You Are Reading My Reading Review Of If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller by Italo Calvino

You study meta-fiction in the third year of your Creative Writing degree. You learn that meta-fiction, put in simplest terms, is writing about writing that forms narratives. You study two pages of If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller by Italo Calvino. You find the concept funny, a writer interrupting themselves and dictating that the reader or The Reader is the protagonist. It is farcical and tells you that on page 32, you are reading a duplication of page 17 and when you turn back, there is in fact no page 17 and when you turn back to page 32, it’s a different page. You deem the book clever, but don’t take it out of the library because Paul Auster and William Burroughs scare you more right now.

You pick up If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller four years later in a charity shop. You don’t read it for another year or so. When you do read it, you find 256 pages of the above scenario something not worth the time. You contemplate, out loud to friends and a lover who is a better reader than you, that the book is clever to the point of missing the point. The point. The point is never something clear in writing, but you say, I can’t believe this book has carried on like this for this many pages and I’ve got so little from. You address, aloud, that you like the concept of having a book that encompasses extracts and passages from novels that don’t exist but have blended into the narrative because of the author diversions and The Reader’s lust for other books. You say, quietly, that you like the idea of trying to write new genre per chapter and the threading of an array of them into one book is no easy challenge. But the fundamental thing you realise is the pompousness of the book. How it is so aware of itself and forever expanding on what it thinks writing is. You claim, in exclamation marks, that it’s the equivalent of a book-long blow job that the writer is giving to himself. You think it’s kind of sexist too. Experimentation and being unlike any other narrative made the writer sacrifice any connection to character, you say. Insta-forgetable bar cleverness, you say.

You decide the review should end with another short review of a different book, because that’s what Calvino would have done. If you have not read Citizen: An American Lyric by Claudia Rankine, you could find yourself in a narrative that interrogates the world with a blend of poetry, prose, art and essay forms that divert and explode concepts in breath-sized passages. The book navigates the narrative of race and body in America, simultaneously speaks to its narrative in the world. You pace through it and retain all of it. There is an essay about Serena Williams and the media coverage of her tennis matches that you are certain should be studied by everyone, forever. It makes you a wreck on trains in front of half-sleep tourists and business folk who are screen glazed. It is dangerous, it is crafted beautifully, it takes you into lives and their accounts that expose the struggles of individuals in this world, individuals you will never know or meet, but you glimpse and are thankful for Rankine’s writing. You reaffirm, books like this are what need to be read and written now, should have been always. You are conscious you have not given Citizen: An American Lyric the amount of review space you should have. You are aware you may be part of the problem. You will continue to work to resolve this. You place Calvino in a charity bag that will remain under your bed until you remember to donate it, or there is no bed or book anymore, eaten away by the forget-me ants hidden in the dust.

If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller

Read: if you want to explore alternative narrative devices, farce, writing about writing.
Don’t Read: if you want actual meaning, genre defying, plot, characters.

Citizen: An American Lyric

Read: if you want writing that explores race narratives in America, poetry, prose, modern lyric, alternative narrative structure, cross art books, writing about writing, balanced journalism.
Don’t Read: if you still want to be blind.

Setlist Poem 17/09/2015

Tell a god while you are crouching under 

your half of the bunk bed. Your brother

might not come home. You know

a boy who knows Hesporous is the opposite

of an evening star. It’s cloudy and what he said

means nothing to you. Place a hacksaw

twice under your rib. Watch it in the wing mirror

of a car that hasn’t arrived yet. 

Tell an absent fairy you had a wish about today.

It listens by making aeroplane sounds 

for a thousand miles. You’re just talking 

to half a jaw, hand held,

that knows wood-anatomy,

that can’t answer back. Driveway light

cuts out. Wait for Hesperous.

The cerealbox bland-surprise is a sponge

astronaut toy, never shrinking,

not even in hours underwater. 

Find the puffy faced boy of the first prayer

eating from a bowl. 

Don’t tell him you were scared.

Set List Poem 12/03/2015

Spark a dance in the body shower, crematorium,
stays panic and leaving of lungs,
boys clamber into their invisible
silhouettes of old men who forget music sets
time in their unfolding
roses that die too quick, give them light,
tear the clocks from the walls, leave whole minutes,
return the ashes to a place they are understood.
Train fire to know when to leave a building alone.
Houdini was about freedom as much as he was escape.
Magnet me into place, into always smiling, into never falling.
Heart, give me a punch bag to take elsewhere out on.
Love the shatter and crumble of what we built.

