nothing like I thought it would be, given the chatter on Lawton and deep vellum a few weeks ago
am only on page 70 all seminary days so far can see the language weirdnesses and flowerings begin
acutely observed and piercing---what was that great phrase Updike used for Handke?
but pity poor readers who had no catholic upbringing no Italianate churchiness---guess they would read it as exotica
would I enjoy reading all of Frank Waters to get more clued in to the pueblo realities on the glyphic mesas?
ordered a mystery writer of younger generation, set in Albuquerque
our real life drama for the next two-twenty years will be most interesting If it were an episode of Cassandra or Candice or Emily; MBTI check would tell the script writers: L is an esfj, A is an entj; each would make superb trial lawyers. Engrenage tripled with psychologists, lawyers, procrojuctor (whatever that title is) and principles. with principals. or principals with principles J and J onstage
Dramatism reigns, returns, arches over all
one good short talk yesterday reminded me to check the mbti again my guide in all things
Bela seems to be regaining her left leg strength. Almost as though her whole system just says, hey, summer is here, time to cool down, rest, chill, tune out for a while
Lisa sent photo of Emrys visiting there today. I guessed he is 26; C confirms that based on his age against Emma's. He was 12 in Paris when she was a baby. Playing his loud violin outside on the terrace facing the daily weather balloon.
Saturday Aug 8 Jon guiding the day excursion to tubing from Livermore Falls (Arethusa) to the Plymouth bridge landing park. Super muggy day; feels awful. headache if full pressure. Glad Fagan and I agreed I should get an MRI. Adventure awaits.
got a passage on Moresco to paste in here from a site called themodernnovel.org but I don't know who the author is for that site "Scarpa also comments that this is a masterpiece and I am inclined to agree with him. Clearly, given that Moresco himself was a novice priest, a member of a far left group and struggled to get his work published, we must assume that it is, at least in part, autobiographical.
However, as hinted above, the book does not readily fit into any current Italian literary tradition which may explain its lack of success in its homeland, and perhaps, the fact that it has only been translated into German and not into any other language. However, Moresco has clearly created a brilliant absurdist classic, unpredictable, wandering, vague, witty, clever, going off on strange tangents, with odd characters and strange natural phenomena and a narrator whom we see as often lost in this world, saying yes at the wrong time, unsure of "
Mia Cuoto at novel
themodernnovel.com she has this great line before her faq page
Books are never written. When we read them, we write them.
Mia Couto
she posted this wonderful account of a Handke novel I had not heard of and which is not in English, hence my free borrowing of this from her---who will ever know?
"
Peter Handke: Kali [Potash]
Handke’s books often concern loners making strange journeys to somewhat exotic, perhaps mysterious locations. This is one of those books. A woman singer – we do not know her name – has just finished a singing tour in a Northern city and she is now leaving. Not only is it the last performance of her tour, it is the last performance of the season in the city because, as her limousine driver says, all performers now head South, as winter is approaching. She is heading it seems to her childhood home, a pre-winter city but also an emigrant (not immigrant) city, as Handke describes. (Even this is ambiguous, as when, a guitarist she is talking to, asks her where she is going, she replies In meiner Kindergegend. Oder nein, in der Nachbargegend. In der Gegend gleich neban, hinter dem Kindheitsfluss, hinter dem Kindheitsee, hinter dem Kindheitshügel. In der Gegend hinter meiner Gegend. [In my childhood region. Or, rather, no, in the neighbouring region. In the region immediately next to it, behind the childhood river, behind the childhood lake, behind the childhood hill. In the region behind my region.]) The city seems to be called Emigrants. The local football team certainly is. The area is noted for its huge underground reserves of salt (hence the title of the book), which were formed from a large long since disappeared sea and mining this salt is one of the occupations of the local populace.
Our heroine has something of a picaresque journey round this strange city. When she arrives, things seem quite straightforward. Indeed, the bus driver recognises her, as they were at school together. He even invites her to stay with him as he is not only a bus driver, but the owner of the local hostelry. the people she meets are not what we would call straightforward. They speak also as though they come straight out a fable – in a strange language, almost a philosophical language, but in conundrums and statements and Handke-like obscurities. And the whole visit is described in almost a dream-like style. She meets her mother who, she feels, has been expecting her but the mother takes it almost for granted when she turns up unannounced. We learn that (like Handke’s mother), her mother is not from that region but as to where she is from, several wildly conflicting options are given, none of which may be true. And there clearly are immigrants. One man states that they used to be from the East but now come from everywhere. This clearly mirrors the situation in Austria, where immigrants used to come mainly from Czechoslovakia, fleeing Communism, but now may come from anywhere. Indeed, we see a group arriving by boat and Handke clearly points out that they are not white.
Is this country a version of Austria, a pre-winter Northern country? And who is the singer? One man says of her Sie verkörpern das Tod [You personify death]. Austrian writers have made a point of showing Austria as some sort of deathly place – think of Thomas Bernhard and Elfride Jelinek, and Handke himself has certainly not been afraid of criticising his country. The immigrants are, as explained, first, the Eastern Europeans and now the immigrants found in most European countries. But there is another theory offered by one of the characters – the survivors of World War III. In other words, this is not just Austria but post-apocalyptic Austria.
The book needs careful reading and, as always with Handke, there are areas where you do wonder what might be happening. But this ambiguity is, of course, part and parcel of Handke’s style and part of what makes him such an interesting writer. The world is changing and, for Handke, not necessarily for the better. The old world – represented here by the woman vicar who is keen to hang on to the way things were – is slipping away from us and there is not much we can do about it. However, we have to adapt to this new world. It is an ambiguous confusing, difficult world, where the culture of death is strong. It is a bit preachy but, as with all of his books, well worth reading. Sadly, it is not available in English."
pretty interesting and right in line with my takes and enjoyments of Handke---
and who will ever care
