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Never never never never / Shame - Worlds 2015 Part IV by George Szirtes

Posted By: Miranda Langford, 22 July 2015

George Szirtes continues his blog on Worlds Literature Festival, sharing his personal experience of the provocations, salons and readings. Reflecting on the fourth day, he discusses literary translation, and writing as an act of political resistance.

After the Wednesday salon there was a two hour session on translation in which three authors appeared with their translators. 

The authors read a sentence or two in the original language then the translars read longer passages in translation. Each author was then invited to ask their translator three questions. 

This session was led by Erica Jarnes. The three writers - Geir Gulliksen, Han Kang and Sigitas Parulskis - write in quite different ways about quite different things. The translators were asked the normal but vital translation questions and each answered differently. Deborah Smith, the translator of Han Kang, argued that the translator should feed the text through her blood stream by accessing the experience described. Deborah Dawkin, who had just one week to translate a longish passage of Geir’s book about gender and sexuality thought it was the original text one should go back to time after time. Translation, she said, was like acting, a fascinating if unexplored idea. Romas insisted that the translator should know the full cultural and historical context, be utterly at home in both languages, and that translators never never never never improved original texts or, if there were mistakes in the text they should be left to the copy editor. (This concurs with Nabokov’s view of translators as mischievous and incompetent servants who think they know better than the genius writers they serve. Max Sebald too kept his eye closely on what his translators were up to.)

In the Salon on Thursday, Mamta Sagar and Sigitas Parulskis gave the provocations.

Mamta talked of India with its many languages of which her own, Kannada is one. One may make a name for oneself in one language alone, but that name may be extended by translation into other Indian languages. Being translated into, or writing in English made one available to an international public and offered the chance of international reputation. However, there were many complications such as religion, caste and gender. Reputation, she argued, was rooted in imagined memory, a memory that was exclusive and omitted anything it didn’t want to admit, particularly the writing of women and the Dalit (or Untouchables). Social and gender roles would be defined by ideals derived from sacred or mythological text, the Ramayana. Male roles were defined by Rama: female by Sita. If individuals departed from these models their reputations were ruined. The current government of India led by Modi emphasised the martial aspect of Rama and looked to very conservative interpretations of the Ramayana. The women’s movement had brought progress but the major roles were still all male (Bhavit argued that this was not the case now and that all the major festivals had equal numbers of men and women as well as Dalit writers.)


Afterwards there were questions about women-only publishers. Mamta didn’t like the idea of special spots for ‘women’ poets feeling that this meant they were expected to produce ‘women’s poetry’and be like the flowers at a reception. Indian writing should not be looking to package particular groups in specific ways but focus on diversity. India was after all a secular democratic nation. (Mamta’s work is much translated but generally in workshops at festivals or universities.) There was talk of the tension between Hindu and Muslim and Mamta mentioned but did not expand on the episode of the  Godhra train blaze. Marion Molteno argued that the increasing popularity of the ghazal verse form in Urdu was evidence of an essential anti-fundamentalism. Jon Morley wondered how far writing was a form of resistance. Someone else asked whether there were examples of writers forging a reputation in one language than forging a different one in another.

Sigitas’s provocation was read by his translator, Romas. It was the story behind his current book which is about the murder of Lithuanian Jews, as much by Lithuanians as by German Nazis. It was in the Imperial War Museum in London that he discovered how, in his own small home community of just over two thousand, over a thousand Jews were executed. No one had ever mentioned this or chose to remember it, partly because years of Soviet occupation had implanted the idea that it was the Germans alone who were the murderers and that the victims were not so much Jews as communists. This became a matter of “shameful knowledge” in Lithuania and for him too personally. Not even his mother - who had lived through it - believed that Lithuanians could do this. Sigitas went on to resist the idea that literature should by ideologically committed which was not surprising in view of years of ideologically committed  or controlled literature. There was no repentance in Lithuanian society, he said, only denial. How much time did it take for a corpse to become a historical corpse, he asked. We are, he said, parasites living on the corpses of the past. Lithuanians, he added, had certainly suffered but suffering can make you more cruel. There was a constant referring back to Christian belief in both Sigitas’s novel and his provocation. Religion was a form of resistance to the Soviets. It is deeply embedded in Lithuanian people. 


James asked whether the book was unusual for Sigitas. It was important to irritate yourself, Sigitas replied. Without irritation, no literature. Erica wondered whether it was odd that he should be promoted by the state when he was writing something that questioned the narrative of the Lithuanian nation. The state did not determine culture, argued Rita Valiukonyte, the Cultural Attaché at the Lithuanian Embassy in London. Was the opposite view - a guiltless version - expressed in Lithuanian literature, asked Dan? There is an anti-Semitic spirit in Lithuania, said Sigitas, but it is not overt in literature. Jack Wang said his own book - about Vienna’s Kristallnacht - began at the opposite end, with a pride in saving Jews. What, asked Deborah Dawkin, was the effect, on both nation and writer, of the awareness that once a book like this was translated everyone outside would be invited to view the nation’s dirty washing. (I would have answered that the role of some Lithuanian people in the extermintations has long not been a secret and it was just that Lithuanian authors hadn’t referred to it). Sigitas replied that he gets panned for it and called a lot names. Kyoko made a very interesting remark at the end: We like to take the side of the victim, she said, but that makes it very hard for us to imagine ourselves as perpetrators, and went on to ask whether the obscenity referred to by Sigitas in his provocation consisted of the act itself or of the describing of it. It was the describing, said Sigitas, but it had to be done for didactic reasons.

What is it we identify with in stories of atrocities elsewhere? In the case of Sigitas and Lithuania we were moved to hear that truth could be spoken in a place where previously there was concealment. But are we glad to hear such things only because they confirm our superiority? Would we have acted better than the Lithuanians? Perhaps the story should inspire us to tell truths about our own circumstances rather than feel too comfortable about our sympathies for distant victims.

Sigitas’s angle on reputation concerned the reputation of his own society, not so much in the outside world but at home. Reputation could be a lie. In Mamta’s case reputation was a social status you could lose, a repressive force. Was Creative Writing about the power of partially closed societies - such as universities, but also publishers perhaps - to make reputations that that flattered their own preferences and extended their own power?

This is the fourth in a series of blogs reporting back from Worlds Literature Festival, and more blogs will be posted over the next few weeks. The first blog, "Introducing the Octopus", the second, "The Whirligig of Time", and the third, "Solitude and the Racket", can be found on our website. Alternatively, you can watch the provocations on YouTube or listen to them on SoundCloud.  

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.

George Szirtes was born in Budapest in 1948, and came to England with his family after the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He was educated in England, training as a painter, and has always written in English. In recent years he has worked as a translator of Hungarian literature, producing editions of such writers as Ottó Orbán, Zsuzsa Rakovszky and Ágnes Nemes Nagy. He co-edited Bloodaxe’s Hungarian anthology The Colonnade of Teeth. His Bloodaxe poetry books are The Budapest File (2000); An English Apocalypse (2001); Reel (2004), winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize; New & Collected Poems (2008); The Burning of the Books and other poems (2009) and Bad Machine (2013). Bloodaxe has also published John Sears’ critical study Reading George Szirtes (2008). Szirtes lives in Norfolk and recently retired from teaching at the University of East Anglia. He is currently translating the Man Booker Prize winner László Krasznahorkai.


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Solitude and the Racket - Worlds 2015 Part III by George Szirtes

Posted By: Miranda Langford, 15 July 2015

George Szirtes continues his blog on Worlds Literature Festivalsharing his personal experience of the provocations, salons and readings. Reflecting on the third day, he discusses taught Creative Writing degrees, and the role of professional writers in academic institutions.

On Wednesday morning the attention turned, as it often does, to Creative Writing (henceforth CW for short) and its place in university. Did this relate directly to reputation or was it something quite separate, an intruder in our menagerie? Jon Cook quoted Malcolm Bradbury on the unlikelihood of transforming small talent to big talent more of establishing a significant climate within which writing in general might prosper.

D J (David) Taylor led the attack via Cyril Connolly’s 1938 book, Enemies of Promise. What Connolly - a “romantic, classicist, sensualist and anti-academic” in David’s words - offered us in his book was mostly a critical view and a personal memoir, but in the middle section of the same book, he examined factors militating against the production of great literature and the writing life proper: these included hack-work, political committment, escapism, the pressure of ‘promise’, sex, domesticity (the famous pram in the hall) and last, and possibly worst of all, success itself.

David invented a family, the Littlejohns, one member of which in an earlier generation wrote neglected books but survived by hackwork. A later, contemporary figure in the same family proceeded from a CW degree to book publication then returned to university to join what David called a racket, wherein academics write for each other and lose contact with the greater public. He preferred the earlier generation if only because they did things in the real world, the academic world not being considered real.


Instead of asking questions at this stage, Jon Morley, in the chair, asked Vesna Goldsworthy to respond with her own provocation. Vesna talked of her early youth of writing poetry and of her parents’ determination that she should be a doctor. She studied Comparative Literature instead, but the study of it led her to write less and less as the course went on. Studying literature as a subject of criticism did not make one a writer, she said: vets don’t make jockeys. She referred to Hanif Kureishi’s contemptuous dismissal of CW while teaching it. There were the natural comparison with other Arts subjects such as music and visual art where no-one thought to question the idea of formal, institutional education. Was CW a vocational course that prepared you for the life of a wage-earning writer. Would it help you to succeed, to gain a reputation?” Or was it something else? Was the respectability of academic opinion actually one of the underwriters of reputation, I wondered? Vesna herself did not make too high a claim for institutions and shared a certain writerly wariness of them.