This poem is written using the set list words as the first word per line.

Set List Poems!

I’m currently touring with Scott Freeman, acoustic rock madman, as part of his backing band. My fists are dedicated to drumsticks rather than pencils BUT I have to operate off of a set list of his songs each night, which just chimes of a poetry form challenge. After each gig, I’ll use the set list to generate work. It’ll be rough because we’re on the go, but better than not writing anything, right?

If you’d be up for some rock madness, check the gig poster and see if we’re in a place near you, it’d be great to see you.

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Antosh On Antosh – A Reading Review Of Ayoade On Ayoade: A Cinematic Journey by Richard Ayoade

Morning. Antosh and Antosh sit around a novelty tea party table. The cups are empty. There are no other guests.

Antosh:                                So, you’ve decided to review the book in the form of the book?

Antosh:                                Yes.

Antosh:                                And why’s that?

Antosh:                                It’s a visual representation of what the reader is in for when they sit down with this book expecting something straight forward, which I would argue was a mistake given it’s written by Richard Ayoade.

Antosh:                                OK… One of your comments whilst reading it was that you read more of the latter end of the book before the first half.

Antosh:                                How did you know I said/thought that?

Antosh:                                I was there…

Antosh:                                Ah yes. Well, it’s true. Ayoade essentially embarks on ten interviews with himself, all the while throwing you into the appendix section of the book to read reams and reams before you’ve advance past page 20. It’s a great technique. It means you can’t speed read and you’re totally focused on Ayoade’s voice, jokes and analogies.

Antosh:                                And did you learn much about cinema?

Antosh:                                Nope. Diddly-squat.

Antosh:                                So what was good about the book?

Antosh:                                It was funny. If you like Richard Ayoade, you’ll find this funny.

Antosh:                                But not one for cinema buffs trying to learn about ‘the process?’

Antosh does a dramatic claw-grab-the-air motion when he says ‘the process.’

Antosh:                I wouldn’t say so. Ayoade does his usual undercut-type humour where he leads you down the path of maybe talking about something that you will learn from and then makes another joke. But I think it works. It’s like a show-don’t-tell guide to him as a person. You’re never going to see him outside of his persona. Maybe he has no persona? He’s embedded in himself. I just love the fact that the book might have lured people into thinking it’s biographical and/or going to discuss his process, when really, you’re sinking into another facet of his comedic work. And he wants the reader to be angry, cheated, disappointed. He wants this book to be overanalysed. All of this is SO intentional. Which is why it’s worth a read.

Antosh:                                So, it’s an anti-book?

Antosh:                                That’s as good a conclusion as any.

Antosh shakes Antosh’s hand. They then break their tiny chairs over each other’s heads, laugh and exit the review.

Ayoade On Ayoade: A Cinematic Journey, by Richard Ayoade, Faber and Faber, 2014

Reading Review: The Rabbit Back Literature Society by Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen

This is a fiction book about fictional books and the fictional people who write them. The Rabbit Back Literature Society is a prestigious collective of nine writers in Finland, led by Laura White, who is regarded as their literary mentor and saviour. She’s a writing God, essentially. The Society is joined by the unexpected protagonist, Ella after she writes a short story. The writers flock to her and on we go with a story of mystery, writing and sexual tensions and suspected murder and… It’s a weird book. Super metaphysical shit goes down. It has an off-kilter prose style, which is either intentional or symptomatic of translation. Clean cut prose with some major turns in lines that made it hard to stay on my chair.

The Rabbit Back writers follow The Game; a technique they use to extract raw literature from each other. You can’t lie, each writer playing The Game has to spill. These sections, for the most part, switch into a present tense perspective, when the rest of the book is in past, and it comes across as urgency but is a little jarring, making me check what tense I was in beforehand. Maybe I should pay better attention. The spills are the most driving parts of the book. We see the most horrendous parts of writers come to life on their own lips, as they stand there, bleeding out, to someone else who can use it as material for their own work. It’s psychotic and truthful. Makes me think of my poetry lecturer telling me, ‘when you’re being beaten up in the street, you can find solace in the fact you’ll have something to write about after leaving the hospital.’ Why do we do this to ourselves?

