The Fifteen Sonnets of Petrarch #Classic

Sketch of Laura as Venus C1444

Early in chapter six of One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, the suitor, Pietro Crespi is wooing Amaranta. He 'would arrive at dusk, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, and he would translate Petrarch's sonnets for Amaranta. They would sit on the porch, suffocated by oregano and the roses, he reading and she sewing lace cuffs.'

It would seem that Petrarch wrote 366 sonnets. I'm not sure how the translator of The Fifteen Sonnets decided which 15 to chose for his collection but he seems to have created a truncated version of Petrarch's love for Laura, from the joyous start to her death. Although whether Laura was a real person or not, is another story entirely.

Given how things turned out for Pietro and Amaranta, the truncated version seemed most apt.

I
O joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers!
’Mid which my pensive queen her footstep sets;
O plain, that hold’st her words for amulets
And keep’st her footsteps in thy leafy bowers!
O trees, with earliest green of springtime hours,
And all spring’s pale and tender violets!
O grove, so dark the proud sun only lets
His blithe rays gild the outskirts of thy towers!
O pleasant country-side! O limpid stream,
That mirrorest her sweet face, her eyes so clear,
And of their living light canst catch the beam!
I envy thee her presence pure and dear.
There is no rock so senseless but I deem
It burns with passion that to mine is near.




-5-
II
When Love doth those sweet eyes to earth incline,
And weaves those wandering notes into a sigh
With his own touch, and leads a minstrelsy
Clear-voiced and pure, angelic and divine,—
He makes sweet havoc in this heart of mine,
And to my thoughts brings transformation high,
So that I say, “My time has come to die,
If fate so blest a death for me design.”
But to my soul, thus steeped in joy, the sound
Brings such a wish to keep that present heaven,
It holds my spirit back to earth as well.
And thus I live: and thus is loosed and wound
The thread of life which unto me was given
By this sole Siren who with us doth dwell.




-7-
III
Sweet air, that circlest round those radiant tresses,
And floatest, mingled with them, fold on fold,
Deliciously, and scatterest that fine gold,
Then twinest it again, my heart’s dear jesses;
Thou lingerest on those eyes, whose beauty presses
Stings in my heart that all its life exhaust,
Till I go wandering round my treasure lost,
Like some scared creature whom the night distresses.
I seem to find her now, and now perceive
How far away she is; now rise, now fall;
Now what I wish, now what is true, believe.
O happy air! since joys enrich thee all,
Rest thee; and thou, O stream too bright to grieve!
Why can I not float with thee at thy call?




-9-
IV
Doth any maiden seek the glorious fame
Of chastity, of strength, of courtesy?
Gaze in the eyes of that sweet enemy
Whom all the world doth as my lady name!
How honor grows, and pure devotion’s flame,
How truth is joined with graceful dignity,
There thou mayst learn, and what the path may be
To that high heaven which doth her spirit claim;
There learn that speech, beyond all poet’s skill,
And sacred silence, and those holy ways
Unutterable, untold by human heart.
But the infinite beauty that all eyes doth fill,
This none can learn! because its lovely rays
Are given by God’s pure grace, and not by art.




-11-
V
O wandering steps! O vague and busy dreams!
O changeless memory! O fierce desire!
O passion strong! heart weak with its own fire;
O eyes of mine! not eyes, but living streams;
O laurel boughs! whose lovely garland seems
The sole reward that glory’s deeds require!
O haunted life! delusion sweet and dire,
That all my days from slothful rest redeems;
O beauteous face! where Love has treasured well
His whip and spur, the sluggish heart to move
At his least will; nor can it find relief.
O souls of love and passion! if ye dwell
Yet on this earth, and ye, great Shades of Love!
Linger, and see my passion and my grief.





-13-
VI
I once beheld on earth celestial graces
And heavenly beauties scarce to mortals known,
Whose memory yields nor joy nor grief alone,
But all things else in cloud and dreams effaces.
I saw how tears had left their weary traces
Within those eyes that once the sun outshone,
I heard those lips, in low and plaintive moan,
Breathe words to stir the mountains from their places.
Love, wisdom, courage, tenderness, and truth
Made in their mourning strains more high and dear
Than ever wove soft sounds for mortal ear;
And heaven seemed listening in such saddest ruth
The very leaves upon the bough to soothe,
Such sweetness filled the blissful atmosphere.




-15-
VII
Those eyes, ’neath which my passionate rapture rose,
The arms, hands, feet, the beauty that erewhile
Could my own soul from its own self beguile,
And in a separate world of dreams enclose,
The hair’s bright tresses, full of golden glows,
And the soft lightning of the angelic smile
That changed this earth to some celestial isle,—
Are now but dust, poor dust, that nothing knows.
And yet I live! Myself I grieve and scorn,
Left dark without the light I loved in vain,
Adrift in tempest on a bark forlorn;
Dead is the source of all my amorous strain,
Dry is the channel of my thoughts outworn,
And my sad harp can sound but notes of pain.