In the discussion afterwards Geir Gulliksen suggested that the best a CW course could do was to create good readers, and added that publishing - the field in which he worked - was also a kind of institution. Jonty Driver said he had heard that the Norwegian state bought a thousand copies of all literary books. True, said Geir, the state does intervene to save the literature that it recognizes as literature. Jack Wang has long experience of teaching CW and referred to an essay by Chad Harbach comparing the MFA culture of universities with the NYC culture of writing in a world of publishers. Neither was free of limiting considerations he said but at least the university allowed for experminet and the avant-garde. Ana Clavel talked of the problem of commercialisation in Mexico, Mamta Sagar of the tension between Comparative Literature and straight Literature Departments. James Shea remarked that CW was hardly new since there were ancient schools of haiku in Japan and China and that CW was currently expanding in China and Singapore. Anna Funder wondered how teaching might affect one’s writing while Erica said publishers (and she had worked in publishing) don’t really like CW.  This may be so, I thought, but if they really didn’t like it they wouldn’t be publishing as many graduates as they do.

Lauren K Alleyne commented that institutions bestowed a kind of respectabilty in the eyes of the outside world (as for example in the eyes of her own parents). Kyoko Yoshida had done an MFA course and returned to Japan to find that people back home no idea what that meant. She did however emphasise that there existed in CW an ethical contract that agreed your writing, and desire to write, were legitimate and guaranteed that it would be taken seriously. I suggested that not only had writers always met, albeit informally and without institutions, but that before CW started it had been a matter of luck if you happened to come across senior writers willing to discuss your work in person, I also suggested that teaching was essentially intelligent conversation. Dan - whom I had in fact taught at one time - agreed but rightly pointed out the increasingly high cost of such courses. 



Lucy Hughes-Hallett wondered why CW should not be regarded, almost incidentally,  as a kind of vocational training providing transferable skills just as other humanities degrees did. You did not necessarily have to become a writer. Thinking and reading were the important things. Amit pointed out that CW classes were the only ones where no one ever bunked off. Students wanted every minute they could get. He also noted a certain tension between literary theory in reading, and reading for literary style. Deborah Smith agreed with Kyoko and imagined CW must be a great deal better than straight English Literature which was a matter of ploughing through work by a lot of dead white men.

Romas Kinka worried about the lack of support and respect for translators. Jack said it was a matter of earning a living. All writers had to do it one way or the other and modern pedagogic practice was far from the racket DJT had called it: it was a profession with high professional standards. Bhavit Mehta surprised us by arguing that there no shrinking readership, that readership was wider than ever, it was just that readers weren’t all reading in hard-copy book form. DJT ended on a different note: that of a necessary solitude. He lamented its loss in the climate of workshops, social media and public forums. The notion of writers not just writing but developing in solitude was, I thought, worth considering.

Are you interested in creative writing? Writers' Centre Norwich has teamed up with the world-renowned University of East Anglia and developed new Creative Writing Courses to help you advance with your writing. Available both online, and face-to-face, these Creative Writing Courses are taught by critically acclaimed professional writers and are open to writers of various levels and disciplines. Find out more and book your place.  

This is the third in a series of blogs reporting back from Worlds Literature Festival, and more blogs will be posted over the next few weeks. The first blog, "Introducing the Octopus", and the second, "The Whirligig of Time", can be found on our website. Alternatively, you can watch the provocations on YouTube or listen to them on SoundCloud

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.

George Szirtes was born in Budapest in 1948, and came to England with his family after the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He was educated in England, training as a painter, and has always written in English. In recent years he has worked as a translator of Hungarian literature, producing editions of such writers as Ottó Orbán, Zsuzsa Rakovszky and Ágnes Nemes Nagy. He co-edited Bloodaxe’s Hungarian anthology The Colonnade of Teeth. His Bloodaxe poetry books are The Budapest File (2000); An English Apocalypse (2001); Reel (2004), winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize; New & Collected Poems (2008); The Burning of the Books and other poems (2009) and Bad Machine (2013). Bloodaxe has also published John Sears’ critical study Reading George Szirtes (2008). Szirtes lives in Norfolk and recently retired from teaching at the University of East Anglia. He is currently translating the Man Booker Prize winner László Krasznahorkai.


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Follow George on Twitter @George_Szirtes.

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The Whirligig of Time - Worlds 2015 Part II by George Szirtes

Posted By: Miranda Langford, 03 July 2015

George Szirtes continues his blog on Worlds Literature Festivalsharing his personal experience of the provocations, salons and readings. On the second day, he discusses the provocations from Chris Bigsby and Lucy Hughes-Hallett, on the distinctions between literary success and literary reputation. 

Gabriele D'Annunzio in Fiume

The whirligig of time was very much the subject of our first provocation, by Chris Bigsby, who started by exploring and expanding on the term reputation, by adding estimation and notoriety, to which others eventually added fame, success, prestige, stature, esteem, position, distinction, prominence. There were at least eight tentacles for our octopus here.  Chris went on to consider those whom we now regard as great but who were neglected at the ends of their lives: Hermann Melville and John Williams (who wrote Stoner), among them, but concentrating on the writer he himself has written about with such distinction, Arthur Miller, the estimation of whose work has gone up and down depending on where you were, in the US or in Britain. Was Miller accepted by Americans as the representative of all they considered best? Probably not. Was he regarded by Brits as what we thought a good liberal American should be? Probably yes.


But who is this ‘we’?  Are we the only ‘we‘ worth talking about? That question did arise afterwards, as did the notion of value, a much more complex term depending on who assigns it, and Erica Jarnes' fine distinction between success and reputation. Is selling more books an indication of reputation, or indeed of value? Amit Chaudhuri talked of the way reputation was constructed in terms of nationhood, but also of how some were required to run counter to the established narrative. How do revivals of reputation occur, asked Cathy Cole. Jack Wang pointed out that despite not being regarded as a true-blue or red-blooded American, Miller was still on school reading lists. 

Susan Barker lamented the lack of women among those considered important (importance being another term related to reputation), a problem pointed out in private discussion later by Dave Wilson, who remarked that all the names discussed at this session were white, male, and anglophone. Anna Funder did, on the other hand,  confirm the substantial reputation and stature of the Australian writer, Christina Stead. She talked of the importance of history and wondered how far literature was perceived as an aspect of history (or vice versa for that matter). Deborah Smith brought us back to the question of women’s writing and how it was evaluated according to different criteria in different places: in the west along feminist lines, but differently in other places with other histories and cultures (Catholicism and Buddhism were offered as examples in later sessions.)  Reputation might simply be a kind of noise, a form of agreement. It might in fact be constraining if if meant publishers would demand more of the same from any successful author. 

The dangers of success were (briefly) to reappear in D J Taylor’s provocation the next day.

Lucy Hughes-Hallett’s provocation on D’Annunzio was spellbinding and very much to the point, since her subject not only pursued reputation but understood perfectly how to get it. He was the genius of the publicity stunt, a polymath, brilliant at many things including poetry, seduction and rabble-rousing rhetoric. Reputation is not a sufficiently grand term for him: celebrity, superstardom, megastardom need to be introduced. D’Annunzio is born into the first age of mass media. He steps on people, he exploits people, he charms and discards people, he leads them into battle and into a fierce nationalism anticipating Il Duce whom he regards as vulgar. There was a lovely phrase Lucy used about D’Annunzio giving action the lasting power of symbol - and maybe that is what it takes. Dan then added another word to the growing lexicography of reputation by referring to D’Annunzio as a brand. Branding and mass media are very much of our age, but they begin with D’Annunzio. The poet as life as mask as symbol.


In the discussion afterwards Vesna talked of “the art of lifemaking”. Others talked of the way suicide fixes the author as identity, fate and destiny and how it makes us read their works in a different way. Stefan Zweig was mentioned as an example of fame arrested and amplified by suicide. Mishima was another such.  Jon Cook suggested that Allen Ginsberg’s public life was an extension of his poems. Lucy pointed to the line from Romanticism to Fascism. Amit mentioned Tagore who became a world celebrity, admired chiefly as a sage and purveyor of mysticism, rather than as was what he was in India: a poet. Chris Bigsby pointed to Mailer and Hemingway as conscious constructors of their own images. Consideration of the image and the self-image led us in the direction of social media. At one level inflation of the self appears comical: at another, venal and potentially disastrous.


This is the second in a series of blogs reporting back from Worlds Literature Festival, and more blogs will be posted over the next few weeks. Alternatively, you can watch the provocations on YouTube or listen to them on SoundCloud

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.

George Szirtes was born in Budapest in 1948, and came to England with his family after the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He was educated in England, training as a painter, and has always written in English. In recent years he has worked as a translator of Hungarian literature, producing editions of such writers as Ottó Orbán, Zsuzsa Rakovszky and Ágnes Nemes Nagy. He co-edited Bloodaxe’s Hungarian anthology The Colonnade of Teeth. His Bloodaxe poetry books are The Budapest File (2000); An English Apocalypse (2001); Reel (2004), winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize; New & Collected Poems (2008); The Burning of the Books and other poems (2009) and Bad Machine (2013). Bloodaxe has also published John Sears’ critical study Reading George Szirtes (2008). Szirtes lives in Norfolk and recently retired from teaching at the University of East Anglia. He is currently translating the Man Booker Prize winner László Krasznahorkai.


Visit George's website.

Follow George on Twitter @George_Szirtes.

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Introducing the Octopus - Worlds 2015 Part I by George Szirtes

Posted By: Rowan Whiteside, 30 June 2015

George Szirtes, who was recently described by Man Booker International Prize Winner László Krasznahorkai as ‘My Hero’ in the regular Guardian column, blogs on Worlds Literature Festival, reporting on the history and traditions of the festival and summarising the first provocation.

