving, compelling and insightful, the memoir is both raw and personal, as well as politically charged, revealing of a childhood in the South, her own and her mother’s. Opening with a dream, the poet’s use of language and imagination lead you into this story of tragedy and resolve. Gwendolyn Turnbough was born in New Orleans in1944. When her father, a naval officer never returned amid rumours of a new wife abroad, mother and daughter returned to Mississippi. A resourceful and strong-willed woman, Natasha’s grandmother brought her daughter up to push against the expectations of society and it was while Gwen was at college that she met her husband. It was the sixties, and despite coming of age in the Jim Crow era and the visible and real threat of the Ku Klux Klan, change seemed possible. Even when you have to marry in a different state. Moving to New Orleans so her father could study full-time, Gwen with a young child at home, felt isolated, and the racial prejudice they encountered as a mixed-race couple put pressure on their relationship. It wasn’t long until the couple parted and eventually divorced. Getting on her feet again, Gwen enrols to study social work and juggles motherhood, study and working nights. And she’s successful. At work, she meets the man who will become a life-changing figure in Natasha’s life—Joel Grimmett or, as Natasha nicknames him, Big Joe. At first things hum along, Gwen is doing well with her career and Joel seems happy to be part of the family. But something begins to sour—mixed with alcohol and a jealous streak underpinned by Joel’s need for power and control. Natasha describes the descent into tragedy, for her mother as well as herself. In Atlanta, there is a ring road, and as a form of psychological torture, Joel drives the young girl endlessly on it, threatening to leave her out there or never take her home. This road becomes a symbol of oppression for Natasha well into adulthood—a road she avoids most of her life. As her mother’s career blossoms and they move onwards and upwards in the world, their lives from the outside seem just fine. The reality is far from this and when Natasha, now in the fifth grade, overhears Gwen being beaten, the texture of the family changes. She knows, her mother knows, and so does Big Joe. Escaping into books and school-life can only last so long for Natasha, and as things get worse, Gwen finds a way out, but, unfortunately, the presence of Grimmett in their lives can not be erased, especially as his paranoia and sense of entitlement increases. The memoir is mesmerising. Trethewey’s descriptions of the women in her family, the fraught racial issues over several decades, the political landscape and the societal norms that allowed a woman to be repeatedly beaten, and the inability of the law to protect her when it mattered the most are not just this daughter’s story but the story of many, but Natasha Tretheway’s honesty, care, and her willingness to look this tragedy full in the face reveals something remarkable—the ability to not only endure but push back against a system of repression, to take a victim and make them whole again—visible to the world and to herself. |
| >> Read all Thomas's reviews. | |
![]() | The Math Campers by Dan Chiasson {Reviewed by THOMAS} where the poet writes or wrote it was impossible to say it is impossible to say where faraway was or why the reader writes “it was impossible to say it is impossible to say where faraway was or why” to remember the words or avoid remembering but where the poet writes It may just be my mind, he thought. It may just be my mind. He wrote: “It may just be my mind.” how can the reader write or rewrite that he thought who never claimed to be a poet maybe once how can I write or rewrite all those wrotes within wrotes, nests within nests here the poet the reader thought writes or wrote about the writing of the poems he wrote or is writing or soon will either write or not the poem of how the poem is made or will be made or is then being made or could be made or not in some room of the poet’s mind or on some paper less likely or in the house of a dead poet more precisely literally On the upstairs deck, I read about The deck upstairs. In the daybed I read about the daybed. In the books I read about the books I read. the poet wrote the reader wrote or rewrote sharing the labour each expected of the other with the other their separation more a distance of time than a distance of person not that each is one person only the moments flicker because time as the poet’s past is the same age as his sons as the reader knows the poet knows each is not one person only He turned to meet me, but our element was time. He approached me, where I was standing, years later; and I approached him where he stood, but he was too far in the past. the pages turn the poems turn or turn again the poet is carefully squeezed out of the poem or squeezed in the poem changed slightly, crucially— because, you know why, because time this slow precise perfecting process as the poet writes as the reader reads unlike these lines tossed off if that is how to put it in less than a minute and unrevisited the reader can do no justice to the form but to be fair made no such claims in that direction towards the province of the poet he thinks I had no real name. I was the channel through which the mind passed, and then I was a gap, an absence, which frightened me. again this space this wound in time this crack where the words get in or out this rift between the poet and his past if only a moment passed between poet and poem which is to say the poet who breathes and stumbles and the one squeezed out of the poem or in from sleep to type We were held, suspended within the larger dream; we alternate coming into, then stepping out of, the light. the poet wrote the reader wrote if that makes sense then the world wakes up, enlarged— there is not nor can there be anything more than this |
Our Book of the Week is Azadi: Freedom, fascism, fiction by Arundhati Roy.
In this series of electrifying essays, Arundhati Roy challenges us to reflect on the meaning of freedom in a world of growing authoritarianism. The essays include meditations on language, public as well as private, and on the role of fiction and alternative imaginations in these disturbing times. The pandemic, she says, is a portal between one world and another. For all the illness and devastation it has left in its wake, it is an invitation to the human race to imagine another world.
>>What lies ahead?
>>Portal to a new world.
>>"Our job is to be unpopular."
>>"At her passionate best."
>>Acting on the present crisis.
>>"The media has enabled fascism in India."
>>The pandemic is a portal.
>>"We need a reckoning."
>>What is the role of fiction today?
>>Your copy.
>>Other books by Arundhati Roy.