-17-
VIII
She ruled in beauty o’er this heart of mine,
A noble lady in a humble home,
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,
’Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine.
The soul that all its blessings must resign,
And love whose light no more on earth finds room
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom,
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine;
They weep within my heart; no ears they find
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care,
And naught remains to me save mournful breath.
Assuredly but dust and shade we are;
Assuredly desire is mad and blind;
Assuredly its hope but ends in death.




-19-
IX
Dreams bore my fancy to that region where
She dwells whom here I seek, but cannot see.
’Mid those who in the loftiest heaven be
I looked on her, less haughty and more fair.
She took my hand, she said, “Within this sphere,
If hope deceive not, thou shalt dwell with me:
I filled thy life with war’s wild agony;
Mine own day closed ere evening could appear.
My bliss no human thought can understand;
I wait for thee alone, and that fair veil
Of beauty thou dost love shall yet retain.”
Why was she silent then, why dropped my hand
Ere those delicious tones could quite avail
To bid my mortal soul in heaven remain?




-21-
X
Gentle severity, repulses mild,
Full of chaste love and pity sorrowing;
Graceful rebukes, that had the power to bring
Back to itself a heart by dreams beguiled;
A tender voice, whose accents undefiled
Held sweet restraints, all duty honoring;
The bloom of virtue; purity’s clear spring
To cleanse away base thoughts and passions wild;
Divinest eyes to make a lover’s bliss,
Whether to bridle in the wayward mind
Lest its wild wanderings should the pathway miss,
Or else its griefs to soothe, its wounds to bind;
This sweet completeness of thy life it is
Which saved my soul; no other peace I find.




-23-
XI
The holy angels and the spirits blest,
Celestial bands, upon that day serene
When first my love went by in heavenly sheen,
Came thronging, wondering at the gracious guest.
“What light is here, in what new beauty drest?”
They said among themselves; “for none has seen
Within this age arrive so fair a mien
From changing earth unto immortal rest.”
And she, contented with her new-found bliss,
Ranks with the perfect in that upper sphere,
Yet ever and anon looks back on this,
To watch for me, as if for me she stayed.
So strive my thoughts, lest that high heaven I miss.
I hear her call, and must not be delayed.




-25-
XII
Oft by my faithful mirror I am told,
And by my mind outworn and altered brow,
My earthly powers impaired and weakened now,—
“Deceive thyself no more, for thou art old!”
Who strives with Nature’s laws is over-bold,
And Time to his commandment bids us bow.
Like fire that waves have quenched, I calmly vow
In life’s long dream no more my sense to fold.
And while I think, our swift existence flies,
And none can live again earth’s brief career,—
Then in my deepest heart the voice replies
Of one who now has left this mortal sphere,
But walked alone through earthly destinies,
And of all women is to fame most dear.




-27-
XIII
Sweet wandering bird that singest on thy way,
Or mournest yet the time for ever past,
Watching night come and spring receding fast,
Day’s bliss behind thee and the seasons gay,—
If thou my griefs against thine own couldst weigh,
Thou couldst not guess how long my sorrows last;
Yet thou mightst hide thee from the wintry blast
Within my breast, and thus my pains allay.
Yet may not all thy woes be named with mine,
Since she whom thou dost mourn may live, yet live,
But death and heaven still hold my spirit’s bride;
And all those long past days of sad decline
With all the joys remembered years can give
Still bid me ask “Sweet bird! with me abide!”




-29-
XIV
Lust and dull slumber and the lazy hours
Have well nigh banished virtue from mankind.
Hence have man’s nature and his treacherous mind
Left their free course, enmeshed in sin’s soft bowers.
The very light of heaven hath lost its powers
Mid fading ways our loftiest dreams to find;
Men jeer at him whose footsteps are inclined
Where Helicon from dewy fountains showers.
Who seeks the laurel? who the myrtle twines?
“Wisdom, thou goest a beggar and unclad,”
So scoffs the crowd, intent on worthless gain.
Few are the hearts that prize the poet’s lines:
Yet, friend, the more I hail thy spirit glad!
Let not the glory of thy purpose wane!




-31-
XV
O ye who trace through scattered verse the sound
Of those long sighs wherewith I fed my heart
Amid youth’s errors, when in greater part
That man unlike this present man was found;
For the mixed strain which here I do compound
Of empty hopes and pains that vainly start,
Whatever soul hath truly felt love’s smart,
With pity and with pardon will abound.
But now I see full well how long I earned
All men’s reproof; and oftentimes my soul
Lies crushed by its own grief; and it doth seem
For such misdeed shame is the fruitage whole,
And wild repentance and the knowledge learned
That worldly joy is still a short, short dream.

