Tag Archives: Literature

A Tribute to Unknown

So many people have created stunning art, and we don’t know their names.  Many more have committed full frontal assaults on humanity, and because they’re impossible to shame, everyone knows their names.  In terms of literature, some of the most provocative and enlivening works were written by history’s most prodigious writer:  Unknown. 

It’s Unknown who wrote the Old Testament, as it’s called by Christians.  Jews call it the Torah, which means Jesus Christ!  Quit coopting our stuff.  You do this all the time.  It’s also Unknown who wrote Pearl, Sundiata, El Cid, The Epic of Gilgamesh, Fifty Shades of Grey (The Geriatric Years), Beowulf, and many more masterpieces that give bone and flesh to the human condition.

We don’t need social media to notify us that Fame is fickle. We don’t need more grieving parents to remind us that Equity and Justice have never lived here. Time destroys everything we treasure, so it’s a blessing these works have survived in any form.  Even if the poets’ names are lost in the dank cellar of Antiquity’s library, their voices have survived . . . thus far.  Remember hexed Sappho, her name survives but insensate Time has denied us so much of her voice. 

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor

Thanks for Nothing

Vladimir Nabokov is the master of the paranoid, deranged, unreliable (take your pick or choose all three) narrator. If Lolita didn’t convince you, Pale Fire will. It’s a comedic feat and a delicious confection, but mostly it’s indelible.

Charles Kinbote is our narrator with the questionable judgment and perhaps unsound mind. Some describe him as insane, a remarkably disagreeable person, or a monstrous parasite of a genius. He describes himself as John Shade’s closest friend and most trusted advisor, even if they’ve only known each other for a few months and no one ever thought of them as friends. Their friendship “was the more precious for its tenderness being intentionally concealed.”

Shade is one of the great poets of his generation. He has almost finished his magnum opus when he dies. Kinbote takes possession of the unfinished poem and decides to edit it and provide helpful commentary and notes. Since the poem was Kinbote’s idea, he’s the most qualified person to finish it. Plus, it’s about Kinbote and Zembla, his home country. So who better? The English department at Shade’s university believes the poem has nothing to do with Kinbote or Zembla, a distant northern land no one has heard of. They think the poem is auto biographical and deals with the death of Shade’s daughter, the “waxwing slain.” These professors have written a letter in which they argue the poem has fallen into the “hands of a person who not only is unqualified for the job of editing it . . . but is known to have a deranged mind.” So who’s right?

Pale Fire is a delightfully strange novel. It consists of three sections: Kinbote’s foreword; the poem itself, also named Pale Fire; and Kinbote’s Commentary and Index. And let’s not forget that the story pointedly opens with a quote from James Boswell’s The Life of Samuel Johnson and ends with a murder. So who’s story is being told in Pale Fire? If there is a biographer, who is it? Is Shade a wavelet of fire compared to Kinbote’s bonfire? Or is Kinbote a pale phosphorescent hint trying to shine near Shade? What’s real here? Whether you’re able to answer those questions or not, Pale Fire is a remarkable journey with many laughs along the way.

Thanks for nothing, Gladiola. Aren’t you supposed to answer questions and not ask them? And why should I read about an unreliable guy with a shaky grasp of reality? Is this even literature? Because I only read literature. I’d better let Nabokov take over from here. “Reality is neither the subject nor the object of true art which creates its own special reality having nothing to do with the average reality perceived by the communal eye.” I hope that helps.

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor

A Tribute to Unknown

So many people have created stunning works of art, and we don’t know their names.  So many more people have created crap and because they are impossible to shame, everyone knows their names.  In terms of literature, some of the most interesting and inspiring works were written by history’s most prolific author:  Unknown. 

It’s Unknown who wrote the Old Testament, as it’s called by Christians.  Jews call it the Torah, which means Jesus Christ!  Quit coopting our stuff.  You do this all the time.  It’s also Unknown who wrote Pearl, Sundiata, El Cid, The Epic of Gilgamesh, Fifty Shades of Grey (The Geriatric Years), Beowulf, and many more works that put bone and flesh on the human condition.

We don’t need social media to inform us that Fame is fickle. We don’t need more grieving parents to remind us that Equity and Justice have never lived here. Time strips away everything we treasure, so it’s a blessing these works have survived in any form.  Even if the poets’ names are lost in the dank cellar of Antiquity’s library, their voices have survived . . . thus far.  Remember poor Sappho.  Her name survives but callous Time has denied us so much of her voice. 

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor – July 17, 2017

Annie Ernaux’s Exteriors: The Most Honest Review Ever

Don’t read this book. It’s a fraud.

I don’t normally give book reviews, because I don’t normally read books. They’re a waste of time, and this one sure was.

First, it bills itself as a memoir. Now, when I think of memoir, I think of great men, like myself, doing great things, like own hotels. To my surprise, this memoir was written by a woman. I was immediately suspicious. What has she ever done? The answer is nothing. She rides trains all day and makes observations. I could do that, but I have better things to do. And for this kind of crap someone decided this Annie Ernaux woman should be awarded the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature. It just confirms why I never had any respect for that award.

Second, Annie Ernaux has no friends. Nor should she. She’s a voyeur who is obsessed with eavesdropping on strangers – as if strangers can tell us anything about ourselves or our world. Yet, she seems to think so. Here’s something stupid she said. “It is other people – anonymous figures glimpsed in the subway or in waiting rooms – who revive our memory and reveal our true selves through the interest, the anger or the shame that they send rippling through us.”

The only time a stranger ripples me is when she’s sexy. Then the hunt is on, and she won’t be a stranger for long.

Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island and some in Connecticut

Annie Ernaux’s Exteriors: A Stranger’s Connection

When Annie Ernaux won the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature, I had only one question. Who is Annie Ernaux? Why have I never heard of her? Is she French or something? That’s where the internet comes in handy. She’s French. Regardless, I picked up one of her books, Exteriors, which was first published in English in 1996. It’s short, curious and rewarding.

Ms. Ernaux believes a “hypermarket (supermarket) can provide just as much meaning and human truth as a concert hall.” That concept has been expressed before, but not quite the way Ms. Ernaux presents it. She writes in a hyper-detached style, as if she’s a scientist. She focuses only on the essential. Unicorns do not prance on these pages. Exteriors purports to be a memoir, but there is no sustained narrative. The book consists of written snapshots of complete strangers. Her observations are more akin to sparse journal entries.

Still, it is literary and themes do emerge. Ms. Ernaux describes contemporary society as purely transactional. Tacky consumerism pervades everything. She’s not a fan of the ruling classes either. Their obvious disdain for the working classes is oppressive and depressing. The few relationships presented tend to be dysfunctional. Ms. Ernaux does not interact with anyone except the reader.

So why does Ms. Ernaux write about the strangers she observes on the train or at the mall? I enjoy being a voyeur as much as anyone, but is this mere voyeurism? Ms. Ernaux thinks not. “It is other people – anonymous figures glimpsed in the subway or in waiting rooms – who revive our memory and reveal our true selves through the interest, the anger or the shame that they send rippling through us.”

In a crass world, there can still be profound connections, even with strangers. A child on the train reminds Ms. Ernaux of her sons when they were young. A woman waiting in line reminds her of her deceased mother. “So it is outside my own life that my past existence lies: in passengers commuting on the subway or the RER; in shoppers glimpsed on escalators . . . in complete strangers who cannot know that they possess part of my story; in faces and bodies which I shall never see again. In the same way, I myself, anonymous among the bustling crowds . . . must secretly play a role in the lives of others.”

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor