Garden-of-Stars

The fame of “Letters to a Young Poet” has been known to me for some time, though from the negative aspect primarily. Most people complained about the condescending way in which Rilke wrote to Kappus, and how his words are easy to throw away because one if not willing to listen to someone who thinks they’re better than everyone else. For a long time, I didn’t feel compelled whatsoever to pick it up, primarily due to a personal lack of interest. However, having recently been given a copy as a gift, it looks like my avoidance of Rilke has come to an end.

Rilke’s words are valid and quite far from condescending. I wonder now how many of the people who complained about that were actually writers themselves. Rejection emails can easily come with snarky feedback, the same with submission guidelines to a handful of literary journals. Rilke’s words are more honest and level than they are judgmental, and they have quite some weight to them. The question of “must you” is particularly valid, now more than ever I think, given the changes that have occurred in the publishing industry and the image that has been built around writing, art, and other creative forms. There were parts where his writing got a little dull, and the eighth letter in which he talks about God was the one I paid attention to the least due to my own thoughts on the matter. But he, overall, gave very simple yet honest advice, admitting that he is not in the position to give any formal guidance and stating what is, really, the basic truth of writing: you should feel the compulsion to do so and follow it, knowing fully well that you’ll have to create a path for yourself.

To those who wish to write in order to build a name or profit for themselves, Rilke’s words will no doubt wound the ego. For those who perhaps do not take the writing process and writers themselves seriously, his words will be a joke. Those who are neutral or not familiar with the industry will see his advice as cruel and “privileged”. But as a writer myself, I felt Rilke speak to me honestly and calmly, reminding me of everything I already knew, and slightly reassuring me that the burning desire I have within me to create is a good thing.

 **This review first appeared in The Spectatorial**

There is a certain pride an author feels in their ability to take a reader to another place, whether real or imaginary. Other authors do not have this as their main goal, instead aiming to bring that far-flung fantasy into our immediate surroundings, or in this case, pretty close to that.

The Summer of Permanent Wants by Jamieson Findlay tells the story of eleven year-old Emmeline and her grandmother. They decide to spend their summer aboard a boat they have transformed into a floating used-bookshop, making their way from Ottawa up the Rideau Canal. If that isn’t an interesting enough plot in itself, the fact that Emmeline has an unusual problem where she cannot speak, read, or write adds to the sense of unusualness. What place could such a girl possibly have among books and in such a place where she is likely to encounter people without the ability to properly interact with them?

The story is indeed unusual from start to finish, beginning with Em’s condition and ending with the adventures the two have on their journey. Along with their cat Lafcadio and two crickets Cass and Nova, the reader is taken through eight tales Eight adventures take up a chapter each but are nonetheless tied together.

The character of Gran is the perfect example of how a reader of this book might react: expecting to find a logical approach and solution to each of the tales. But Findlay successfully proves that there is a touch of the unexpected and unusual in all our lives.

The Fourth Tale, “In the Court of the Reptile King,” for instance, begins with Em swimming in the Bay of Small Blessings when suddenly an anaconda swims towards her. The appearance of a boy named Tom takes the story into a strange yet somehow logical and realistic direction. The reptile breeding facility Reptile Haven, located on a small nearby island, is home to him, his uncle, and numerous reptiles of different kinds, one of which was the escaped anaconda. Secret visits from his aunt Mara lead to the reptiles’ escape and a full-scale hunt in the attempt to find them. The situation ends happily when the stubborn La Gomera lizards finally decide to mate.

However, the tale as a whole ends on a different note. Em senses a Presence, one that is old and wild, much more so than the Indian snake god Senesha. It’s the indescribable feeling you get of something much bigger than yourself, yet without a readily identifiable form or essence. It’s merely, overpowering and noticeable, hiding around familiar corners.

Others, like the Last Tale, “The Book of the Jewelled Net,” focusses on a notebook that falls into the hands of Em and her grandmother, a book that apparently contains all the information in the world. Its previous owner was rumoured to have been driven mad. He attempted to read it but always found the contents to change, discovering new pockets and secret fold-out pages that didn’t exist before. Em finds this out for herself, when on her second look through it she cuts open a page and finds Scrabble pieces inside and an illustration of her late grandfather’s boat, Cygnus.

To some, it may be a metaphorical approach to the journey of self-discovery and self-reflection, the belief that you always learn something new about yourself over the years or rediscover something you may have forgotten. The notebook is, after all, based on the Buddhist god Indra’s net, and it is well known that religion is perceived from various angles, depending on the viewer. Our emotions and memory are much like this notebook, only lacking the clear physical form that can be readily pointed at. We have the same mental tangles and hidden pockets, and at times can get lost in the search for a detail we know is somewhere within our inner pages.