Petrarch or Francesco Petrarca born 20th July 1304 - died 18th or 19th July 1374.
The Fifteen Sonnets selected and translated by Thomas Wentworth Higginson 1900
A Poem For A Thursday
One Hundred Years of Solitude Readalong

A Poem for A Thursday - How to Love Bronwyn

Today is our tenth wedding anniversary.

We've enjoyed ten years of love, laughter and happiness. Mr Books is a man of endless patience, with a big heart and a generous nature. Every day I am full of gratitude for our life together.

When I spotted this poem last week, I knew it would be the perfect choice to post today for A Poem for a Thursday. It's not often I find my name in a poem (or anywhere else for that matter). And when that poem also speaks to you and reflects your own truth, then you've found a winner!

Thank you Bronwyn Lovell for speaking so eloquently for the both of us.


How to Love Bronwyn
By Bronwyn Lovell | 1 February 2012 | Cordite Poetry Review


Don’t try too hard.
If it requires effort,
if it is difficult for you,
this is not for your portfolio.

It must come naturally,
like holding out your hand to test for rain,
and if you should feel something,
put away your umbrella.

Surrender to the pitter-patter
of unexpected kisses,
and if you get the urge to run
when they start to come hard and fast,

please do. This job is not for you.
I need a detective
to find the logic
behind my contradictions,

who will explain them to me patiently,
so I can come to better know myself.
I need a curator who won’t ignore
the chips and cracks,

who will study them,
run his fingers along their length –
an informed buyer
who knows the condition of his prize.

I need a break wall
to protect me from the storms
without and within myself.
Someone who will not ebb and flow,

who won’t come and go.
I need a man sure enough
of his own two feet
to anchor us both.

I am a body of water.
You need to know enough
of drowning
to know how to love me well.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Bronwyn is a Flinders University PhD candidate in creative writing, researching depictions of women in narratives set in space and composing a feminist science fiction verse novel.

Jennifer @Holds Upon Happiness posts a lovely Poem for a Thursday each week. I enjoy sourcing poems from my recent reads to join in with her whenever I can.

There Was Still Love by Favel Parrett

The profoundly moving new novel from the critically acclaimed and Miles Franklin shortlisted author of PAST THE SHALLOWS and WHEN THE NIGHT COMES. A tender and masterfully told story of memory, family and love. 

Prague, 1938: Eva flies down the street from her sister. Suddenly a man steps out, a man wearing a hat. Eva runs into him, hits the pavement hard. His hat is in the gutter. His anger slaps Eva, but his hate will change everything, as war forces so many lives into small, brown suitcases. 

Prague, 1980: No one sees Ludek. A young boy can slip right under the heavy blanket that covers this city - the fear cannot touch him. Ludek is free. And he sees everything. The world can do what it likes. The world can go to hell for all he cares because Babi is waiting for him in the warm flat. His whole world. 

Melbourne, 1980: Mala Li ka's grandma holds her hand as they climb the stairs to their third floor flat. Inside, the smell of warm pipe tobacco and homemade cakes. Here, Mana and Bill have made a life for themselves and their granddaughter. A life imbued with the spirit of Prague and the loved ones left behind. 

Favel Parrett's deep emotional insight and stellar literary talent shine through in this love letter to the strong women who bind families together, despite dislocation and distance. It is a tender and beautifully told story of memory, family and love. Because there is still love. No matter what.

I read Past the Shallows, Parrett's debut novel when it first came out in 2011 and adored it. It was sad, beautiful and set in Tasmania, all positives that ensured an enjoyable reading experience. I never got around to reading her 2014 novel, When the Night Comes, for no particular reason. Time just got away from me and the moment to read it passed.

I didn't want to make the same mistake with There Was Still Love. So when my ARC from Hachette Australia arrived, I sat it on top of the pile by my bed, and here we are, a few short weeks later, with it read, even before it's publication date on the 24th September.

I have been struggling, though, to find a way to talk about this book for awhile. That is until, a weekend visit to see the Archibald Prize exhibition at the Art Gallery of NSW, gave me a quote to work with.

Fiona Lowry was this year's Sulman Prize judge. A plaque near the entrance explained her thinking as she approached the judging process.

I was reminded of an interview I recently read with the artists Eric Fischl where he suggests that artists are looking for love, and they are expressing love in their commitment to what they have made.

He goes on to say: 'Love is complicated, obviously. But the reason artists do what they do on some level is to say: "Don't look at me, look at this thing I made you and you will know the true me."' 