As some will know Norwich has hosted the Worlds Literature Festival for eleven years now and I have attended many of them and summed up the last three before being asked to sum up this one. Putting aside capital cities as centres of all the arts Norwich has been a city of literature for a long time, partly because of its history but chiefly because of the early establishment of the Creative Writing course at the UEA which has produced so many successful, prize winning and much praised writers. That MA course started in 1970 and began to offer PhD's in the mid-eighties. 

The New Writing Partnership was a collaboration between the city, the county and the university and was renamed the Writers' Centre Norwich in 2009. This partnership has been so successful that the city, which was already a City of Refuge, was named as England's first UNESCO City of Literature. It is now also in collaboration with the British Centre of Literary Translation, first set up by W G Sebald, and has a great ambitious programme. In other words Norwich is a hive of literary activity and each year's festival brings its internationally known writers to the city for the sessions known as salons and for public readings.

Each year the Festival has a set theme that eight writers are invited to address in the form of provocations that can be about half an hour long and are followed by a salon discussion. Last year the theme was Nostalgia, this time it was Reputation.



My task in summing up is to recall all the main points of the provocations and discussions and to try to link them together in a presentation lasting about half an hour. This could be a dry business so it is worth trying to hold it together with some running theme or metaphor. In this case it was an expression used by a first participant at the festival, Dan Richards who, in describing his unsuccessful attempts to sell a previous book to publishers, said it was like offering them an octopus in a suitcase.

The octopus follows.

First session and Jon Cook's introduction

It is very tempting to begin with the octopus in the suitcase that Dan Richards mentioned at the end of our very first provocation by Chris Bigsby. It is, after all, a creature with eight limbs and and we have had eight quite various tentacular provocations. Lucy Hughes-Hallett’s biography of Gabriele D’Annunzio, about whom she spoke that morning, is titled The Pike. Jon Cook then spoke of D’Annunzio being drawn to his public as a predatory bird to its prey. Kyoko Yoshida, in her reading told us a story about squirrels with secret gardens.  Liz Berry read us two poems featuring birds, in one of which she told us that a certain kind of pigeon was known in the Black Country as a Birmingham Roller, which I first misheard as a burning umbrella.  Anna Funder gave us, was it Ernst Toller, as “an animal, a beaked bird with a glossy black head”.  Then Vesna Goldsworthy suggested that hoping to be a writer by engaging in literary study was like preparing to be a jockey by qualifying as a vet. Then, at the very end, the publisher David Graham wondered whether he was a fox in a henhouse or a lamb to slaughter. 

Given all this I was rather hoping that I might be able to link all the sessions together by reference to various animals, but then the animals thinned out and grew somehow facetious and the only analogy I have left in my hand is the menagerie.

It would be equally tempting to begin with As You Like It and Jaques’ “all the world’s a stage” speech about the seven ages of man where the fourth age belongs to the soldier who is conveniently compared to a leopard:

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.

And that, I thought might cover a few bases in thinking of reputation in terms of honour and of quarrels, of the sheer transience of bubbles, and indeed of cannons, both the firing kind with two n’s and the kind - perhaps just as deadly, in its own way - with just one.

Jon Cook built his introduction to the salons on Pascale Casanova’s book, The World of Letters and set about exploring the idea of reputation and place. Where do you go to make your reputation? To the big cities, of course, to Paris, to London, to Berlin, to New York, to the great metropolis beyond your back yard. Metropolitan power, he said, following Casanova, was a matter of accumulation; of competition, rivalry and dispute (those jealousies mentioned in Jaques’s speech); and of concentration - a kind of density where all the books and ideas are crowded and jostling together.

He also brought our attention to the idea of a national literary consciousness which some posit as the glory, or even definition of a nation, while pointing to exceptions such as Stendhal who, notoriously (for his French countrymen)  preferred Shakespeare to Racine.

But wherever it’s happening now, he ended, it will probably go on to happen elsewhere. I suspect this ease and rapidity of movement has a great deal to do with the technology of immediate communication and globalisation of capital. In any case, as Feste, another melancholy clown in Shakespeare, points out “the whirligig of time brings in his revenges”.

This is the first in a series of blogs reporting back from Worlds Literature Festival, and more blogs will be posted over the next few weeks. Alternatively, you can watch the provocations on YouTube or listen to them on SoundCloud

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.

George Szirtes was born in Budapest in 1948, and came to England with his family after the 1956 Hungarian uprising. He was educated in England, training as a painter, and has always written in English. In recent years he has worked as a translator of Hungarian literature, producing editions of such writers as Ottó Orbán, Zsuzsa Rakovszky and Ágnes Nemes Nagy. He co-edited Bloodaxe’s Hungarian anthology The Colonnade of Teeth. His Bloodaxe poetry books are The Budapest File (2000); An English Apocalypse (2001); Reel (2004), winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize; New & Collected Poems (2008); The Burning of the Books and other poems (2009) and Bad Machine (2013). Bloodaxe has also published John Sears’ critical study Reading George Szirtes (2008). Szirtes lives in Norfolk and recently retired from teaching at the University of East Anglia. He is currently translating the Man Booker Prize winner László Krasznahorkai.


Visit George's website.

Follow George on Twitter @George_Szirtes.

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The National Conversation: Enduring Stories by Erica Wagner

Posted By: Anonymous, 14 May 2015

An original provocation piece by writer and editor Erica Wagner, delivered at the National Conversation event 'Amazon and the Civil War for Books' on Sunday 17th May as part of the Norfolk and Norwich Festival.

Just about one hundred and fifteen years ago, a young American anthropologist named John Reed Swanton travelled to a group of islands which were called, in his day, the Queen Charlotte Islands, off the northwest coast of Canada. He was in the employ of the Bureau of American Ethnology in Washington D.C., but he worked under the guidance of the influential anthropologist Franz Boas at the American Museum of Natural History, a place just a few blocks from where I grew up, on the Upper West Side of New York City. He had been sent to collect objects from the people who lived there: argillite carvings, wooden boxes, the kinds of objects you find in museums. But in the time he spent with the island inhabitants, he didn’t collect objects, not really. He listened to stories. And he took down the names of the men who told him those stories: one was called Ghandl; the other, Skaay. He transcribed their words in their own language, as they were spoken. 

Acknowledging their authorship and language was a radical act. Almost every other anthropologist working in his day believed that stories collected from indigenous people could be compressed and flattened into a so-called ‘universal’ version of that story. As Robert Bringhurst, the scholar who, nearly a century later, would translate these stories into striking, erudite English versions, notes, this is like walking into the Uffizi and saying: but why do we need all these paintings of the Crucifixion? Surely one is enough? I reckon not. Not a few of the stories Swanton heard these men tell are some of the greatest I have encountered in any language, from any culture. By giving these poets their names Swanton allowed them to be authors. The rights of authors, as it happens, remain a lively topic for debate here in the 21st century.

I’m going to talk to you about discovery, and about what literature and art truly are, and the potential that they have to change our lives. Because lately I’ve been thinking that it’s too easy to slip into a mindset in which we believe we are talking about art and literature – when what we’re really talking about is business. Commerce. Not that it’s wrong to talk about business. It’s important to talk about business. But it’s also important to consider how we can separate these two conversations.

We’re told that we are in the midst of a civil war on which the fate of our reading habits will depend. In the world of the old stories the name ‘Amazon’ conjured a fierce, glorious image of a bold woman warrior: no more. Now the ferocity of an Amazon brings a new kind of terror: of a monopoly that will devour literature. We seem to be entering in a period of truce, it’s true. Last month HarperCollins agreed a deal with Amazon over e-books; this followed on from the settling of the lengthy dispute over pricing between Amazon and Hachette, resolved before the end of last year. These are arguments and transactions that take place in a time of unprecedented flux: or so it would seem. But is that really the case? Are we really in a brave new world?

Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that modern humans have existed in roughly their present form for 100,000 years. Those early people led lives which were very different from ours, but their brains were like ours. The astonishing art on the walls of the Chauvet cave in the Ardèche valley of southern France was made about 30,000 years ago; some indigenous art in Australia is much older. Beowulf’s 3,000 lines – which survive in a single manuscript – were written down around the 10th century CE. Now: the printing press of Johannes Gutenberg came into commercial use about 500 years after that, around 1450.

What am I doing by throwing these numbers at you? 

I’m demonstrating that the book is only a very, very small part of the human literary story. From Gutenberg to widely available commercial printing, another couple of hundred years intervened. But literature, I’m quite certain, has existed since humanity has existed. My great-grandmother was born in the East End of London in 1888. When I discovered her birth certificate in the Public Record Office at Kew, I also discovered that her mother had put a rough cross in the box for her signature – and so I learned that my great-great grandmother could neither read nor write; not so uncommon, in those days. But for all I know, my great-great grandmother could have been a storyteller, a singer, her mind could have held a treasure-vault of history and art. But it’s gone. Because books, of course, have a job to do too.

The name of the islands John Swanton visited has changed since he arrived in 1900. Thanks to the efforts of the indigenous people who still live there, and who only narrowly survived the arrival of Europeans into their territory, these islands are now called Haida Gwaii, ‘The Islands of the People’ – and it was the Haida people Swanton had come to study. If you have been to the Great Court of the British Museum, you will have seen a Haida house pole, acquired three years after Swanton travelled there. The house in front of which it would have stood had been abandoned; as had the whole village. Many Haida villages had been abandoned by then. Smallpox and other European diseases had ravaged the population. ‘The island population is now shrunk to not over seven hundred,’ Swanton wrote in a letter.  ‘...The missionary has suppressed all the dances and has been instrumental in having all the old houses destroyed – everything in short that makes life worth living.’