The Fifth Tale, and my personal favourite, “A Patriot of the Night,” is about Em and her grandmother’s encounter with a woman named Tenebrio in Hathaway Falls, the home of what Tenebrio calls a “natural darkness.” She is on a mission to return it to her ‘country’ but is pursued by ‘agents of light,’ so to speak. With the help of the magician, the Great Zucchini, Tenebrio manages to make her escape when a vial of this darkness breaks and causes a mass blackout in the area, heading in the direction of the sky.

Darkness can be both physical and emotional, as many know, having encountered both forms on a daily basis. Science has not been able to explain everything—there is still the absence of an equation that could explain black holes, for instance. The arts often step in at this point, though in this case it is a gentle nudge to the reader in the direction of what appears at first glance to be pleasant absurdity. Darkness cannot be bottled, and no one fears the dark to the point where they avoid even small patches of shade. But these are so carefully woven into the storyline that it is difficult for them to feel out of place or ridiculous. If anything, these twists in the plotline are like landmarks you happily stumble upon after roaming near it with your nose buried in a map. Which brings it all back to Em’s condition.

Em gets through the entire story by using a mixture of sign language, gestures, and body language, as well as her own logic and, even more importantly, her curiosity. Em is a clear reflection of ourselves; her adventures are no different from the unexpected surprises each one of us encounters. Events from the past may seem absurd or logical, depending on how and when you reflect on them. But this doesn’t detract from their wonder and their validity.

It’s moments like these I feel that I feel extremely sad that I don’t live in the same country as the author and have no chance of meeting them. “Howling at the Moon” is a masterpiece of the most personal and heartbreaking sort, taking the reader into the inner workings of the poet’s mind. I admired the poems not just from what emotions they conveyed, but also the way in which they did so. As a poet I fell in love with the wording, with both the subtle and the outright ways in which emotions came to life.

Some of the lines hit me in that sensitive spot between the ribs, lines such as:

She asks me what I would say if I could tell anyone anything. ‘Stanch this bleeding,’ I say. ‘Please. I can’t handle always seeing red.’ The next day, her lipstick is pink.

Or the even the more easily relatable:

truth is, i have no one to give the poems to. instead, i hold them all in my ribcage until i can’t breathe around them.

Three poems in particular – “Atlantean”, “Wishes & Fruit Stains”, and “For the Boys with Hungry Mouths” – were each perfect yet for different reasons. The diapason this collection exuded was overwhelming. It was like feeling someone snuggling up beside me, not necessarily asking for their wounds to be kissed better, but rather to have those wounds acknowledged. And I admired that and connected to it on several levels. “Howling at the Moon” is authentic and captivating, relatable for its sexual tones, its pain, frustration, and endless desire to keep going and keep howling.

I am convinced Dorothy Parker is my spirit animal. She’s dark and witty and sarcastic and cruel and I loved every second of it. I had a long talk with my professor one day about several of these stories and how beautifully bitter they are, and the extent to which Parker was criticizing the role of women and society of her time. There are stories like “Mr. Durant”, which point to an irony so ridiculous it hurts. Then there are those like “A Telephone Call” which look as if they were written yesterday, that’s how relevant they still are. Others, like “Arrangement in Black and White”, point out to issues of class and racism in the 1920s yet more significantly end up pointing to the fact that many of these issues still persist today, except we have come to look at them differently (ie. we sweep them under the rug with greater confidence). They’re stories that have aged well, if at all. The details don’t matter as much as the sentiments however, for one doesn’t need to look far to see the same lovesick and sheltered women in today’s society.

Louise Gluck is the only poet I can confidently call my favourite. I’ve enjoyed collections by other poets, and individual works by a few, but with Gluck there is always consistency, even if the style is a bit different. “A Village Life” takes on a very prose-like form, with longer lines and stanzas that, at times, could even be called paragraph. There’s also much more repetition and restating of the obvious. And initially this was confusing.

Like always however, there is a meditative tone to each of the poems. I’ve grown to love how Gluck has several poems in a collection with the same name as they mimic the same repetitive routine that is diluted by events such as outings with friends. The same way I grew accustomed, and even ended up loving, the repetitive wording and long phrases. “Hunters” was particularly beautiful in its simplicity and that cyclical, closely-knitted narrative that leaves the reader with a startling and dark finish. However it was in “A Slip of paper”, the next poem after, that I found my favourite couple of lines in the entire collection, for they reminded me why I enjoy Gluck’s poems as much as I do:

To get born, your body makes a pact with death, / and from that moment, all it tries to do is cheat

I was warned that Akmatova's poetry was quite an experience. I have relatives who strongly dislike her for the more contemporary way in which she wrote, while a professor of mine praised her highly. I found her work to be quite heavy. Now, some poetry manages to pick the reader up and make them get lost in the journal of emotional self-discovery. With Akhmatova, it felt more like I was sitting and watching someone suffer but was unable to help or console them in any way. There was a disconnection that terrified me to the point where I went back and reread several poems, feeling as if I might be able to somehow help Akhmatova in some way by doing so.

