Tiny Pieces

It has, I think, been some time since I brought your worthy attention to a favourite ‘search term‘, perhaps because so few of the recent examples I have come across have caught my elegant fancy. Either that, or my mind has been on other things. In any case, a suitably strange term has just emerged. And this, if you will, is it:

‘animals breaking a rock into tiny pieces’

Is any further comment required? I can only hope that my humble blog offered this particular internet-surfer what they wanted. Somehow I doubt it, but one cannot be so hasty as to assume that one has a hold on the expectations of the contemporary web-wanderer. Perhaps this site is just the place for someone seeking information on/footage of/poems about rock-breaking animals. On the other hand…

Biographies of Bläss

How many biographies have there been of Bläss? Far too many, as anyone knows.

Bläss himself was always unworthy of having his life laid out on the page. He was a middling writer, who lived a largely ordinary life, punctuated by a series of mildly interesting incidents, none of which I can recall at present. Now I can’t say I believe wholeheartedly in that wonky old concept we call ‘genius’; needless to say, Bläss is nowhere near the mark. Not even close. There are salmon steaks sitting in supermarket freezers that possess more talent than he ever did, whatever your spin on his lifestory.

And yet, much like the salmon steaks, the biographies keep on coming. Why so?

It is hard to explain. Sometime someone started something – and now no one can bring a stop to it. It was, I think, in 1957, when the first book appeared: a vague, meandering work, almost entirely without merit.

Almost entirely. There’s the rub. For there was, safely hidden below the surface, some sort of quality that attracted people -  or a person, at least – enough to inspire a second attempt at Bläss’s biography. What that quality was I cannot tell. Suffice it to say that it existed, and that it has kept biographers busy for over half a century.

Each new biographer of Bläss appears to approach the project with much the same goal in mind: comprehensivity. No one would seem to believe that Bläss deserves so many biographies. Not in the least. But each of them believes that Bläss deserves one truly great biography – and that their offering is it. Greatness, however, does not necessary lie in the style, or the particular way in which they have dealt with the substance of the man’s life or work. It lies, as I have stated, in providing the most comprehensive account possible. As if this uncertain quality that so many sense in Bläss’s life will only reveal itself to the writer prepared to uncover absolutely everything there is to know about the man.

To prove this claim one need only look at the length of Bläss biographies. The 1957 life came in under two hundred pages. In 1978, we get the first two-volume tome: five hundred and ninety-six pages in all. In the 90s, there were two multi-volume efforts, the longest of which ran well over a thousand pages. Last year. however, the first of ten projected volumes was publised. It was a mere four hundred pages, and followed Bläss up to his tenth birthday.

What spurs this desire to cover a man’s life so comprehensively? Clearly every biographer thinks that the careful approach will yield ever more fascinating details. And yet, to my mind, it doesn’t. Bläss is no less boring than he ever was. So we how know how many times he eat beef during the winter of 1924: so what? You may dig away as much sand as you like, but there are no guarantees that anything exciting will emerge. Plenty of new things, yes. But nothing remotely interesting. The man has many layers, maybe, but they all amount to the same thing in the end: mediocrity on top of mediocrity on top of mediocrity.

Handle with Carelessness

In his latest novel, The Land that Even the Land Forgot, Marshall Krinshek introduces a character called Lorna Effelwager, a part-time baker and full-time consumer of books. Effelwager’s approach to literature is, to say the least, a somewhat violent one. She doesn’t ever go so far as to ever eat books, granted, but only rarely does a book survive her readings without pages being stained, spines collapsing or whole sections falling out. ‘For her,’ writes Krinshek, ‘reading a book was a battle from beginning to end. A book was an opponent with whom she fought to the death. To say the books suffered was only half of it. Effelwager herself rarely came out of the ordeal without multiple wounds. At least four books had taken her to hospital. One book almost bled her to death’.

We can all learn from Effelwager, I think. A book is often a beautiful object, no doubt, but one can handle a book with too much care. The point, after all, is to read the damn thing – not to get to the end with the spine intact. What matter if a page rips, or if one spills wine on chapter four? So long as the words get through to the reader, what more do you need? The rest is preciousness: needless, pointless, preciousness.