Do not mistake me. I am not comparing the destruction of an indigenous culture – of many indigenous cultures – to business arguments in the publishing world. What I want to demonstrate is that the human need to hear stories and to tell stories is something which I believe to be so ingrained in us (in our brains, in our hearts, in our souls) that it will survive no matter what; it will find new forms and flourish in different ways. For the past few hundred years the novel has been the dominant form of storytelling in Western culture; but as I’ve tried to show, that’s a drop in the ocean of time. And what is a ‘novel’, anyway? It’s a way to tell a story. Well, there are other ways to tell stories too. When I watched Breaking Bad, I discovered I was thinking about its plot and its characters with the same seriousness I’ve devoted to many novels. Perhaps not coincidentally, that series emerged in an industry which is also in flux: the old television networks no longer dominate the scene, and newcomers like AMC and Netflix are shaking up the industry. So perhaps it’s no surprise that Amazon is coming into this market too. 

But books are a hugely significant part of our culture. I know about John Swanton, you won’t be surprised to hear, thanks to a book; I came to consider the great span of human culture I’ve just described thanks to a book. That is Robert Bringhurst’s A Story as Sharp as A Knife, first published in 1999; translations from Swanton’s transcriptions which were taken down nearly a hundred years before. There are two companion volumes, which are really not companions, but the central texts of Bringhurst’s great work: they are Nine Visits to the Mythworld, devoted to the works of Ghandl, and Being in Being, which is devoted to the works of Skaay. Bringhurst is a Canadian poet and polymath, a scholar of Ancient Greek and typography, too. Bringhurst took many years to teach himself Haida in order to make these magnificent translations.

Publishers, booksellers and writers find themselves in an industry in transition: some of the changes that transition brings are inarguably troubling.  Independent bookshops continue to close. There are fewer than 1,000 on British high streets now, the Guardian has reported; one-third fewer than the decade before. Fifty-seven independent bookshops in this country closed just last year. I’ve worked with the Society of Authors and the Authors’ Foundation to distribute grants to writers struggling to make ends meet – I know that things are tough out there; not least because I’m an author myself. The results of a survey conducted on behalf of the Authors’ Licensing and Collecting Society released last month make sobering reading. Since 2007, the last time authors were surveyed, there has been a 29% fall in writers’ incomes in real terms. And yet, while I have no wish to be a perceived as a Pollyanna, I wonder if there was ever a time when things weren’t tough for the people we now call ‘authors’? Sometimes, it’s useful to take a step back – a really, really big, step back, as far back as 100,000 years – to get a different angle on things.

Swanton’s work didn’t find much of an audience when he came back east. And Bringhurst’s work with the words of Ghandl and Skaay has, so far, found a smaller audience than it deserves. The edition I have was published in Canada by Douglas & McIntyre, a fine house; they went bust, however, a few years ago, a not-unusual fate for a publisher these days. But they were taken under the wing of another Canadian publisher, Harbour, and so have lived to fight – or publish – another day, at least for the time being. I have spent over a decade wondering why no British publisher would take on these texts, which deserve to be recognized as classics; I’m delighted to be able to say that the Folio Society is now preparing an edition, to be published in the autumn, with an introduction by Margaret Atwood and illustrations by the Haida artist Don Yeomans. 

Atwood’s association with these works goes back a long way – it’s one of the things that brought us together as friends.  Not long after I discovered the works of Ghandl and Skaay through the translations of Robert Bringhurst – by way of a series of chance conversations, for such is the way of these things, and it is by these conversations that our human future is made – I commissioned a piece from her on this epic trilogy; it was published in The Times a dozen years ago.  Of what Bringhurst had done, she wrote that: ‘It’s one of those works that rearranges the inside of your head — a profound meditation on the nature of oral poetry and myth, and on the habits of thought and feeling that inform them. It restores to life two exceptional poets we ought to know. It gives us some insight into their world – in Bringhurst’s words, “the old-growth forest of the human mind” – and, by comparison, into our own.’  

So we see that these stories can still come to us from the most surprising places; we see that they can find a way through. I am sure that – whatever the future of the industry holds – this will continue to happen. So – can we say where publishing is headed? Where the industry will go? Will Amazon devour everyone and everything? I don’t know. What I do know is that stories and storytellers will survive.

As the world changes – as it always has – and information passes between us in different ways – as it always has – good books, important books, get through. The Wake, by Paul Kingsnorth, was one of the highlights of 2014 to my mind (and indeed, I was one of the judges who put it on the longlist of the Man Booker Prize). This book, written in what the author has called a ‘shadow tongue’ of Old English, was published by the crowd-funded imprint Unbound; just the other day, I’m thrilled to say, it was named the inaugural Book of the Year at the Bookseller Industry Awards 2015. And Preparation for the Next Life, a gripping debut by Atticus Lish, was published first in the US by Tyrant Books, a small-press publisher; the book has been widely and warmly reviewed, both in the United States and in this country, where it has just been published by Oneworld; last month it won the PEN/Faulkner Award for fiction We find the stories we need to hear.

I am not denying the state of the landscape. But by speaking here less of commerce than of art, I hope to remind you of why we all bother in the first place. Human culture is ancient and durable. Perhaps when it seems at its most elusive – in the way it can pass from voice to ear to voice – it’s the most durable artifact there is. Books may vanish: but if we keep listening, literature will survive. Ghandl and Skaay were poets who had survived the wreck of their civilization. And yet Ghandl and Skaay held on to their art; and John Reed Swanton – who was, incidentally, just 27 years old when he met them – was wise enough to recognize it. It’s up to us to keep our ears to the ground. To speak to each other. To listen. In Skaay’s epic which Bringhurst calls ‘Raven Traveling’, Raven goes hunting. And then he stops, and dives into the water.
He rammed his beak into the rock
out on the point at the edge of town.
He cried as he struck it.
‘Ghaaaaaw!’
It was solid, that rock,
and yet he splintered it by speaking.  

Notes:

A Story as Sharp as a Knife: The Classical Haida Mythtellers and Their World by Robert Bringhurst
Nine Visits to the Mythworld: Ghandl of the Qayahl Llaanas, translated from the Haida by Robert Bringhurst
Being in Being: The Collected Works of Skaay of the Qquuna Qiighawaay, translated from the Haida by Robert Bringhurst (Masterworks of the Classical Haida Mythtellers); Douglas & McIntyre, Canada.
The Wake by Paul Kingsnorth is published by Unbound, £18
Preparation for the Next Life by Atticus Lish is published by Oneworld, £14.99

Erica Wagner writes for The New Statesman, The Financial Times, The Economist and The New York Times. Her latest novel is Seizure,  published now in French as La Coupure.Follow Erica on Twitter: @EricaWgnrFind out more about Erica on her website

Read the first article in this two part debate for the National Conversation - Philip Gywn Jones, The Civil War for Books: Where's the Money Going?


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What's Wrong With Amazon? By Isabelle Grey

Posted By: Anonymous, 14 May 2015

 An article by writer Isabelle Grey in anticipation of the National Conversation event Amazon and the Civil War for Books at the Norfolk and Norwich Festival this Sunday 17th May.

Amazon has unquestionably shaken up the way in which readers choose and buy books. It has also opened up the publishing arena to anyone who wants to edit and market their own work. Has this really provoked a civil war? I am old enough to have written my first book on a manual typewriter; as a journalist, I am a veteran of the Wapping dispute. I have seen before how bitterly two sides can fight over new technology.

As a writer, I am neither for nor against Amazon, any more than I am for or against radio, film, television or books (print or digital) as a delivery platform for the stories I want to tell. What I don’t want to do is to write something that will never find an audience.

As a citizen, I have issues with Amazon around employment practices and fair taxation. As a reader, Amazon is too easy to resist. As a writer, Amazon is no more or less interested in making money out of me than my publisher or an independent bookshop.  But what Amazon and other e-book sellers do far better than either of them is to find readers for me – over 120,000 of them so far.

The 'thing' about e-books that publishers (and, to be fair, most large corporations, including the BBC) have been woefully slow to get is the value of data. They are catching up – HarperCollins now has a director of audience development while Hachette have developed data visualization and social listening tools. These things aren’t mere Silicon Valley hipster jargon: they really matter.

Shakespeare wrote for the stage because some of his audience were illiterate. Dickens wrote his novels as part-works because cheaper and faster printing techniques made that a popular and exciting way to go. There’s a generation of authors coming along who will write for the mobile phone, because that’s the first place they go to find what they want. Where hardware leads, the style and form of content follows.

The big difference is that today’s hardware comes packed with the potential for data-gathering. It’s not only marketing and sales strategies that are based on data analytics. So are the stories we tell. Here’s an example: Netflix are currently spending $100m (out of a predicted annual spend of £3.5bn) on a TV series called The Crown, a bio-pic of Queen Elizabeth II, that is being show-run by Peter Morgan and Stephen Daldry, a writer and director with multiple Oscar nominations. Why? Because the data that Netflix gathers and analyses tells them that their subscribers’ favourite shows are about royalty, marriage and parenthood.

Their data tells them a whole lot more, too – not only what people search for, but also how, when and where they watch, for how long at a single sitting, at precisely what point they get bored and click out, and what they then say about it, and to whom, on social media.

As a writer, I find that knowledge exciting. I don’t want to be a slave to it, but why would I not want to know the precise effect my work – almost line by line –  is having on a reader or viewer? For me, that is the huge creative debate that is to come –  and, trust me, it is coming. What is the value of that kind of knowledge? How will it, and should it, be shared? And how far should writers and other creative artists either wish or be asked to respond to it?

It’s not a civil war, it’s a revolution.

Isabelle Grey is a former freelance journalist and reviewer, magazine editor and (as Isabelle Anscombe) author of five non-fiction books. For the past twenty years she has written television drama, including the BBC docu-drama Genghis Khan and an episode of the Bafta-winning series Accused with Jimmy McGovern. She also writes for film and radio and for five years taught screenwriting at Central St Martin's. She is currently finishing her fourth novel for Quercus, a follow-up to Good Girls Don't Die.