In other places, it reads like a record skip. Stuff gets mentioned over and over, like the protagonist Ella, with perfect lips and defective ovaries. Nothing comes of these details. Jääskeläinen even mentions her job title over and over within short spaces of time. Turn the page, he’s reminding me she’s a lit grad. Again. This is all there really is to her. She’s a vehicle for the incredibly well-fleshed characters around her but I felt no arc in Ella throughout, so even though the journey is only possible because of her and what she learns is threatening weird and fun, she doesn’t progress as a character. She is still a researcher/lit teacher with perfect lips and an inability to have children. WHY MENTION IT?!?!!?! I mean, there is loose symbolism that I could tie it to in relation to the creation of work in the novel but it’s way loose…

Jääskeläinen has crafted a literary-mystery farce, loaded with heavy moments that are worth the read. But this is a book I was constantly asking myself ‘what is driving me to read this?’ The characters are worth it but if you want plot, stay away. It’s nice that Jääskeläinen gives you an opportunity to just be with characters, something that is undervalued BUT the plot still needs a sense of progression. Maybe if Ella changed more it would have been better.

Read When: You want character, visceral dream sequences, mystery, oddity, symbolism, some killer lines.
Don’t Read When: You want driving plot, conclusive endings, you’re avoiding ‘writer on writer’ type stories…

The Rabbit Back Literature Society, Pasi Ilmari Jääskeläinen, tr. from Finnish by Lola M. Rogers Pushkin Press, 2013

Reading Review: First Person and other stories, by Ali Smith

Ali Smith is another universe I’m taking a brisk walk through. I accidentally didn’t finish The Accidental – I started it on holiday with way too little time, strife of a reader, right? It’s hard to know where to start with writers like her, every time I get the thought to read her work, she seems to have a new book out. So, where to start… I was first introduced to her short fiction, so The First Person and other stories seems like the best idea.

I’d describe Smith as a zany Cormac McCarthy, without American reference points. She treats the page in a similar way to McCarthy; no punctuation above letters, no ‘ or ” to be found. The prose is bleach-clean. Dialogue relies solely the reader’s attention, the speech only distinguishable by the line breaks and the odd ‘he says… she says…’ It’s ergonomic, but unlike McCarthy, Smith delves into snapshots of human lives with a swift in/out, yet burdens your heart with each story. McCarthy paints desolate landscapes where you fight to choose humanity or abandonment or inevitable doom. These are writers of gravitational fields. Sink wisely. Smith is funnier, too. But enough with comparisons.

Good short stories for me shut out your ability to read anything else for a period of time. Smith’s world is a slow place to find your bearings, but I was immersed after two stories in this book and living with characters that I could hate/love/fear with ease. Smith interrogates person and tense in ways I’m not sure I even understand yet. She’s not afraid to leap perspective and drop you elsewhere in the turn of a line. I want call it poetry… but that’s what poets do to narrative.

There is commentary in many of these stories on how to write a story. The opener, ‘True short story,’ charts Smith’s attempt to write a short story while she edits it over in conversations with her friend who is fighting cancer. In the final pages, she even lists quotes from short story giants, my favourites being:

‘Jorge Luis Borges says that short stories can be the perfect form for novelists too lazy to write anything longer than fifteen pages.’

‘Alice Munro says that every short story is at least two short stories.’

My favourite story in the collection would have to be ‘No exit’ in terms of its character’s neurotic sprawl and how that comes to affect their everyday dialogue and interactions with the world. Smith weaves a fire exit metaphor in the story both in physicality in the character’s world and the reader’s mind. It’s a pathway story that sets up so many beginnings and endings that are all driven by character obsession. It took me a while to exit the story and get back into my body.

Smith’s writing is a constant diversion to then draw you into her key themes. There are times where I got lost and that can be a turn off in narrative, but if you can trust Smith’s writing, you will have learnt something from the path she led you down.

Ali Smith, The First Person And Other Stories, Hamish and Hamilton, 2008

Reading Review: The Education Of A British-Protected Child by Chinua Achebe

Do you ever find yourself wandering around bookshops and you see a name pop out in several places at once? Chinua Achebe is a writer I have not heard of for way too long.

This book is a collection of Achebe’s essays. He’s a writer of a vast canon of poems, novels, essays, stories, a well-known and leading professor, of whom I’ve never been exposed to. And here lies the most piercing part of this essay collection; Achebe comments on how long it has taken for African literature to receive the exposure it needs.