Technology presents further difficulties. I have no great problem with the ‘kindle’, per se. But the name of it never ceases to worry me. It is redolent, I think, of comfort. It sounds like ‘kindness’ and ‘candle’. It is a warm, friendly word, which brings to mind a cosy armchair and a gentle, flickering fire. The perfect reading environment, some might say. Others, however, would disagree. Reading is not an act of kindness. It is not a gentle activity: something to while away the winter evenings. Reading is a matter of life and death. Reading, as Effelwager would have it, is a great battle. You versus the page. And may the best one win.

Christmas Reading

In the run-up to Christmas, humans all over the world seek a variety of things – none more so than to waste their precious time. In days of old this could be done by taking a long walk, writing a revolutionary pamphlet or invading a small country. In the noble present we merely turn our computers on and watch short videos of kittens in clogs dancing rumbas to Russian military bands.

Alternatively, there is always ‘reading’. And what better reading material could one ask for at this time of year than a short review of contemporary ‘bruise artist’ Maria Von Uppelhart? Over to you, D H Laven:

It’s all very well arguing that artists ought to let the art speak for themselves, but when there doesn’t seem to be any art of which to speak, one does need to cast one’s net a little further. What happened next, however, did little to assuage the worst fears of the assembled company. Von Uppelhärt sprang from her throne, dropped her smart brown trousers and invited the nearest bystander to land a punch above her knee..

Read more here.

Seasonal Wish List

Dear non-specified seasonal gift bestower,

I would be most grateful if the following books could be made available to me sometime over the next few weeks, preferably accompanied by a few bottles of whisky and a copious supply of delicately spiced pastries.

A New History of Short-Lived Magazines and Journals by Fran Hoffgeiger [the long-awaited new edition of Hoffgeiger's seminal 1987 work, A History of Short-Lived Magazines and Journals, the first comprehensive guide to literary projects that lasted less than a year. Includes a fascinating chapter on the Swedish magazines Undergräva and Maskarade Åskådare, edited by the chaotic poet Rasmus Ranasson].

Article and Correspondence by Lucia Raus [see below]

Butterfly Winter by Lars Tillförlitlig [Well, how can one resist a novel whose first line runs as follows: 'My father celebrated his eightieth birthday by biting off the finger off his dead wife'?]

What’s the story, mourning jewellery? by Keira Lashnik [a bit of an obscure interest here, but I can't get enough of creepy Victorian hair jewellery at the moment].

Lastly, anything by Piers Jorgenstäd, Clemency Whittaker and Sergei Robadov.

Gripes, Idle Musings and Vague Meanderings

If things have been a little quiet on this blog these past months, it is in no way a reflection on the quality or quantity of my thoughts. Like the smoke from the power station, the ideas never stop billowing forth from my oh-so-noble head. I call them ideas: you may call them gripes, idle musings and vague meanderings. No matter. The important point is that my silence cannot be put forward as evidence that I, Georgy Riecke, have in any sense stopped piercing the mists of obscure european literature.

If these ‘ideas’ have not reached this blog, where then have they gone? Underneath the Bunker (which continues to expand, albeit slowly, in all directions) is one answer. However, I have also been working on a larger non-digital piece of work. What this is I cannot say right now. Nor can I promise that I will divulge further details at a later date. All I can say is that another project exists, which has diverted my attention somewhat these last few weeks.

The inevitable question follows: for how long can my dear readers expect my attention to be diverted? Once again, I refuse to provide an unequivocal answer. I am not finished on this blog by any means, but one can hardly expect me to keep updating at the usual pace. Nor should this be expected of anyone. In our desperation for ‘new’ ideas and thoughts we overlook the wealth of information that is already out there. There are more than six hundred posts on this blog. Do not thirst for more when you might easily satiate your appetite on what is already there.

More on this, and other things, later.