Follow Isabelle on Twitter: @IsabelleGrey
Find out more on Isabelle's website 

Find out more about the event Amazon and the Civil War for Books. Tweeting? Use #NatConv to debate online with us this Sunday evening.



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Worlds 2014: The Ecstasy of Impossibility – A Provocation from James Scudamore

Posted By: Rowan Whiteside, 27 June 2014

Our fourth provocation is from author James Scudamore, and explores a nostalgia manufactured by reading.

James begins by saying that he will be giving a more whimsical provocation on his young reading experiences. He says that he envies his young self and the way he devoured books, gulping down 1984, The Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby in just one week. As a young reader, he was an intense reader, wantonly unleashing seminal classics and texts upon his unformed mind. Now he feels he has to ponder so much more on his reading.    

As a boy James spent a great deal of time living in foreign countries; finding his surroundings strange and pining for the familiar. He found his home in books and the characters he identified with the most were the ones who had buried themselves in books, finding solace in reading like James himself had done. These characters and James himself are nostalgic for a world which doesn’t exist, preferring the imagined fictions to the real world.

One of the first books in which James found a character submerging themselves in fiction was Le Grand Meaulnes by the French author Alain-Fournier. James Wood describes these characters as ‘enchanted narrators’- those who prefer to wrap themselves in worlds of make-believe and may or may not survive encountering the real world. In Le Grand Meaulnes, James Scudamore said he first found evidence of the impact of reading, that his early reading experiences were shared by others, and, more, written about. The Great Gatsby and The Go-Between can comfortably be included in this doomed fantasists club. 

But this doomed fantasists club, these enchanted narrators, show that through literature we can remember experiences we’ve never had, visit places that we’ve never been to and that may not even exist. They show that we inherit our dreams from fiction. This longing is even more pronounced because it is unattainable.

This unattainable longing is perhaps responsible for the once widely held belief that reading too much fiction will make you mad.

Don Quixote
was one of the first fictions which was self-analytical. It invented the modern notion of imagined truth. In Don Quixote there is a simple joy in taking refuge in imagination. In Madame Bovary Emma also takes refuge in fiction, yet as Don Quixote bends Emma breaks. Emma’s familiarity with her surroundings breeds cohesive contempt, her imagination is soaked with the romantics and she is drawn towards the tumultuous. Her nostalgia for the imagined world leads to disaster, whilst Don Quixote is able to meld his nostalgia for fiction with the reality of life.

As James says “it would have done Emma good to get more!” Had she done so she would have experienced other realities and the advantages of her home would have stood out in contrast to the foreign. The familiar creates blinkered vision, removing the positives and focusing the negative, so we long for the alien, imagining it a perfect world precisely due to its unattainability.

This yearning is almost an addiction: one which can never be satisfied. As Philip Larkin writes in his poem 'The Importance Of Elsewhere', home is unsatisfactory because “here no elsewhere underwrites my existence”. The things we miss are the things we have invented, all the more desirable because of our rose-tinted glasses and our smoothing of the sharpened edges.

This is how we miss things – we invent them. We create fictions and imaginary homelands. After all, if what we seek can never be realised then it can never let us down. The South, James’ favourite Borges story, proves Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s dictum that “What matters in life is not what happens to us but what we remember and how we remember it”.

Much of James’ writing is heavily influenced by nostalgia and longing for fictional worlds. His first novel, The Amnesia Clinic, was partly generated by his longing for his childhood home, and partly by his desire to create a character who preferred the fictional world to reality. His writing and key characters were heavily influenced by Le Grand Meaulnes, Madame Bovary and Don Quixote.

When James was writing his third novel, Wreaking, he spent a lot of time in disused psychiatric hospitals, spending hours at a time in these abandoned buildings. A heavily affecting and isolating experience, James spent time ruminating about the emotional quality of the building, and came to realise that he felt undeniably nostalgic about the institutions which used to exist. Even a hand-written sign requesting that litter is put in the bin created a feeling of loss and longing within him.

Real life has a way of rejecting all logical series of events – it’s messy, unwieldy, unpredictable, unlike the ordered world of fiction. One of the greatest luxuries of being able to write for a living is that it makes you feel that life has meaning.

James’ finishes on a rousing note: if we can take the opposing forces of what we experience and what we can imagine, we can create something alive, burning with longing.


Discussion:


The discussion focused around the semantic limits of nostalgia and whether nostalgia translates into other languages and cultures.

There are more than ten words in China which describe nostalgia, yet the vocabulary is very politicised. Nostalgia is built into Chinese culture, you cannot change your family name, you cannot change your cultural identity or separate it from the past. The past in China is forever there. You follow the past- the present is not important to the Chinese, instead their behaviour and beliefs are informed by the past. In China there is a nostalgia for their culture, rather than their past - many writers want to find the root to Chinese culture, but don't know where the root is.

There are three words for nostalgia in Japanese, one from the French root as in Korean. References to nostalgia in Korea are mostly found in literature, but there is one word which specifically refers to the loss of home, called into action by the partition of North and South Korea.

In Welsh there is the word ‘hiraeth’ which has no direct English translation. It is defined partly as a homesickness tinged with grief or sadness over the lost or departed, partly a longing, or yearning for the Wales of the past.

In Italy they live and thrive on nostalgia. Nostalgia is a very normal daily life concept. They’re so connected to the past and place, that nostalgia is a very physical thing. According to our visiting delegate, Italians thrive on the nostalgia that other people feel for them.

The conversation moved on and focused on defining nostalgia, exploring whether nostalgia is to do with a particular time or place, if there is a space or zone before nostalgia.

Is nostalgia over romanticised? Is nostalgia a capitalist emotion? Is the idea of a homeland the biggest mistake the human race has ever made? This question around homeland brought ideas of territory and ownership into play. Is politics about someone's nostalgia versus another’s?

Countering the invented concept of nostalgia, was an examination of the physical manifestations of the emotion, from phantom limbs to nature reclaiming land.

The salon finished by wondering if we invent the very things we lack – is imagination vested in loss? Do we desire the loss and make things up to fill the holes?

Is a writers’ job a nostalgic digression, an exercise in wish-fulfilment?

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.

Find out more about James Scudamore


Watch James' Provocation:




Listen to James' Provocation:





Reading List

1984 – George Orwell
The Catcher in the Rye – J.D. Salinger
The Great Gatsby – F Scott Fitzgerald
Le Grand Meaulnes - Alain-Fournier
The Go-Between – L.P. Hartley
Don Quixote - Miguel de Cervantes
Madame Bovary – Gustave Flaubert

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Worlds 2014: The Want of War – A Provocation from Owen Sheers

Posted By: Rowan Whiteside, 20 June 2014

Our second provocation of Worlds Literature Festival was given by Owen Sheers, poet, scriptwriter and author. What follows is a summary of Owen’s provocation, and the discussion it inspired. (I’ve endeavoured to be as accurate as possible, but you can watch or listen to the provocation below.)
 
Owen begins by placing his provocation on The Want of War in the context of his own work. Owen’s writing has often explored war; his verse drama Pink Mist counterpoints soldiers’ experiences in Afghanistan with the feelings of their wives, mothers and partners when the soldiers return home. His most recent play, The Two Worlds of Charlie F. was created with wounded soldiers, and won the Amnesty International Freedom of Expression Award at the Edinburgh Festival.

Owen then explores ideas of nostalgia and war through distance- the distance between home and battle ground, society and soldiers, war and peace. Most contemporary soldiers suffer nostalgic urges more on returning home then when stationed overseas. Melancholia, post traumatic stress disorder, exhaustion, shell shock, war neuroses, are just some of the terms that the military have used to try and define the psychological effects of war, and most of these conditions only become apparent when the soldier returns home.  

Nostalgia is defined as a desire to be somewhere else, in another time or another place. For soldiers, this nostalgia is often perverted, so the longing becomes for combat and war. Nostalgia is inverted with post traumatic stress disorder.

Robert Harris says; “There’s a hole in modern man where war should be.”

Soldiers have a professional desire to experience combat, for if they don’t it’s like going to a fairground and not going on the rides. Added to this professional desire is the fact that the majority of British soldiers are recruited from disadvantaged areas, meaning that many join the army to escape their homes and hometowns.

For soldiers going overseas to fight, it means that they can finally put their training into action, and do the job they are being paid to do. Yet, when the soldiers start fighting they find that fighting the enemy is no longer just about ‘doing the job’. Instead the soldiers experience a compression of belonging; from belonging strongly and loyally to your country, battalion, regiment, division, brigade, commanding officers, fellow soldiers. This loyalty becomes a form of love, and then this love is transformed into a desire for revenge, when those you love and are loyal to are injured or killed.    

Loss becomes the reason for fighting. You want to kill the enemy because they hurt your friends. Owen explains that for the soldiers the sense of attachment for their fellows was the strongest emotional bond they had experienced, beyond that even of family.  This bond is heightened by the extreme pressures of a warzone and the constant possibility of death. Fighting gives a strong sense of identity and purpose; the soldiers’ lives may be more precarious but also more precious.

On returning home the soldiers lose these heightened qualities of life. This is what lies at the heart of the pain they experience when they return. Many young men returning home live in a world of aftermath... This is to do with what conflict provides and society does not.

The soldiers’ internal scales are tipped off balance due to their experiences of conflict. The rapid transition from warzone to home-life exacerbates this, as the speed of their physical travel is far more rapid than the psychological shift.  

The second distance is harder to explain and harder to broach: it is the distance between the soldiers and the rest of society- they have experienced horrors on behalf of society, but society seems unaware of what the soldiers have experienced.

The narratives we hear of war are very one sided and manipulated by the media. We do not hear what our soldiers have done and how our soldiers have been affected by their actions in war. It's this gulf that soldiers want to breach; they want the public to know about their experiences. It is a failure of story that the true costs and experiences of war are glossed over.  