There was one poem however that touched me to the very core, called "Alexander at Thebes". The last two lines in particular were what left such an impact on my:

But suddenly his face brightened with a thought:
'Be sure that the house of the Poet is not touched.'

There was such cruelty and pain hidden in those two lines that was suddenly unleashed upon me, in a way that I didn't have for any other of her poems. Those two lines were the most memorable and painful to read, perhaps because they were the only ones that managed to hit something personal within and shatter it.

I only wish this collection were bilingual, so that I could see the original words and be able to find the patterns and compare the way in which they are different or similar. I'm happy I finally gave Akhmatova a go. Her praise is more than deserved, yet her work takes much more easing into than I expected. It's far too overpowering to go at in one attempt, and I wonder how I'll find it in years to come.

For some time I've wondered if I'd ever find the fitting counterpart to the great Russian novel. For an equally long time, that seemed like an impossible thing to do. Yet after finishing "Private Life", I think Sagarra managed to write a brilliant novel that can be justly called the distant, younger cousin of the Russian greats. It is much more sexually charged and explicit, and the names are just as complex to keep track of - the narrator particularly enjoys pointing out a character who appeared at a specific event, after which he quickly proceeds to give the character's whole backstory and inserts them into modern Barcelona - and the society is just as complex, divided, and at times discussing as it was in imperial Russia. It also took some time to get into the book before it became easier to appreciate and understand it, and I agree with my prof who said that the fact that Sagarra wrote this novel in two months really shows with the at-times messy writing.

But the book is worth reading, and it is phenomenal, dirty, and moving. There are lines scattered here and there that make one stop and contemplate, while the soap-opera events make for a captivating read. It's not a particularly easy novel to read, especially if one doesn't have much prior knowledge about Catalan culture or the geography of Barcelona. Yet after finishing this book I want to know more about both of those aspects. I want to revisit this one in a few years and see how my perception will change. It's a rich book that's impossible to fully appreciate after only one read, yet that is exactly what points to Sagarra's stubborn brilliance.

Although the synopsis describes it as a memoir, but “Ice Diaries” is more than that, or at least it tries to be. Much more science and detail-heavy than promised, the book nonetheless strives to introduce the reader to the Antarctic lifestyle in all its vastness, both the exciting parts that deal with how people interact and the social lives they lead, to the more complex and at times frustrating, the descriptions of machinery or procedures and protocol. The book brings out the distinction between the science-oriented and the humanities-oriented readers significantly, but does an admirable job at attempting to mediate between them, providing now only the author’s thoughts and personal background but also adding that realistic depth to the events.

It is with the first aspect that the main problems with the book are tied to. The order and shifts in narrative aren’t the greatest. It took some time to realize that the “bookend” of each chapter was dealing with the author’s earlier life, describing her situation with her grandparents, her mother, and later the appearance of her father. It was a good attempt but not entirely a successful one, sticking out from the rest of the book in a way that made this earlier personal narrative feel more like a possibility for a separate memoir.

It also felt like the enthusiasm and engagement of the author with her own writing. The pacing gradually gets choppier – the reader isn’t left with a way in which to evaluate her father, for instance. There is the sudden jumping around in time that occurs in the last 10% or so of the book, particularly with the brief introduction of the character of Loki. While it’s easy to understand the sentiments and how they relate to the theme of the Antarctic and ice, part such as the Loki memory stood out and made it difficult to evaluate the book as a whole.

It was a much longer and slower read than I anticipated, and there were times when the attention span would rebel against me. Still, I got through it and enjoyed it as a whole, although I didn’t quite agree with the structuring. Nor did I think the impact of the narrative was as strong as it could’ve been. It’s a big positive that “Ice Diaries” isn’t a modern-day take on the old adventure logs that used to be kept by European explorers. But neither does it exactly live up to being that gripping and moving hybrid creature that it strove to be.