Judging and viewing and reviewing another's artistic efforts is a privilege I don't take lightly. I'm aware that heart, body and soul goes into most creative work. It is an act of love and trust and hope.

And an act of incredible bravery. Because once a creation leaves the artists hands and enters the public sphere, anything can happen. The whole process becomes totally subjective and out of their control.

How one reacts to art can depend on so many variables, and just because something doesn't appeal to you or move you right now, doesn't mean the work is 'bad' or that others won't adore it.

So, I respectfully confess, that I may be in the minority here, when I say that I was underwhelmed by There Was Still Love. Yes, the prose was beautifully rendered, yes it was moving (but not profoundly so). Yes, I also believe that Parrett is a literary talent, but I wanted more.

There was tenderness, dislocation and strong women but the emotional insight was, dare I say, nothing new. I kept waiting for something or someone who never turned up. Or to return to the food analogies of the last few posts, There Was Still Love was a souffle that failed to rise. All the right ingredients and processes were in place, but the chemical magic failed to kick in.

It's always good to be reminded of how love makes this life-long journey worthwhile and to revisit the different ways love can be experienced and expressed, but, in the end, so many books have covered this same ground already. At least most of the books that I choose to read. So I was looking for something meatier; I was expecting something more. Especially since one of my colleagues finished his copy last month and has been gushing about it ever since.

There Was Still Love was a lovely dance across the surface of love, memory and family, but I prefer books that dive into the depths. It was a gentle interlude in my usual reading schedule, a bit like eating fairy floss, light and airy and sweet. Lovely writing, a lovely premise, but not quite enough to whet my appetite.

Love's Coming by John Shaw Neilson

Your Love's Coming Down Like Rain by Lorette C Luzajic

Love's Coming (1896)

Quietly as lovers
Creep at the middle noon,
Softly as players tremble
In the tears of a tune;

Quietly as lilies
Their faint vows declare,
Came the shy pilgrim:
I knew not he was there.

Quietly as tears fall
On a wild sin,
Softly as griefs call
In a violin;

Without hail or tempest,
Blue sword or flame,
Love came so lightly
I knew not that he came.

John Shaw Neilson
(1872 - 1942)


I came across this poet in McGirr' s book, Books That Saved My Life. McGirr described his poem as 'pure angel dust'.

'It is one of the most tender love poems, written by someone who had missed out on romance.' 

'The poem is blind. Love is felt and heard, but not seen. It was published in a time when Neilson's eyesight was going from bad to worse.'

Jennifer @Holds Upon Happiness posts a lovely Poem for a Thursday each week. I'm enjoying sourcing poems from my recent reads to join in with her at the moment.

Junior Fiction - the rest!

Following on from my recent post featuring several fabulous Australian junior fiction titles, I thought it was time to venture further afield to see what the rest of the world (or at least the US, UK and Japan) were doing in this field.

The Afterwards is a new story by U.K. poet A. F. Harrold, illustrated by Emily Gravett, the well-known picture book illustrator. Like so many books for kids these days, the story explores friendship, death and loss. It is quite dark at times and some children may find the 'other world' that our young protagonist is able to visit quite creepy in much the same way that Neil Gaiman's Coraline's 'other mother' is creepy. But the ending is positive with a focus on living in the moment, honouring those you loved and being present.

Dear Professor Whale by Megumi Iwasa and Jun Takabatake (illustrator) wasn't quite as sweet and charming as Yours Sincerely, Giraffe, but it still highlighted the importance of friendship, kindness and belonging via the old-fashioned means of communication, letter writing.

The action centres around the reviving of the Whale Point Olympics. The older Olympians are honoured and revered while the youngsters are encouraged to engage in friendly competition and teamwork rather than winning gold medals at all cost.

The empathy message may have been laid on a bit thick this time round, but it's hard to take offence when it's so well-meaning and good-natured.

Front Desk by Kelly Yang is for the older end of the junior fiction spectrum - probably 10+ and is loosely based on her own experiences as a new immigrant to the States in the early 1990's. Yang wanted to tell her son about how she grew up and what it was like being an immigrant. In a letter at the front of the books she says,

I grew up in a motel. I didn't have any toys or nice clothes. My parents were struggling...and life was very, very hard for us; it was hard for everyone in our motel, from the immigrants we hid at night to the guests who stayed by the week, folks who got mistreated by the police and were stuck in the same sad cycle of poverty.

I had been searching for a way the right way to tell my son all of this, a way that didn't scare him, but inspired him....Draft after draft, I dug deeper and deeper until the shame and pain and joy of my childhood were so open and exposed, it scared me.