Article and Correspondence

Lucia Raus’s new novel, Article and Correspondence, comes out later this month, and it promises to be an invigorating read. Raus’s fictions, as you will probably recall, tend to take peculiar forms. Her most famous work, When I Stepped Out, It Was Then I Saw The Sky (reviewed here) purported to be the visitor’s book stolen from a holiday house in Albania, whilst the less popular Papa He Is Still Sick presented itself as a collection of letters written by a bored teenager in the late nineteenth century. Both works were, of course, fabrications – but Raus is a pig-headed soul, and stubbornly refuses to spoil her own party, remaining refreshingly silent on the question of authenticity. She clearly likes the idea that some readers will continue to be ‘taken in’ by her texts. And well they might, for there is (on a first reading at least) little to suggest the hand of a single master storyteller.

As far as I can tell, Article and Correspondence will continue the trend set by earlier works. According to the press release, the novel takes the form – as hinted by its title – of a newspaper article, followed by correspondence relating to that article. Much like Papa He Is Still Sick, the narrative (such as it is) builds up through a series of multi-authored letters. Because these letters are public, rather than private missives, a shift in tone will nonetheless be expected, which should yield interesting results.

I will of course say more as soon as I know more.

An Open Letter to Mediocrity

Hello Mediocrity. We meet so often, it’s no wonder we seem like friends. I have embraced you many times, shaken your warm and sweaty hands, kissed your crimson-cushioned cheeks, taken a walk in the park with you and your mediocre family. I have done all of these things at one point or another.

Despite this, we are not friends – for I love you not. I shiver every time your shadow touches mine. I have come to resent your constant intrusions into my life and work. As for your influence on the world at large: of this I can hardly speak.

I used to see you a lot: now I see you everywhere. Why so busy Mediocrity? How does your schedule allow for such copious movement? Have you ever considered the possibility that we writers may not enjoy your company at all? Oh, you are generous with your time – and affable enough in person – but one fears the repercussions of such sociability. One can have too much Mediocrity, methinks.

Perhaps some sort of holiday is in order? I hear the Maldives are marvellous at this time of year. Mongolia, meanwhile, might prove a memorable trip. How about it Mediocrity? I’ll pay for half the air fare, if that’s what is keeping you back. Or is it simply that you cannot leave us alone? You love us, I know. You have a ‘thing’ for us. Our culture fascinates you. You must have your say, day after day, month after month, year after year. You will not be silenced, I see that: not in the long term, anyway. But a break, just a brief break…

You’ve left us before, or so they say. In ancient times you were always taking holidays. During the fourteenth century, I hear, you were hardly ever seen – at least, not in Italy. Nowadays, however, you appear to have developed something of a sense of duty. You think we can’t get on without you. Well, I believe that you are wrong. I think we can. In fact, I think we can get along just fine (culturally speaking, that is).

Go on, prove me wrong. Take a break and see what happens. Get on a boat, a plane, a horse, a hovercraft, a rocket, a train, a lorry, a tram: whichever mode of transport suits you (I see you on a train, personally speaking, or in a family car). Get on that bus, that ship or that helicopter and give us a chance to work outside of your shadow. It needn’t be long. I’d take a month. But it needs to happen, some way or another.

Are you listening, Mediocrity?

Some More Superfluous Words

There are too many books in the world, too many websites in the world, too many words in the world being used in too many pointless situations. No wonder so many words remain unread.

Sadly, the balance is not as it should be. Greater writers are ignored, whilst lesser talents take the limelight. This is as it has always been. Some of us are, however, continue to fight for change by aiming the beams of our torches towards the more shadowy corners of the literary world. I am one. ‘Writers No One Reads’ is another.

A word of warning. Not all of the writers they feature are completly unread. For instance, I’d hazard a guess that more people read Stefan Themerson than Egor Falastrom. For all this, the general message is both clear and correct. There is an untapped spring of esoteric european literature out there, where the water runs sweeter than it does in the great rivers of mediocrity that we call ‘popular culture’. Go forth, reader, and drink!

The Death of Vincent

A couple of money-spinning spiders masquerading as investigative biographers have recently claimed that Van Gogh did not commit suicide, but was in fact shot by a couple of bullies. Their one thousand page book suggests that they’ve done more research than your average conspiracy theorist, but the rest of the world remains sceptical of their thesis.