More of a meditation than a formal poetry collection in its traditional sense, “Doctrine of Signatures” contains prose poems that sweep you up into their own steady rhythm, occasionally trying to tip you over into the depths of shock or confusion or an induced melancholy. It’s difficult to describe Szumigalski’s writing style – it needs to be experienced first-hand, to not only get lost in their trance but to also feel the irony at the end of having come out of them dirtied but enlightened.

I never was a big lover of comic books, although I think I would've enjoyed the humour and play on words more as a child. I've heard a lot about Asterix and it's nice to finally get some sense of what it's about.

My professor recommended I read this collection after I expressed an interest in Milosz’s work and a specific admiration of his style. Reading “Miracle Fair” was like an exploration of the self. I felt myself get lost in tiny cracks and crevices within and after reemerging there was a certain feeling of lightness and delight. I only wish that one day my own writing can be as honest and wispy as Szymborska’s.

In comparison to Milosz, I felt Szymborska had a lighter step to her writing, the words guiding the reader along effortlessly while still pointing out moments of shock or irony without making it outright. And the imagery – oh the imagery. It was by far the best part of the collection.One of the memorable poems from this collection, “Drinking Wine”, was simply full of them. There was a whole stanza I mauled over and lost myself in:

I tell him what he wants to hear – about ants / dying of love / under a dandelion’s constellation. / I swear that sprinkled with wine / a white rose will sing.

There was a dreamy quality throughout most of the poems yet they were, for lack of a better word, sophisticated in their use of it. It was incorporated seamlessly and an entire world was constructed around these images, yet they managed to retain their uniqueness and wonder. Particular attention should be paid to the section “I knock at the door of the rock”, where the poems “Seen from Above” and “The Silence of Plants” deserve to be the topic of lengthy midnight discussions between lovers or just groups of friends. Here, the imagery emphasized the topics of death and identity in a way that offers new ideas and angles.

This is a beautiful collection, a perfect balance of style and topic, both light and heavy, but an overall delight.

There is a certain, unspoken list of writers and philosophers whose work is deemed a necessary read in academic circles, Proust being one of them. Luckily I was assigned to read this one for a French cultural studies course, glad to finally be able to learn more about what specifically makes Proust so noteworthy.

“How Proust Can Change Your Life” isn’t exactly what its title promises, instead coming across more like a “Proust 101” or “How-To” guide in some sense. It’s accessible and interesting, in some places more than others, yet it didn’t manage to convince me why Proust would change my life. Each of the chapters is a “How To”, focusing on things such as love or learning to appreciate the simple aspects of the everyday life. They were wonderful in summing up what Proust said on these things, but left threads hanging when it comes to swaying the reader so that they’d run to pick up and read the actual books by Proust himself.

In the beginning, the book wasn’t sure what exactly it was itself. There was an overload of biographical information that was supplemented with some very hit-and-miss jokes that are either suited for a different aged audience, or they simply aren’t that good. Further in this becomes easy to ignore, mostly because it no longer poses such a problem. It’s easy to engage with Proust’s ideology and subscribe to the very same Proustian slogan Botton proposes at one point: n’allez pas trop vite. Near the end of the book however the problem returns, and much more persistently, now muddling the writing and removing that bounce to the words. The lack of a conclusion was much more glaring and awkward than the lack of an intro. It left the chapters hanging like individual sections that didn’t carry a united thought throughout, more focused on chewing up bits of theory and ideology and tossing them back out with some biography and unhelpful humour thrown in.

Definitely a good intro to Proust, as it manages to make most of the book enjoyable and easy to engage with. The beginning and end however are the two major weaknesses, and the lack of some kind of bookend ultimately leaves the title as an unconvincing thesis that lacks convincing evidence.

When assigning “Nadja” as the reading for next class, my professor gave us a rather cryptic warning that this book will split our class into two groups: those who loved it, and those who hated it. I didn’t find myself to be in either camp, however, as I found a little bit of both in this novel. I also, upon finishing, had no questions about why this book may elicit powerfully negative feelings from some readers. It falls into the same category as the great Russian novels or other classics, namely those books that just aren’t for everyone.

One thing I enjoyed most was the rather non-linear narrative. True, Breton does talk about how he spent his days with Nadja, at a certain point sinking into a diary-like structure where he begins with the date before proceeding with the events and musings. It’s a structure I could relate to and felt comfortable with, so the lapses in and out of the philosophical musings that would transition to ‘factual’ recollections were normal for me.

What I disliked about the book and had problems with was closely connected to this point above, mainly that at times I struggled with feeling any emotions. For surrealism is defined not by logic but by the psyche, so to approach this book with the expectation of leaving ‘enlightened’ isn’t quite the proper approach. It’s only when the emotional plane cannot be reached by the writing that surrealism becomes shaken up. Maybe it’s the specifics of the decade and Breton’s social class. Maybe I’ll get more out of it if I read “Nadja” in a few more years after developing a stronger literary base. But I wasn’t able to emotionally commit to the book in places, and I was so looking forward to doing so.