For such a hard won story, it reads lightly and easily. Diversity is celebrated, as is a strong sense of family and friendship. Belonging, perseverance and hard work are standards held up for admiration. Disadvantage and racism are sadly also on show and not just from the American population, Yang also subtly shows the tensions between mainland Chinese immigrants and Taiwanese Chinese.

One of my new favourites though is Louisiana's Way Home by Kate DiCamillo. Her writing is stunning as always and Louisiana is a delightful, spunky creation. Suddenly, without explanation, Louisiana is on the run with her Grandma. What follows is a journey of major self discovery as Louisiana learns some painful home truths and discovers just how strong and resilient she really is.

We all, at some point, have to decide who we want to be in this world. It is a decision we make for ourselves. 

Forgiveness, hope and courage are DiCamillo's calling cards - they shine very brightly in this tender, bittersweet story. And it wouldn't be a DiCamillo story if we didn't also learn about the kindness of (some) strangers (although don't get me started on the grandmother!)

Perhaps what matters when all is said and done is not who puts us down but who picks us up.

I'm starting to loose track of ALL the princesses-turned-monster-fighting-superheroes in The Princess in Black series by Shannon Hale but #6 and the Science Fair Scare is still full of all the fun, derring-do, go-girl attitude of the earlier stories.

It's hard NOT to be charmed by these sassy young things with their alter-ego monster-fighting persona's. But I guess at some point, I'd like to see these girls (& the dashing young Goat-Boy) come out from behind their masks and let the world see who they really are all the time.

Book 6 feels like a transition point. Everyone now seems to be 'in' on the secret and it would be nice if the girls didn't have to pretend to be pretty, prim princesses in public any more.

I love junior fiction at this time of year. It's entertaining, easy reading. But they're not always light on topic or emotional impact. These books feature BIG themes with BIG heart. They are books that can be enjoyed by adults just as much as the younger people in their lives. There is way more to junior fiction than the Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries, and I for one, am very grateful for that!

Normal People by Sally Rooney

I'm heart broken.

And I may just have read my most favourite and best book for 2018.

Sally Rooney has written a gut-wrenching, painfully poignant love story about two young damaged souls that will stay with me for a very long time. In Normal People she has captured perfectly all the angst, insecurity and missteps that dog any young relationship. Especially when the two young people involved are still trying to work out their own issues leftover from their childhood.

Marianne had the sense that her real life was happening somewhere very far away, happening without her, and she didn’t know if she would ever find out where it was and become part of it.

Rooney explores the misconceptions around 'normal' and the anxieties we inflict on ourselves in our attempts to belong, to not stand out from the crowd or to be different. On the outside both Connell and Marianne look like they have 'normal' enough family lives. But Connell is being raised by a young single mum and doesn't know who his father is (his mum has said she he has happy to discuss it with him, but he doesn't want to know).

Marianne is also being raised by a single mum (and an older brother), but her father died a number of years ago. Her family is wealthy and except for a dad, seems to have it all. Connell's mum cleans house for Marianne's family. They avoid each other at school, but strike up intense conversations in Marianne's kitchen, as Connell waits for his mum to finish.

Connell is one of the popular, sporty kids at school, who hides just how clever he is to fit in. Marianne doesn't bother hiding how smart she is and doesn't try to fit in. She actively goes about being different, disdainful and fiercely independent.

Normally, I wouldn't be drawn to a tortured romance between two YA's. I had more than enough of that in my own YA years! But this is not your normal YA love story. Rooney gets deep into the heart of this relationship. She teases out each painful nuance and she takes you on this emotional journey that feels very real and very authentic.

We soon learn that Marianne's dad was a violent, unpleasant man. Her mother and brother have dealt with their pain around this by identifying with the perpetrator. They now give back a weird, messed up mix of psychological and physical abuse to Marianne, the only one who has rebelled against this way of living a life.

And as time goes by, we realise just how insecure and anxious Connell really is once he leaves his home base to go to uni. Spending his childhood trying so hard not to stand out, now means that he doesn't know how to stand on his own two feet in the bigger world.

This is a torturous journey, a train-wreck at times, but I couldn't put it down. I cared for both of them, even as I wanted to shake them into perfect understanding. All those things unsaid, assumed and misspoken that so often plague young love (and many older loves that I know) are explored in agonising detail. My heart is broken, but there is hope.

Normal People deserves the buzz it's getting. We all need to be reminded, at times, how important it is to tell those we love how we really feel.

• Longlisted for the 2018 Man Booker
• Shortlisted for the 2018 Costa Book Award
• Longlisted for the 2020 International Dublin Literary Award.

Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto

I've loved Japanese literature for many years now, but since visiting Japan earlier this year, my fascination and interest has exploded! Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto popped up on several lists as a great contemporary example of Japanese literature.