Owen follows this by saying that the best thing to cut through bland, homogenised propaganda is the well-told personal story. But how can we best capture these stories, and who should be telling them? In the past our soldiers wrote these stories (Sassoon, Owen, etc), but now these stories tend to be told by professional writers, outsourced and slightly dislocated, the primary source story modified by the lens of the writers’ distance.

Owen asks if it is not our duty as a society to work harder and give those who experience conflict the tools to write about it. He then wonders if we are guilty of a nostalgia for the easy narrative of past wars, taking comfort in the familiar and simple dialectics of World Wars, rather than tackling the more difficult situations of our present wars.

Perhaps literature can no longer realistically expect to be at the forefront of war- is this now the space for short films and YouTube etc? How can we make sure that stories of modern conflict are heard?




Discussion:

Our delegates began by discussing the lack of female voices in Owen’s provocation. Owen stated that he has very much wanted to interview women soldiers, but wasn’t able to. Instead, Owen explored the female experience in Pink Mist, telling the stories of the women left at home.

Returning soldiers may feel exiled at home, in part due to their previous urge to escape their home. This urge to join up and fight, and escape ordinary life, is a thread which runs through war narratives – Homer’s Odysseus couldn’t wait to escape home. When soldiers return home they often find they are unable to be close to their mothers and partners, instead longing for war.

War can give people emotional comfort- for soldiers they are living an intense life of risk, as well as being involved in a grand narrative of patriotism and history. But on returning home, the soldiers experience a second death, their sense of purpose removed and the society they were fighting for seeming to ignore them. It is extremely difficult for soldiers to listen to TV and the radio, and hear the war described as a waste of time and waste of life – it further ostracises the soldiers from society. There is a gap between the false narrative of war at home, and the real narrative at war.

It is necessary to listen to soldiers’ stories and get inside their wound, but there’s concern around these stories acting as propaganda for war, encouragement rather than deterrent. Already there is an industry of toys, comics, television and films which glamourises war and violence. Literature is a meaningful tool to react against the inbuilt propaganda of war.

Yet the idea of stories is to make sense of things- but how can you make sense of futile deaths and war, and how much do soldiers create revised narratives and stories of their experiences of war? Whilst Owen interviewed many soldiers to create his play, he was only able to interview them on one occasion, so wasn’t able to identify revised narratives, or discover how the soldiers’ stories had changed.

The discussion ended with a debate around authenticity in fiction – when writing about real events, and using people’s stories, how do you maintain the authenticity of the event, while moving further away from the truth? As a writer the challenge is to find the alternative imagined event that captures the authenticity of the real event

The conclusion? You need to write something which contains the truth even if it is not true.

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.

Find out more about Owen Sheers.


Watch Owen's Provocation:




Listen to Owen's Provocation:

Worlds Literature Festival Provocation - Owen Sheers by Writers' Centre Norwich

Reading List


Siegfried Sassoon
Wilfred Owen
Owen Sheers – Pink Mist
Kevin Powers- The Yellow Birds
Erich Maria Remarque- All Quiet On the Western Front
Richard Yates – A Good School
Ford Maddox Ford- Parade’s End
Dave Eggers- What is the What

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Denise Riley opens the Worlds Literature Festival Salon

Posted By: Katy Carr, 19 June 2014

What I want back is what I was
Before the bed, before the knife,
Before the brooch-pin and the salve
Fixed me in this parenthesis;
Horses fluent in the wind,
A place, a time gone out of mind.
From ‘The Eye-Mote’ by Sylvia Plath

In this, the tenth year of Worlds, forty writers gathered from across the globe to sit around a table in the beautiful Cathedral Hostry and introduce themselves to each other before settling in for four days of discussion, provocations and thought around the theme of nostalgia.

Is nostalgia a bromide? asks Denise Riley in the first of our Worlds Literature Festival 14 Salon provocations. Denise’s approach is indeed  provoking. Introducing the theme  a couple of hours earlier, Jon Cook talked of Odysseus and his epic quest, and the classic painful pull of home. Many of the writers around the room said that they often feel the siren call of nostalgia threading throughout their work. Their initial response to the term was mainly positive.

Yet Riley has no soft feelings for nostalgia. She says that the current usage of the term represents ‘a virus of weakening which is spreading all over our culture like an oily paste.’

Bromide is a popular 19th Century sedative which induces a state of detached sleepiness. Riley suggests that our current use of the term nostalgia as representing an idealised version of the past, is a kind of verbal bromide.

As nostalgia is not the same as reminiscence. It sanitises as it is expressed. It places the past at some safe distance, allowing us to believe that the past is over, that it is more sealed off than it actually is. It smoothes over like a tranquiliser, like a bromide, what ought to be raw and jagged.

Why is this weakened form of nostalgia so rampant? Watered down versions of the overused term abound. What are the sources of this cloudy vagueness? asks Denise.

Nostalgia is not the same as the search for the past or some lost good. There’s something a lot riskier going on than that; the underbelly of sanitised nostalgia is dark. Nostalgia doesn’t repeat or duplicate memory. It may even distort or evade the real work of memory.

Could nostalgia be a form of self deception, a social disease? Part of a profoundly conservative narrative indicating a lack of authenticity which is hostile to lived history?

Denise moves on from these questions to point out that you can in fact be nostalgic for a place you’ve never inhabited. And yes, nostalgia is a useful consolation which offers not only escapism, but also solace and self understanding for those who have been displaced. Indeed, you can feel nostalgia not only for the past, but for the future. 

Could it be that nostalgia is a search for wholeness? A wanting to become that which you have always felt that you should be. Riley reads the final stanza from Plath’s 'The Eye Mote', and the memorable lines: ‘What I want back is what I was.../A Place, a time gone out of mind’. These lines evoke a wish for a past that may never have existed in the first place. The desire for an impossible wholeness. 

More worryingly, the grand identifications of our social structures and religions may well rest on the same shaky foundations of the consolations of nostalgia. Reams of people pushing aside lived experience in search of an idea of what we must once have had in the past. But probably never did. Premature attachments to invented identifications.

Riley ends by positing that it is dangerous to pack so much into the hazy land of nostalgia. It holds too much. Instead we need to unpack the term, and look details of the past in the eye; using various forms of critique rather than the simple dark pull of nostalgia.

The discussion following the official provocation, starts with a defence of the term. Perhaps in the West nostalgia is somewhat embarrassing, but in other countries that are still searching for an identity, they need to look to their past in order to form their nationhood. When there is no collective meaning of the word home, then nostalgia can be useful. There are so many narratives that have not been written or told yet, so in many countries nostalgia is not narcissistic or conservative, but instead urgent and critical.

Yes, there are endless examples of how nostalgia is and has been put to political use for nefarious means. The nostalgic constructed version of the past always serves a present purpose in these cases. People are invited to feel sentimental about the past due to a realpolitik. 

So is nostalgia intrinsically conservative? And therefore, for artists, to be avoided? 

There is however, a difference between historical nostalgia and reflective nostalgia; the latter can be more personal and idiosyncratic, it can work as an individual approach to the past and an antidote to the official versions of things. As nostalgia doesn't have to have an object. Could that objectless personal desire perhaps not be a pure thing; a limitless urge for an integrity that has been lost?

Un-syrupy nostalgia can often be a call to action. Good writers can use that. In order to revive the term, the knowingness of nostalgia has to be deployed now, rather than dismissed. We have to sharpen up and remain authentic, without giving in to sentiment.

The writers end by agreeing that we need to separate out the various types of nostalgia in order to redeem the category. Maybe there’s a better word or words for the many different forms of nostalgia that we’re discussing, as the word nostalgia is too compromised, soft-focused for the complicated forms of personal experience it seeks to describe. The word nostalgia in its current incarnation obfuscates more than it clarifies. 

Follow the Worlds conversation on @WritersCentre on twitter, on these latest news posts, and find out more about all the writers and events here.


 

Listen to Denise Riley's provocation in full here:


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A Nostalgic Homecoming- Worlds Literature Festival Returns

Posted By: Rowan Whiteside, 07 May 2014

"Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days." - Doug Larson

In six short weeks Worlds Literature Festival is back, and in its tenth year too. As in previous years, we at Writers’ Centre Norwich will be welcoming internationally renowned writers from around the globe for a week of readings, events, and in depth literary discussion. (I’ll be sitting at the back of the room, doing my best to capture the debate in 140 characters.)

The theme for our tenth annual extravaganza is, appropriately, nostalgia. Over the week, through the public and private events, our writers will be exploring halcyon days of yore, rose-tinted glasses, childhood memories and the idea of home. Our first Worlds Literature Festival was pre-recession, pre-iPhone and pre-ereader – a simpler time. Yet I’m told the inaugural Worlds was as ambitious in scope and events as our tenth is.

I’m delighted that JM Coeztee, Nobel Laureate, Man Booker Prize winner, and all round literary superstar, will be returning to Norwich. I’m also looking forward to meeting Louise Doughty (Appletree Yard), NoViolet Bulawayo (We Need New Names), and Owen Sheers (Resistance). (You can view all the Worlds participants here.)

John Carey, Oxford Professor, author, critic and social commentator will be joining us at Norwich Playhouse (17th June, 7.30pm) to discuss his latest book; The Unexpected Professor and give us a personal tour of his reading history. There’ll be intimate tales of some of the literary world’s greatest heroes; from TS Eliot to Philip Larkin, accessible and interesting literary critics, and insights into a now vanished publishing industry. I must admit I’m hoping to hear scurrilous stories about the literary elite...