And rightly so. As any fool knows, Van Gogh died many years later than previously supposed, in a house in Denmark.

More on this, maybe, later.

Tales of Turds

The title of Pyetr Turgidovsky’s new collection of short stories, This World of Shit, is sadly suggestive of the cheaply made Christmas compendiums that we are all well used to seeing at this time of year: those endless gaudy baubles of charmless prose meanly tossed onto the lifeless tree of cynical consumerism (to put it as gently as I can). We could blame this on the translator, were it not for the fact that Turgidovsky was probably aiming for just such a connection. He has such confidence in his particular brand of high-minded literary nihilism that echoes of low art (and one cannot get much lower than Christmas cash-ins) are merely a source of amusement. To commit a crime against good taste has become, for him, something of a daily necessity.

Needless to say, the new stories are typical in this regard. Composed with stunning care, they are yet crammed with crudity of the very highest order. He claims in his introduction that he wants to create the literary equivalent of a blocked toilet. This, I think, he has achieved. Too many of his sentences refuse, after several days, to flush themselves from my mind. There they remain, ever-festering; emitting a ever-changing, but never-improving odour.

As it is, the title is apt. This World of Shit delivers exactly what it promises: a multiplicity of bowel movements. In one story, a peverse gargoyle sitting on the corner of a building in an Italian piazza spends his lazy days pondering over the toiletry habits of the humans below. He takes particular interest in a group of people who appear to frequent the lavatorial facilities of a small art gallery opposite, leading to an array of philosophical meditations on the relationship between art and shit.

In another story a frustrated husband secretly eats his own shit, keeping a detailed diary of his adventures. One does not even want to consider whether or not Turgidovsky’s recreations of this diary gain their success from personal experiences.

There is more. A lot more. Too much more, perhaps. But then this is Turgidovsky, a writer who does not do things in halves. Poo is his subject, and he is determined to make the most of it. Which is not to say that he isn’t inventive with excrement. There are foul things aplenty in this collection, but few of them are repeated unnecessarily. Turgidovsky’s approach, as ever, is both wide-ranging and unexpected. All the old avenues are explored, but new channels are also opened up. Shit there is, in all shapes and sizes, in all situations and circumstances, in all symbolic and sensual guises. Tales of turds come easily to Turgidovsky, that much was obvious even before the publication of his collection; but it is nonetheless satisfying to see him covering  typical territory with such terrific poise and precision. It may be hard to stomach at times, but one cannot fault the writer – nor, when all is said and done, the title. Taken together, these stories really do examine a world of shit. What’s more, they argue that this world is worth thinking about it, and writing about, at some length.

Absences

Having said I would explain the absence of a review for Henri Ossan-Ossaf’s In Case amongst my Greatest European Novels List, I’m not sure I can. I started commissioning reviews for this list almost six years ago, asking no more than a few thousand words for each novel. You’d have thought someone could have come up with something by now, wouldn’t you?

Ah, but you underestimate the peculiar humour of this world of ours. Strange forces, fuelled by hidden realities, with the close support of metaphysical powers lying behind the mysterious veil of the unknown, have clearly decided that no one should write a review of Ossan-Ossaf’s book. Why I do not know. Suffice it to say that they have made their point clear on more than one occasion.

One could get too hysterical about this whole matter. One could even write a novel about the attempt to write a review of this novel; a novel that would quite possibly be better than the original novel. Yes: one could definitely make more of this if one wanted to.

As editors go, however, I seek an element of reserve. Where others go over the top, I merely peek my head above the parapet for a moment or so. Ultimately, I have better things to do than submit to hysteria.

On which basis, let me keep this explanation brief. The facts are as follows: several writers have agreed to write this review over the last six years. All of them have failed to finish. At first these failures felt like a spooky coincedence. They have since begun to seem like something rather more frightening. I exaggerate, perhaps, but the death of so many critics working on the same project in such a short space of time does strike me as just a little odd. Some of them were quite old, admittedly, but the demise of the others certainly came as something of a shock. Nobody, not even his anxious mother, expected Per Hansen to choke on that satsuma.