Kitchen is a slim book containing two stories - Kitchen and Moonlight Shadow - both deal with death, grief, mothering and healing. Kitchen is the longer of the two and I was enchanted from page one. The language is deceptively simple and at times I worried that it was too simple. I wasn't sure if this was a translation issue or part of Yoshimoto's urban grunge charm. Except that somehow, very quickly, with no fuss or bother, Mikage's tragic tale crept into my heart and stayed. 

Yoshimoto has created two beautiful, tender tale about loss and how to move forward from it. Her writing is suffused with innocence and warmth. Although her characters experience discontent and confusion, loneliness and urban angst, ultimately there is hope and love. 

In her Preface, Yoshimoto says,

Growth and the overcoming of obstacles are inscribed on a person's soul. If I have become any better at fighting my daily battles, be they violent or quiet, I know it is only thanks to my many friends and acquaintances.

Both these stories are testimony to this belief. Friendship acts as a band aid for heartbreak. Being connected and making room for others in your life is what gets you through the tough days. For Yoshimoto's characters, this connection often occurred around the rituals of food, eating and tea drinking.

A dream-like almost mystical element imbued her work as well. Both stories have a dash of magic realism or other-worldliness, that I found to be appealing in a very Japanese way. The emotion is subtle and subdued and the cast of characters quirky and eccentric in a 1980's version of Harajuku style. I suspect that this particular version of Japanese gender fluidity might meet with some raised eyebrows by current Western thinking, however it felt culturally and historically appropriate to my burgeoning knowledge of Japanese society.

Yoshimoto said that her two main themes are 'the exhaustion of young Japanese in contemporary Japan' and 'the way in which terrible experiences shape a person’s life'.

I'm not really sure that I spotted the exhaustion of which she speaks, but there was certainly an ennui and disconnect with the more traditional values of Japanese society.

I decided to not include any quotes in this post, because when I tried, they didn't work out of context.

If you enjoy minimalist, zen-like Japanese literature, then I think this will work for you. But if Murakami, Yoko Ogawa, Hiro Arikawa or Takashi Hiraide are not your thing, they stay away from the Kitchen!

In 1987 Yoshimoto won the 6th Kaien Newcomers' Literary Prize for Kitchen. In 1988 the novel was nominated for the Mishima Yukio Prize and in 1999 it received the 39th Recommendation by the Minister of Education for Best Newcomer Artist. In 1988 she also won the 16th Izumi Kyōka Prize for Literature for the novella Moonlight Shadow, which is included in most editions of Kitchen.

First published in 1988 and translated into English by Megan Backus in 1993.

Lenny's Book of Everything by Karen Foxlee

I fell in love with Karen Foxlee's writing in 2014 when I read and loved Ophelia and the Marvellous Boy.

A Most Magical Girl confirmed her ability to move me with her words. So much so, that I acquired her YA backlist to read...one day...!

So I was thrilled to discover recently that she had a new book, Lenny's Book of Everything, due out later in the year. When an ARC turned up last week with my reps tear-soaked tissue rave about how good it was ringing in my ears, I popped it on top of the TBR pile for the weekend.

All the PR on the inside covers suggested that this would be Foxlee's 'break-out book', the one that would finally tip her over into the big time (where I've always thought she belonged, by the by).

The opening sentence told me they were correct.

Our mother had a dark heart feeling.

Straight away I had that lovely goosebumpy shiver of anticipation feeling that happens oh-so rarely these days. I knew this book was going to break my heart yet I couldn't stop myself. Even when that breaking my heart feeling almost got too strong, I couldn't look away for long. Because Foxlee breaks your heart so tenderly, so hopefully, so sweetly that you can't not go along for the ride.

Every life has times of sadness and darkness, stories like this remind us that despite the darkness, within the sadness, there can be kindness, loving and beauty. This is what makes our lives worthwhile, this is what gets us through the bad times.

Foxlee also reminds us that words have power. They have meaning and purpose. Some people choose to put that power and purpose to a negative use, but Foxlee shows us the positive, glorious, wondrous nature of words and knowledge. Words that illuminate, uplift and provide hope are her speciality. Her words enrich our lives and fill our souls with joy.

I know, I'm gushing! But I'm not the only one smitten.

The book is full of gushing quotes:
Anna McFarlane (publisher, Allen & Unwin) - it raises spirits while it breaks hearts.
Eva Mills (publishing director) - broke my heart (in a good way!)...a deep understanding of humanity.
Juanita Keig (account manager) - importance of kindness and human solidarity.
Radhiah Chowdhury (editor) - soothes even as it relates the most unutterable pain.