I am already preparing insightful comments to stammer unintelligibly at JM CoetzeeHe’ll be reading at the Norwich Playhouse (19th June, 7.30pm) with Xiaolu Guo, Julia Franck and Ivan Vladislavic. Vladislavic’s novel Double Negative was one of my favourite books of last year, capturing South Africa in a time of racial segregation and in an uneasy post-apartheid reality with stunning prose. (I’m thrilled that Double Negative is also one of our Summer Reads titles!)

As an ex-pat South African, I’m sure the event with JM Coetzee and Ivan Vladislavic will raise feelings of horror and nostalgia. I’m hoping, however, that my own emotional response will be contextualised through the private salons. These feature provocations from the visiting writers, with each author or translator exploring their own experiences of nostalgia, and its function as a literary device. Whilst the provocations are only open to Worlds participants, we will be live-tweeting from @WritersCentre, blogging and recording the events- so you won’t miss out.

A series of public readings will also be taking place over Worlds Festival- priced at £2, these readings offer introductions to four or five authors and their writing. Perfect for students, keen readers and aspiring writers, the Worlds Festival Reads too often leave me with a prohibitive reading list and the urge to scribble my own stories down.

So, please join us, online or in person for Worlds Literature Festival. We’d love to have you.

Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.  





"The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there" - L.P Hartley in The Go-Between


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If we stop reading novels then what might we lose? Han Han and the One

Posted By: Katy Carr, 07 August 2013

At the ninth annual Worlds Literature Festival Salon event, the international writers present were tasked with examining Ways of Writing: Ways of Reading, particularly focusing on how literature and story-telling have been affected by economic and digital changes.

Thursday brought a joint provocation from Peng Lun and Eric Abrahamsen which focussed on the best-selling Chinese writer Han Han. Peng Lun is a Chinese editor who publishes world renowned writers and edits Granta China whilst Eric Abrahamsen is a Chinese-English literary translator and publishing consultant who lives in Beijing. The following is a report of Peng and Eric’s provocation and of the discussion that followed.

Peng and Eric explained that Han Han changed a generation’s consciousness with his novel writing, but has now abandoned the long-form and is publishing one short idea a day on the internet. What does this say about the way things are going? Does this reflect a wider trend in moving from long form to short form, and is it symptomatic of attention spans in the modern age? Should we be worried?

Peng began by placing Han Han as typical of his generation in China; the first generation to come of age with the internet and to have grown up under the one child policy.

Han Han didn’t do well under China’s school system, but he was good at writing and so he focused on that. At 17 Han Han wrote a novel which became an instant best-seller. He was offered a place at Fudan University but declined, opting instead to become a racing car driver (with a brief foray into singing) and in so doing became an idol for millions of young people in China.

Han Han started a blog where he criticised the government on many issues in a sharp and satirical way. He gained the attention of the authorities, and some of his blogs were deleted by the internet companies due to pressure from the government. In 2010 he published a new magazine called the Party. The magazine was published in 2011 and sold over 1 million copies before being banned.

However, Han Han’s latest project is very different. ‘The One’ is a website that Han Han and his team has set up with a dotcom giant. It features one image, one question and one report each day, and each day’s content is different to the next, seemingly totally eclectic. As each daily update on ‘The One’ is disconnected from the one before there is little opportunity to respond to the ideas presented, no long-term build up, no chance for ideas to gather momentum.

‘The One’ is designed for China’s ‘e-babies’ (Han Han’s terminology), in order to give them content in a way that captures their attention and that is easily digestible. Is this a cause for concern? Could Han Han’s shift in form be representative of the way things are going? As a cultural icon his thoughts and ideas have real impact; he has taught the youth, who are extremely porous and prone to influence, how to rebel. Han Han has changed Chinese society.

Han Han’s key achievement was bringing irony into public discourse, in one of the least ironic places in the world. He did this through his novel. This is important as it gives people a way of staying under the radar and still being able to criticise. He gave the Chinese public, particularly the young people, options and a vocabulary that previously they did not have.

So, given his influence and power, what should we make of Han Han’s move from the traditional long-form novel to the online short-form?



Peng and Eric concluded by saying that they think this move away from the long-form into easily digestible online bites of ideas is concerning, for some artistic ideas can only be had over the course of a very long period of time – six months to ten years. These are ideas that percolate in the mind, grow and cannot be expressed in the short-form. The long-form is the only way to expand a sustained idea; and so Peng and Eric asked us to consider what we may be losing by this leap into the daily and the easily digestible.

Readers need to spend time digesting – the novel has a slow rhythm which might only be perceived if you don’t think about much else when you read it. Many social ideas will only take root, or mature if people have a forum in which they spend time. As discussed in Ruth Ozeki’s provocation, technology has reduced the time and space in which we have to express our ideas. Technology has increased the pace of things, so that readers don’t have time to consider things at great length.

Yet we humans are organic and have inate biological rhythms. There are certain things that we can’t speed up, certain ideas that can’t adapt to pacier form. So if we don’t fight for the time and space to express these sustained ideas then there are works of art and concepts that we simply won’t have.

The provocation reminded one writer of Chomsky’s idea that liberalism can’t be articulated in a sound-bite on TV, but that right-wing politics can be. The advent of TV had a direct impact on the policies that influence the public.

As regards to form, it was pointed out that online gaming is a type of long-form, a closed world where people can get lost. Whilst an aphorism or poem is a short-form that not only slows you down but forces you to concentrate. So it’s not all about length of form, but the quality and composition of that form too.

The session closed with the writers considering the provocateurs’ idea that the traditional long-form novel was the one which was most subversive in Han Han’s work – it really changed the culture and allowed his ideas to travel and disperse under the radar. Han Han had the greatest impact on his culture when he was working at his slowest. People need to internalise ideas and thought and that takes time- social change won’t come in a tweet.

The novel is meditative and immersive, it pulls us into a hypnotic state, giving us a chance to absorb ideas and art. It gives us the chance to feel something different, to feel changed. The novel creates a space where something happens both for readers and writers, and if we stop reading them, we will lose that space forever.  

Listen to Peng Lun and Eric Abrahmasen's provocation:


A Worlds 13 Round Up:

Watch the highlights on YouTube
Listen to the discussion on SoundCloud
See the images on Flickr


Read the blogs

From the events:

A Writers Dilemma: Tove Jansson, More than the Moomins

Best of British and Novelists’ Fears


Meir Ben Elijah: Out of the dark and Into the Light


From the salons:

Sjón’s Stories Inhabit the Worlds Literature Festival Salon

What is the Internet Doing To Writers? Ruth Ozeki and the Trials of Switching Off

Rachel Lichtenstein's Diamond Street App: Is This The Way Stories Are Going?


Find out more about Worlds Literature Festival.



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Is the Literary Novel Doomed? - Marcel Möring

Posted By: Katy Carr, 11 July 2013

For the third Worlds Literature Festival Salon, Marcel Möring gave a provoking introduction, rousing writers in defence of the literary novel.

His terms were clear. The novel is under attack. This form which is the story of how it all began is us and we are it. Novelists listen to the heartbeat of time, and so their work is urgent. Novelists need to give people not what they want, but instead what they might least expect. They need to make art.

Möring states that the novel has come to a standstill and that novelists just seem to have accepted this.

He finished by rousing the assembled writers. Let us be bold and daring. Let’s risk it all and get back to the point whereby we ourselves are shocked by literature. Let’s mess with time and place and the idea of the text. Let’s be free and experimental. Let’s make art.

Novelists are the mothers and fathers of narrative invention. They have an obligation and must try to go where no man and no woman has gone before.



There was general agreement from the writers gathered that there is indeed a crisis in the novel form. The market has become constricted and now publishers are not taking a chance on experimental forms of novels, writers are being herded towards the familiar.

Has the European novel sold its soul and become a commercial tool of bog standard story telling? It might have. Yet is this just an Anglo-American disease? The novel in English may be doomed, but this doesn't necessarily hold for all novels.

Those writing in other forms noted Marcel’s insistence on the novel being the ultimate literary form. Maybe the most interesting literature is happening outside of the novel now. Would that be such a  bad thing? 

A poet noted that of course it’s worthwhile to look for something new in the novel; poets are constantly searching for the new. If novelists become really experimental and break down all of the boundaries in the novel, maybe they’ll end up writing poetry!

Then the writers talked about how great literature needn’t be experimental. Some of the best modern literature comes from reportage, which is not known for experimentalism. Also, many people do not want the experimental in their novels. They just want the writing to be high quality, the construction excellent, such as in the work of Annie Proulx and Johnathan Franzen. 

There is more than one way of being brave. You can break boundaries in other, non-experimental ways – by being emotionally honest, by opening up the raw. Why this insistence on a new form? Making a novel experimental can also be a way of being inauthentic – you can hide behind form.

The idea of Modernism was explored. Isn’t the classic Modernist form outdated? Don’t we need to find our own way of writing for this time we’re living in, rather than harking back to the experimentalists of the early 20th Century? People discussed Will Self’s Umbrella, the room divided about how relevant the novel’s Modernist style is now, whether or not it’s pastiche.

The writers considered whether today we have to find our own Modernism; a style more relevant to the time we’re living in. And noted that writers shouldn’t just break up form for the sake of it;  the experimental works best when it comes out of necessity.

As a riposte, Möring listed all of the interesting ways of writing that novelists could  be employing, that are being underutilised. Diary style, in the style of the Talmud, interviews... Modernism aside, we are not being inventive enough, surely.

There was general agreement that novelists are indeed under great constraints commercially – they are certainly being herded towards the safe and this is indeed having an effect on form.

Yet there was also frequent mention of the wealth of individual presses and brave editors who are doing great work and publishing more interesting fiction.  Good books continue to travel in the most surprising ways. There is also a gratifying resurgence in revivalism; Richard Yates, Paula Fox, John Williams were all cited as examples of great writers who have been re-earthed recently with the writers concluding that it is at least reassuring to note that if your challenging, brave book doesn’t make it the first time round, there’s always a chance that it will be brought back to life later on. 