There is also a list of quotes and passages that are particularly noteworthy from this book, but I think I’ll mention this particular one, which I thought summed up it up perfectly:

About to leave her, I want to ask one question which sums up all the rest, a question which only I would ever ask, probably, but which has at least once found a reply worthy of it; ‘Who are you?” And she, without a moment’s hesitation: “I am the soul in limbo.” (p.71)

Love it or hate it, “Nadja” offers something unique to the literary world, something that is worth picking up and reading, if only to form an opinion of your own about it. Many, including myself, didn’t or still don’t know much about surrealist literature, and that should be enough of a reason to give this one a try, along with the treasure hunt for the witty and memorable bits of wisdom that are scattered throughout its pages.

Recently, poetry has fallen victim to a slew of misconceptions and stereotypes. Many still avoid it, believing it to be written in a way that purposely confuses the reader, while others are worried of finding the same repetition of themes and images. Noodin’s “Weweni” puts to ease both of these worries in a stunning collection that not only presents an original set of poems but, more significantly, acts as a learning experience for the reader by introducing the complex and sadly overlooked culture of the Anishinaabe people.

I have had no previous experience with reading poetry about or by First Nations peoples, and coming across “Weweni” felt an instant fascination with the topic. I was delighted not only to find out that the collection was bilingual, but to also be eased into it with an informative and not very heavy preface. A significant portion of the fun came from trying to read the original Anishinaabemowin versions of the poetry, sounding them out using some of the pointers given in the preface. It allowed for a much more personal and deeper appreciation of the language and culture, one I knew nothing about and which isn’t discussed much either.

The translated versions of the poems left a warm and uplifting feeling after reading them, offering a starkly different atmosphere of forests, stars, and berries that felt so different to the European and contemporary North American poetry. There was a certain honesty to it, a balance of innocence and wisdom, that’s impossible to describe without having read some of them. One shouldn’t be fooled by their apparent simplicity. The collection leaves room for thought and meditation, offering a glimpse into the very tip of a complex culture. I wish there were more poetry collections like this.

The only downside to this collection is that it isn’t bilingual – how I would’ve loved to compare the original and the translation. Knowing Russian poetry, I’m almost certain the originals would’ve rhymed, and comparing rhyme and free verse would’ve been wonderful. Nonetheless, even if I hadn’t encountered Gumilyov’s work before, I found that the translate versions were already mesmerizing. I can only imagine what they were like in their original Russian.

The earlier poems were my personal favourites, particularly from the collections “Romantic Flowers” and “Pearls”. They had the strongest mix of an exotic, fairytale quality with the modern, a style of poetry I’m particularly fond of. There are dark and startlingly beautiful images throughout all the poems, of brides and jaguars and stars, and the sense of longing for a lover is so tangible I had to put the book down at times because I felt the speaker’s voice influencing my own emotions.

For those not familiar with Gumilyov, the book is also wonderfully annotated, with biographical information and notes, as well as some of Anna Akhmatova’s own poetry that she wrote about Gumilyov. It’s a treat both in terms of Gumilyov’s creative power, which is overwhelming, as well as the scholarly side, the prefaces and notes that shine light on the complex and emotional life of a sadly not so well know poet.

Thank you to Curiosity Quills for giving me an egalley copy of the book to review.

I loved the premise of “Broken Dolls” – I haven’t read many stories that ventured into the realm of dolls. It reminded me of a story I wrote several years ago and I wanted to see where the premise would go. The only fault of the novel proved to be its biggest: the execution.

I had no trouble following along with Ella and Lisa for half of the book, but it’s when the complex relationship between Ella, Gabby, and the professor began to unravel that I had a hard time following along. Mainly this was due to plot holes that weren’t addressed. I wish some parts of the story were more developed, for instance the epidemic that’s described in only the vaguest of terms. It didn’t feel real or threatening, and I didn’t completely understand what drove the professor to experiment the way he did. Near the end is where it became completely tangled and difficult to distinguish.

The story could’ve been longer and more developed. Characters like Ella and Lisa stayed more in the realm of the common and predictable, and moments that deserved to be marveled at and appreciated, like when the professor finally explains his experiment with the dolls, end up being overlooked. It’s a very promising premise that, in its current state, is too scattered. I was hoping to enjoy this one more than I did, as the premise truly is an interesting one. But the writing and characters weren’t able to make me appreciate it as much as it deserved to be.