This volume is a mastercraft in social and cultural study. He writes of Nigeria, his home country and his Igbo ethnicity. He reflects on the impact of British colonisation and its dominance on his education and culture. He writes about English language and the weight of one’s choice to write within it. He writes many moments of critique on the novel, Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, seeking to dialogue with the book’s racist portrayals of African people within the novel; they’re presented as ‘savages,’ beast-like demons skulking in the forest, in Conrad’s words, ‘subhuman,’ reacting with violence as the white men delve deep into their home land to claim it as their own. This most blistering point of this essay is a moment where Achebe finds that when he first read this, he read it as if in the mind-set of the colonised British man, seeing the Africans in the novel as savages, serving as an absolute arrow into the heart of the effects of British colonization and its flooding of education.

By the end of the volume, I was completely in awe of these essay’s work, their writing. This is a book of seeing. At no point, did I feel manipulated by Achebe. He takes the middle ground so well in the face of being scorned, standing as possibly one of the most important writers and thinkers I have had the chance to stumble into. I wish I had been in the space when he delivered these speeches aloud, to hear the fire I am enthused by when reading them.

What I ask of myself now is why has it taken me so long to stumble into this work? When I look back at my degree, I can’t think of one African writer or translated work even cropping up in the secondary reading list. I think further back in my education and there is a slim line of classics that are upholding similar ‘explorations’ as Heart Of Darkness. These were all thrown to me at an early age as books to learn from. They are blinding.

I believe we can see and understand the world deeper through literature, but I do not think we can do this by absorbing these ancient texts, shaped by archaic thinkers. This used to be our only reference point in the world but this is no longer the case. We need to hear the stories from their core, from the people living through these experiences, to be exposed to them from our earliest ages. These writers need the same exposure as all others receive. We need to be challenged to read wider than the first option on that slim line of classics.

Chinua Achebe, The Education Of A British-Protected Child, Collected Essays, 2009, Alfred A. Knopf

Reading Review: There Once Lived A Woman Who Tried To Kill Her Neighbour’s Baby by Ludmilla Petrushevskaya

Continuing in the vein of Stephen King, I’m still in a dark place this week in terms of reading, hence this collection of short stories leapt off the library shelf for me. I’m always trying to read wider into translated texts too and this short story collection by Russian writer, Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, has been an expansive venture for me.

As the title suggests, this is a volume of punchy, dark stories. These are swift, eerie fairy tales, that don’t fail to deliver that gothic emptiness and slight-unsettling atmosphere. Many of the stories are about resurrection or unsuspected reanimation, my favourite being about a woman’s son who comes back from the dead in a blaze of vodka-soaking. These are funny stories, despite being dark, almost sarcastic fairy stories that derive from modern day situations.

The translation work is good, the stories are authentic and hold true to their reference points. Petrushevskaya throws us into Aesop Fable-esque lines that chart the vast passages of time in mere sentences. Some parts read almost as charming as PowerPoint summaries… and fail to grab at necessities in telling.  As a result, the pacing can be jaunty but is a trope of the genre and it’s cool to see this happen in a contemporary work of fiction.

Another trope executed by Petrushevskaya is cliff-hangered endings of the stories, sometimes to the point of ‘oh… did she just stop writing?’ But that could be down to translation. The rhythms of stories are formed by the language and I can’t make that a bad point of this reading… Also, I love jazz.

The stories are bullet size; you could finish the collection in an hour if you hit it hard, though I feel Petrushevskaya and her editors have crafted work that does benefit from laboured attention, as well as allowing the reader to pace through the work and retain stories.

There could be more shifts and pitches in the openings of the stories; they follow the trope of ‘there once lived…’ or ‘there once was…’ which can get tedious, yet again a trope of the genre… I’ve said that too many times throughout this review…

This is the first fairy tale book I’ve laughed through, whilst also being suitably arrested at points. The language isn’t playful, quite straight-cut economic, but the concepts that Petrushevskaya works with are sharp fantasy, so I think that makes up for it.

Read When: You want short stories, something from a different reference point, something dark-funny, supernatural, new fairy tales that read enough like old fairy tales.
Don’t Read When: You want language innovation, clean cut endings/resolutions, volume.

Ludmilla Petrushevskaya, There Once Lived A Woman Who Tried To Kill Her Neighbour’s Baby, translated and edited by Keith Gassen and Anna Summers, Penguin Books, 2009