Listen to a podcast of Marcel's provocation below:

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Rachel Lichtenstein's Diamond Street App: Is This The Way Stories Are Going?

Posted By: Katy Carr, 28 June 2013

Rachel Lichtenstein’s Worlds Literature Festival salon provocation introduced her groundbreaking app, Diamond Street, based on her book of the same name.

As a social historian interested in psychogeography and a former visual artist, Lichtenstein said she was very excited by the possibilities of GPS technology to bring her place-based historical writing to life in a new artistic form that would merge the past, the present and the fantastic in a beautiful new way.

Set in the Hatton Garden area of London, and relating stories that come out of the landscape, Lichtenstein immediately saw great opportunities for Diamond Street the app to bring the heart of her book of the same name to a new audience. She was also keen to work in this interesting new form, but she knew that she did not have the skills to realise the project on her own.

Lichtenstein showed us clips from the app, and we walked the sewers with her on screen. Later, we listened to the voices of locals who had recorded live versions of the oral history narratives from the book. The high quality of the sound and the visuals as well as the beauty of the narrative prose was evident in all of the clips played.

The writers responded enthusiastically to the presentation, saying that the app brought up all kinds of exciting possibilities for writers. In general the writers said that it did not seem like a film or TV adaption, as the narrative used was pure and directly from the book – the app instead felt like a separate art form that was just as beautiful, if different to the original book.


Lichtenstein said that the form in the app reminded her of the Talmud where the text is central and there were possibilities for asides and extra information alongside – much in the way that online links work.

On a more practical note, Lichtenstein talked about how the app was funded in the main by an Arts Council England grant for which she was very grateful. At the moment the app is not profitable, nor something she could expect her publishers to pay in full for, but she did also point out that the process of making an app like this will get considerably less expensive as time goes on. 

Lichtenstein also talked about how it was a real pleasure to work in a team; a novelty for a writer. The writers discussed the joy of working in a team, but also the stress of that – when writers are used to being in full control of things.

Artistically, some writers expressed concerns about viewing locations on screen; the encroachment of the readers’ imaginative space. This led on to a discussion relating to the previous salon about multimedia eroding our creative space, chewing up part of the territory of the imagination. Displaying things that used to exist only in people’s minds might be deadly to the creative imagination.

But this pessimism was refuted by the overall enthusiasm for the app as a new artistic form, and the possibilities it opened out to writers. 

As one writer noted, whilst books are the major cultural artefact of our time, many cultures have struggled to tell stories in books. Many cultures have very little written culture, but, like in Greenland, already turn to graphic novels, or other alternative forms.

Overall the writers felt that the creation of this work is evidence of exciting new ways of structuring stories, new forms. Lichtenstein has peeled back the veil of space and time in a wholly original artistic way and this is exhilarating.

Listen to a podcast of Rachel's provocation:

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What is the Internet Doing To Writers? Ruth Ozeki and the Trials of Switching Off

Posted By: Katy Carr, 27 June 2013

Is the internet turning us all into cyborg fiction writers with attention deficit disorder?

Ruth Ozeki’s Worlds Literature Festival Salon provocation dealt with the effect of the new digital landscape on the writer and on our sense of self.

Ozeki told us of the disruption she encountered when trying to write her novel, her desire to go online and look up facts, as well as the heavy weight of having the world’s writers on your lap, accessible at any time from her computer.

So she went away to write, to a place in the countryside that had no network, no internet. She struggled with this lack of connection, angry. Her mind tried to look things up in the way that google does and Ozeki struggled with the fact that she couldn’t access facts with the click of a mouse. Unwired, she felt insufficient, losing faith in herself as a person and as a writer. She couldn’t write. The book felt broken and so did her mind.

But after two weeks she noted that her sense of self came back to her, and that she was able to write again.

The whole experience led Ozeki to question the effect of the internet on our sense of self, to wonder what it’s doing to us.

Technology often creates the very problem that it’s trying to eradicate, said Ozeki, the internet is de-familiarising solitude and so creating loneliness, even as social networks proliferate.

The internet has democratised language. Now anyone can self publish and there is a proliferation of blogs and self published work on there. Is this a good thing?

Ozeki referenced Milan Kundera who wrote "Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding." (The Book of Laughter and Forgetting, 1979).

It could be said that time is here. We are all writers now. And we are blurring the boundaries between the private and the performative in our everyday life in a way that was unthinkable less than a quarter of a century ago.

Ozeki's provocation turned at the end, to consider what we might gain through this new way of being. Our sense of self is malleable and durable. It can adapt. This interconnected online world might change our sense of self, but it might also make us more open to other people’s ideas, stories that are not our own. Our sense of self may become more relational and less fixed and that might not be such a bad thing.



(NB Ozeki deals with all of these issues in her book A Tale For The Time Being which looks like a fascinating read.)

After Ozeki’s provocation the writers mulled over the effect of the internet. If quality writing depends on deep time then how does one get to that when constantly connected?

Many talked about how they too felt addicted to the internet, unable to detach, constantly distracted. macfreedom.com was cited as a great solution, a good way of avoiding going online when writing.

However, not everybody felt the immediacy of this problem, some of the international writers saying that this is really an affluent first world problem.

Forms of writing were discussed. Ozeki had referenced the Japanese i-novel as the main literary form in Japan now, saying that every new writer there was expected to write one or two of them. The personal format of the i-novel is inherent, and perhaps grew out of the first person format of the Haiku. In any case, portraying a personal reality has become the natural subject matter for Japanese writers these days.

Then the writers discussed that universal deafness mentioned by Milan Kundera – if everybody is creating, who is absorbing the information? Where are the deep readers?

Not everybody subscribed to Kundera’s view of things, seeing it as arrogant and elitist; an example of the idea that literacy shouldn’t grow amongst the peasants.

We discussed how in Iceland there is a longstanding belief that everybody has the right to tell a story, not just the official storytellers or the elite, and later we discussed how in Iceland’s national newspapers anybody can have their obituary published, not only public figures. The right to tell stories is for everybody and that shouldn’t feel like a threat.

As regards the worry about listening, maybe there are simply different ways to listen, to read. We skim words online, but maybe we are creating more links than ever before. There is a type of effervescence there. Perhaps Sjón’s idea of stories superseding form will also hold for the internet.

And so the Salon ended on a positive note. However the overwhelming impression of the discussion remained the writers’ anxiety about the assault on that ‘deep time’ and about their own inability to resist the distractions that the online world holds.

Listen to Ruth Ozeki's Provocation on the Salon Podcast




Watch Ruth read from A Tale for the Time Being at Friday's Worlds Festival Free Read:


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A Writer's Dilemma: Tove Jansson, More than the Moomins.

Posted By: Rowan Whiteside, 19 June 2013

I have a dim memory of being read the Moomins as a child, poking at the chubby creatures with my equally chubby fingers. I also have a copy of  The Summer Book sitting on my ever increasing ‘To Be Read’ pile at home. Still, before the Tove Jansson: Between Light and Dark event, Tove Jansson was nothing but a shadowy figure. Now, post event, The Summer Book has been moved to the top of the pile. I’m determined to re-read the Moomins back catalogue, and I’m desperate to find out more about the elusive figure of Tove Jansson.

On the panel was Rebecca Swift (of The Literary Consultancy), poet and Jansson fan, Esther Freud (author of Hideous Kinky), who wrote the foreword to The Summer Book; actor Samuel West (Howard’s End), voice of the Moomin app and Icelandic writer Sjón, who recently collaborated with Björk on her Moomins and the Comet Chase soundtrack. The event began by Rebecca inviting the panel to talk about what Tove’s work meant to them. Fascinatingly, our panellists’ child selves seemed to be drawn to the Moomins because of the thin edge between light and dark in her work, and her truthfulness as a writer. As adults, they love Tove’s work for similar reasons, but are also drawn to her wry observations on humanity (or Moominity?!).



Throughout the discussion it became clear to me that the Moomins held a very special place in the hearts of not only our panellists but in our audience’s too. The centre of the discussion seemed to be on Tove’s artful way of combining conflicting emotions, and the subsequent creation of bittersweet tableaus. Indeed, our panellists seemed to agree that bittersweet was the best word to describe Tove’s writing.

For me, what stood out the most from the event was the image of Tove as a determined artist and a writer who was absolutely dedicated to her craft. She went to extraordinary lengths to be able to create, going as far to living on a tiny island (think the size of a large living room). On the miniscule windswept island there was a small house, which you’d assume would be the living space – yet Tove lived in a tent to preserve the house as a workspace, and to resist the bleeding over of relaxation into work. I find that both extraordinary, and inspiring.

She was an artist who wanted to pursue her craft first and foremost, and came to almost abhor the Moomins, because drawing the Moomins left her no time to experiment and try new things. Of course, the popularity of the Moomins also came to mean that she was first and foremost known as the creator of the Moomins and her other artistic pursuits were all but ignored.

Eventually, Tove handed on the work of drawing the cartoon to her brother Lars, giving her the freedom to pursue her other creative urges. It was lucky that she did, as it gave her the time to write her adult fiction, including The Summer Book (which both Esther and Sjon raved about as being one of the best books they've ever read.).

I think anyone who fancies themselves as an artist, or a writer, could do a lot worse then using Tove Jansson as an icon. Hugely successful, Tove was always striving to achieve and create, never resting on her laurels, and always focussing on her art- what more could you want in a hero?

Take a look at the story of the evening on Storify

Listen to podcasts of the event on Soundcloud.


Watch Esther read from Comet in Moominland:



Watch Sam and Sjón discuss Tove Jansson and read from her work:



Take a look at photos from Worlds 13:

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