Karen Foxlee's note tells us that this story about 'an encyclopedia set and a boy who kept growing' has been in her head for quite some time, and that when she 'finally sat down to write it, Lenny was there waiting for me. I felt immediately comfortable in her voice.' It shows.

The complexities and nuances within this story have been woven in seamlessly and apparently, effortlessly by Foxlee. Her characters are fully realised with whole back stories just sitting out of sight, influencing all their actions and reactions. The push and pull between her characters as they rubbed up against each other on a daily basis, felt so real and so natural. They loved, they annoyed, they cared and they hurt each other.

Foxlee said she was trying to explore 'love in all its forms' and how wonderful it is to be alive and that 'even in the darkest hours, there's always hope'. She succeeded.

Although Foxlee is Australian through and through, she has set this story in the 1970's in New York City. I've never lived in NYC, but I now feel like I have, at least, in this one little pocket of NYC so vividly described by Foxlee.

The rest of the story details I leave for you to discover yourself.

Not many books make me cry out loud - I can count the contenders on one hand - but Lenny's Book of Everything made me blubber. Yes, my heart was broken, but it wasn't unbearable. My heart was full of love, wonder and hope too and my heart was mended, again.

The comparisons to Wonder, The Boy in the Striped Pyjama's and The Book Thief are spot on. They are all very different stories, told in very different ways, but they all share an authenticity and tell an emotional truth that is universal and enduring.

The final hardback cover will look like this:

If you'd like to read about the creative process that made this stunning cover, read about it @Things Made From Letters.

Lenny's Book of Everything is a Nov 2018 publication Allen & Unwin.
Book 20 of #20booksofsummer (winter) WAHOO!!
Temperature in Northern Ireland 19℃
Temperature in Sydney 18℃

The Neverending Story by Michael Ende

I have a vague recollection of seeing the 1984 movie version of The NeverEnding Story in my late teens. It was a bit too juvenile for my sophisticated, desperate-to-be-grown-up self at that time, so other than a shaggy white flying dragon and a boy clinging to its neck, I remember nothing. And felt no need to know any more.

Until a copy of the book fell into my hands recently & I decided to add it to my #20booksofsummer (winter) list as a bit of light relief.

Die unendliche Geschichte was published in German in 1979 by Michael Ende, a prolific and very successful children's writer. He was born in 1929 in Bavaria to a surrealist painter and a physiotherapist. In 1935 the young family moved to Munich to live in an artistic community. But in 1936, his father's work was declared 'degenerate' by the Nazi's forcing him to work in secret.

The young Ende experienced bombings and compulsory membership in the Hitler Youth before being drafted into the Volksturm in 1945. However, the story goes that he tore up his papers and joined a Bavarian resistance movement for the remainder of the war instead.

After the war, he dabbled in poetry, acting and play writing. His first novel, Jim Knopf was published in 1960. However 1960's Germany was not a good time to be writing escapist literature. Post-war Germans were all about political commitment and realism; feeling undervalued he moved to Italy to live. It was here that he wrote The Neverending Story.

He went on to write 30 books before his death in 1995. Ende was a human rights activist, anti-rearmament and a campaigner for peace.

His influences included Rudolf Steiner, Rainer Maria Rilke and a life-long fascination with Japan.

The Neverending Story is a fantastical fairy tale, full of imaginative wish fulfilment. Each chapter begins with a letter of the alphabet, which must have a been a challenge for the translator, Ralph Manheim. The first half of the book sees motherless, unloved Bastian Balthazar Bux reading a story about another land in grave danger of disappearing into Nothingness. The protagonist appears to be a young warrior/hero called Atreyu with his faithful horse Artax and a luckdragon named Falkor. The story appears to be a lesson on imagination, the nature of lies, power and purpose.

This is where the movie ends.

Ende felt that this adaptation's content deviated so far from the spirit of his book that he requested that production either be halted or the film's title be changed; when the producers did neither, he sued them and subsequently lost the case. Ende called the film a "gigantic melodrama of kitsch, commerce, plush and plastic" (Ein "gigantisches Melodram aus Kitsch, Kommerz, Plüsch und Plastik").The film only adapts the first half of the book, and consequently does not convey the message of the title as it was portrayed in the novel. (Wikipedia)

I can see why Ende was upset. At this point the story did not feel 'neverending'. It was a tremendous fantasy about courage and truth, but it wasn't until the story moved onto Bastian's entry into the fantasy world that the cyclical nature of the story became apparent. Suddenly the tone shifted from imagination to creation. Pure escapism and wish fulfilment surrounded Bastian as he gradually learnt to be careful what you wish for. Bastian transformed himself from a dumpy, unloved, fearful boy into a strong, handsome, brave protagonist. It took him the rest of the story to realise that the real meaning of a well-lived life is love, memory and being true to yourself.

