F L C Gorngy – Fortitude 455

13 03 2011

It crept up on me, that’s how I remember it; rather like my ex-wife’s new husband (for whom the neutral ‘it’ is, as it happens, a sadly appropriate label). It’s not that you weren’t vaguely aware of its presence, rather that it was never anything more than one of many things happening at that time. I lie in moderation: you were in fact well aware that it had the potential to be a ‘big thing’ – you simply never found the time to sit down and worry about it. You thought that it was ‘out of your sphere’: out of your orbit. You were Pluto and it was one of Jupiter’s moons. Or at least you thought you were Pluto. Perhaps you were Jupiter all along. I don’t know. You were always aware of it, but still it crept up on you. Like old age, like death, like your ex-wife’s new husband. The most unsurprising surprise you ever had. Funny that.

By this time, it had arrived. Arrived for good. One of those arrivals you can no longer ignore. You were forced into thought. What is this really? What does it mean? Is it a good thing? Should I have been paying attention earlier?

As we’ve established, I could be talking about any number of things. For the sake of this review, however, I’m talking about the Read the rest of this entry »





C P Pedrik – The Ignoble Trilogy

13 03 2011

[Notwithstanding inaccuracies in its opening paragraph - I wouldn't say I 'revel' in critical fist fights - this remains a perfectly solid review of the book in question...]

When Georgy Riecke asked his friends, colleagues and miscellaneous others to help him compile a list of the Greatest Contemporary European Novels, it was in the knowledge (possibly the hope) that there would be little agreement. The classics of one’s own time are always hard to spot – and on the rare occasion that you proclaim with confidence your discovery of the new Joyce or Kolniyatsch, rest assured there will be someone waiting in the wings to rip it away from you. Like the best of us, Riecke revels in critical fist fights. It is to him what mud is to a hippopotamus, what cheese is to a mouse, what convoluted metaphors or needlessly long sentences are to those who like that sort of thing. Literary discourse, they call it. To those in the know, however, it’s simply a superior form of the playground punch-up. And long may it last. This is the way it goes – and if it didn’t go this way, we would worry. Our noble palms would sweat. Our furrowed brows would shift with the tectonic plates of mistrust.

Take the case of C P Pedrik. Almost everyone involved in Riecke’s gloriously pointless list put forward his 1985 work The Ignoble Trilogy. Agreement disturbed the peace. It was disagreeable. Like guilty businessmen searching for just the right amount of loose change to placate a friendly tramp, everyone scrambled for the most reasonable of unreasonable excuses for withdrawing their praise. Read the rest of this entry »





Nate Laami – Flaws in the Plan

6 03 2011

‘For a family who never saw a suicide victim, we wrote an awful lot of suicide notes’ remarked Nate Laami in a recent interview, obliquely casting light on the wisdom that lies curled like a hibernating (or possibly dead) dormouse in the subtext of his third novel, published in 2001 – a book which consists, quite simply, of nine suicide notes – all written by the same man. This book is, of course, Flaws in the Plan. And yet I have momentarily misled you – there is a little more to this novel than the suicide notes. I was forgetting the brief prologue; an introductory passage so brief, in fact, that I am content to quote it here in its entirety:

At around 75 for men and 80 for women, the average life expectancy in Finland is reassuringly high. Were it not for the Pishka family, with their long-standing tradition of committing suicide in their early thirties, I imagine that it would be even higher. Unfortunately, this unique and macabre tradition of theirs shows no sign of dying out. The Pishka’s chronic adherence to their family motto – “Succeed or Die” – essentially rules out the possibility of any change, the constant flaws in the personalities of each succeeding generation rendering their pursuit of success as futile as a trout’s pursuit of a grand piano. Andrey Pishka, thirty three last month and as foolish as every one of his ancestors, in next in line. Read the rest of this entry »





Maurice Moika – Circus Comes to San Josef

1 03 2011

[Lucien Ropes at his best? Certainly his most unhinged...]

Throughout my long and rather illustrious life, I have oft been pummelled with words. Sticks and stones? Sadly, no. Feel free to toss a stone or two in my direction: I should appreciate the change of scene. It would do my constitution good. Oh, the soft touch of a stone flung fiercely at the face! So much better than a string of letters from the pen or finger of a jealous enemy. So so much better. For words gnaw at one like silent mice. You think you’re fine, then wake one day to find a black hole in your mind, into which everything is sucked, like a swallow into an aeroplane engine. Sffwahck! Feathers everywhere. Simply dreadful.

It would be a bore to recount the latest diatribe fired in my direction, though I may as well tell you now that this particular enemy came from within. That’s right: within. And no, I don’t mean Georgy Riecke (for once), nor the feisty Miss Kohlenberg. Nor do I mean myself (I have never practised self-loathing; it gets in the way of my mirror worship). No, the foul beast was none other than: Read the rest of this entry »








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