The greatest sadness of all, of course, lies in the fact that, amidst all this chaos, the review remains unwritten. God knows that we’ve tried to remedy this, but God clearly has other ideas. What they are exactly is beyond even my critical powers. I guess we’ll have to wait for him/her to write a novel.

Tickle the time-worn soles…

Here endeth the bulk of my reservations. Any conclusions? Why yes. From this I conclude that the brightest interruption is no more than a cunningly structured exploration of the well-established link between melody and memory, taking as its subject a character whose memories are barely worth accessing in this fashion, offering little in the way of great human insight and/or drama. Luca Maria-Mosa is the kind of writer who lives, I suspect, in a self-constructed haze of nostalgia. Why? Because nostalgia is comfy. It feels good to crouch in the warm sands of the past and feel the tides of reminiscence tickle the time-worn soles of your feet. What matter if some of the memories are sour? Memory does its best to touch things up. A lick of paint, a layer of varnish. And a little can go a long long way. Just lie back and let yourself fade away.

(Heidi Kohlenberg, review of Luca Maria-Mosa’s the brightest interruption)

With Kohlenberg’s review, all but one of the original fifty-two reviews of the Greatest European Novels by Contemporary Novelists have been re-published. The absence of the last review is a complicated matter, which I will explain in due course.

Washing Masymphony

Thornton Farland has been collecting washing machines for some years now, much to his partner’s chagrin. Last year he built a large barn at the bottom of his garden to accomodate all the machines. He also took out a large loan to deal with the spiralling electricity costs. Running forty washing machines at once, apparently, isn’t the cheapest way of working. But what does Thornton Farland care? In the search for new musical forms, a hefty energy bill is of little importance.

The sounds made by a washing machine have always fascinated Farland, and have already led to some pioneering musical works, including the 2005 piano sonata, Short Cycle, 30 degrees and the 2007 violin concerto, Wool Wash. These were, however, relatively short pieces, based on single washing cycles, or the behaviour of one particular machine. So far as he is concerned, there is much more to be done. ‘A washing machine has no less than symphonic potential’, he argued in a recent interview. Potential, that is, for not just one, but ten, symphonies.

Progress is, however, slow. According to one source, Farland is half-way through his series of Washing Masymphonies, due to premiere at the annual music festival in Irkutsk in early 2014. This leaves him a good three years to write five symphonies. In those three years, he expects to have listened to at least twelve washing cycles a day. That’s about 13, 000 cycles altogether.

See here for more on Thornton Farland.

Not All Idiot

How many times has Heidi Kohlenberg stabbed me in the back? How many atoms can you fit inside a jar? Few friends of mine have quite such a propensity for criticising me and my work. This is not to say that I am regretful: one needs to be reminded of one’s weaknesses, after all. But I wonder nevertheless why it is that Kohlenberg has taken it upon herself to lead the charge. Is it professional jealousy? Is it repressed sexual desire? It is mere fun?

Whichever it is, the evidence is not hard to find. Consider the following, from her review of Koira Jupczek’s Death Charts:

The real truth here is that Riecke, like so many male critics, compensates for the lack of drama in his life by supporting writers compensating for the lack of their drama in their lives by inventing it, in fantastical form, there upon the page…

And again, from the same review:

Which brings me to the question – is Georgy Riecke aware that Koira Jupczek is having a giggle or two at his expense? Is he brave enough to realise that his voracious appetite for death-inspired fiction is ultimately an act of cowardice; a hop, skip and a jump away from the harsh realities of, well, reality? Much as I would like to pull even more straw from the stomach of this rag-doll editor of mine, I must admit that he probably is well aware of Jupczek’s otherwise hidden intentions. He isn’t all idiot…

Aha! So a bead of affectionate sap seeps at last from the great oak of malice. I’m not ‘all idiot’, it transpires – which probably explains why Kohlenberg has been happy to work under my editorship for several years (what this suggests regarding the mental capacities of other editors is more than I dare to ask…)