The Neverending Story is a classic quest story that will delight fantasy-loving readers of any age.

Book 11 of #20BooksofSummer (winter)

Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami

I like to think that I have taken my 'what to read whilst travelling' choices to an inspired level of brilliance, but I really outdid myself with our recent trip to Japan. Reading Murakami in Japan now feels like the ONLY place to read Murakami!

Not only does the usual Murakami weirdness make sense when you're actually in Japan, but you also realise just how important the environment is to Murakami and his characters. His descriptions of the trees, forests, waterways and urban spaces are everywhere as you move around the country. As are the crows.

In this case, the boy named crow is a mentor to our young protagonist, Kafka Tamura, perhaps an alter ego, a Japanese Jiminy Cricket. Whatever crow is or isn't, right from word one, Murakami is flagging that symbolism, mythology and psychology will be our prime concerns in Kafka on the Shore.

In Japanese mythology, crows are seen as a sign of 'divine intervention in human affairs' (wikipedia). Western mythology tends to associate the crow with bad news or as a harbinger of death. They're selfish, spread gossip and neglect their young. And they're everywhere in Japan. They sit on telegraph wires, fence posts and roof tops. You often wake up to their cawing, even in the city.

Cats are the other creatures that dominant not only Murakami stories, but many Japanese stories, yet curiously I didn't see one single cat in three weeks, let alone a talking cat! The opposite of the crow, cats are creatures of good luck, although still often associated with death and hauntings.

Silence, I discover is something you can actually hear.

There is no denying that Murakami is on very intimate terms with kooky.

If the talking cats weren't enough, a cameo appearance by Johnny Walker and Colonel Sanders of KFC fame might tip you over the edge. A reference to the (fictional) Picnic at Hanging Rock as an example of another group loss of consciousness event caught my eye. Did Murakami know that it was an urban myth? Is that what he was implying about his own story? The sense of mystery and other-worldliness was certainly a shared atmosphere between the two stories.

I was also amazed by truck drivers who suddenly became classic music afficiandos, quiet librarians who turned out to be sex fiends and sex workers who quoted philosophers. What's not to love? The kookiness gets under my skin and into my head. Just like what happened to me with his previous books.

1Q84 is still roaming around in my head, Colourless Tsukuru less so, but it's still a memorable book experience.

Things outside you are projections of what's inside you, and what's inside you is a projection of what's outside you. So when you step into the labyrinth outside you, at the same time your stepping into the labyrinth inside. 

One of the really enjoyable aspects to reading Murakami in Japan is the place names. Suddenly they really mean something. Most of the action in Kafka takes place in Takamatsu on the island of Shikoku. 

We didn't get to Shikiko with this visit, but we did see one of the huge bridges, from a distance, that joins Shikoko to Honshu and we spent some time at the station that is the interchange for the JR line that goes to Takamatsu. Seeing the name of the city featured in my book up in lights suddenly grounded this surreal story into reality.

This is only my fourth Murakami (see my Author Challenge tab for details) so I'm not sure I can safely name all his common themes and ideas, but there are a few that I've clocked. Going into the woods/fear of getting lost, weird sex, talking creatures, dreams, random jazz references, loneliness and silence. And for me, the reader, there is an over-riding sense of bewilderment (WTF was that about?) as well as an overwhelming sense of wanting more (whatever it was a think I like it!) 

I'm caught between one void and another. I have no idea what's right, what's wrong. I don't even know what I want anymore. I'm standing alone in the middle of a horrific sandstorm. I can't move, and can't even see my fingertips.

Murakami doesn't wrap his stories up with a neat, tidy bow or resolve many of the story lines. This should be totally frustrating...and it is, but somehow you love being kept in the dark and confused at the same time. Perhaps it's the likeable characters? Or perhaps it's the not so subtle way he plays with your head? Or perhaps it is the hope that the next book he writes will bring you one step closer to understanding this maddening man and his ability to suck you into his world. 

Every one of us is losing something precious to us....Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That's part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads - at least that's how I imagine it - there's a little room where we store those memories.

Image source

Murakami likes to do the whole books in books thing. Kafka's backlist was an obvious start -The Castle, The Trial, Metamorphosis and In the Penal Colony in this case. But he also referenced The Arabian Nights, the complete works of Natsume Soseki, a book about the trial of Adolf Eichmann (I can only assume it was Hannah Arendt's Eichmann in Jerusalem), Electra by Sophocles, The Tale of the Genji and 'The Chrysanthemum Pledge' in Tales of Moonlight and Rain by Ueda Akinari.

So many tangents, so many connections, which one should I tackle next?