All Dogs Are Blue by Rodrigo de Souza Leão, translated from the Portuguese by Zoë Perry & Stefan Tobler

August 2, 2013 § Leave a comment

ALL DOGS ARE BLUE_FRONT cmykAll Dogs Are Blue is a beautifully nuanced portrayal of mental illness.  Rodrigo de Souza Leão has given us a story set in a Brazilian mental institution which isn’t a caricature of lunacy.  The author does not fall into the familiar stereotypes.  He does not confine his narrator within a prison of horrors.  Nor does Souza Leão romanticize the disease, assigning it the attributes of genius.  The narrator has schizophrenia, but he is not defined by it.  He possesses a consciousness and humanity outside of his mental illness.

The unnamed narrator is a patient at a Rio de Janeiro asylum.  In the course of his free-flowing, stream-of-conscious narrative he tells us about his daily routine, gives his observations on his fellow patients, his parents and caregivers, tells how he came to be committed and shares his reoccurring delusions. Two of these, Baudelaire and Rimbaud, are his best friends – the angel and the devil on his shoulders.  He masturbates a lot.  A loose subplot hinges on another inmate, The Fearsome Madman, and provides some comic relief.  All Dogs Are Blue is a book full of contradictions.  When it is funny, it’s hilarious.  When it is serious, it’s heartbreaking. 

This is by no means a traditional narrative, filtered as it is through the narrator’s – sometimes lucid, sometimes delusional – perceptions.   The routine of the asylum can be mind-numbingly boring, and yet the narrator is constantly striving to find beauty and meaning inside this narrow world.  While Souza Leão is no slouch as a novelist, his true calling is as a poet.  I recommend reading this book for the richness of the prose;  the shifts between reality and delusion; the beautiful and surreal imagery; and the symbolism of a blue toy dog.  Each and every word, up until the last period, counts.

All Dogs Are Blue is – at its heart – a long, shimmering prose poem beautifully translated by Zoë Perry & Stefan Tobler.

I’ve been to China.  Saying it like that makes it sound like I’ve travelled a lot.  It was a very pretty place, full of people, bicycles and lots of clouds.  The clouds, the clouds.  There I was hungry, I was thirsty, I was a foreigner and I was madly in love with those far-away clouds, oh those wonderful clouds!  Shapes in the sky.  When the day is like that, a sunny day, a day like today, I no longer want to get out of here.  I’ll sleep in the calm green of 6 mg of Lexotan.  Hold on tight to my blue dog and enter into a pact with happiness.  Remember China, its bicycles, its blood-red flag and, finally, those incredible clouds in the Chinese sky.  I think I’ll be happier once I’ve taken the bloody blood oath.  I want to die of anything, anything but of a chip I swallowed.

This is also a semi-autobiographical novel.  It’s Brazilian author, Rodrigo de Souza Leão, died in an institution.  He, like his protagonist, was not a man defined by his illness.  His artistic output during his too short life (1965-2008) was enormous.  He was the author of at least four novels, more than ten books of poetry and was co-founder/editor of the Brazilian poetry magazine Zunái.  He was a blogger and maintained friendships with several other important Brazilian poets and authors through email and social media.  In addition he was a visual artist whose paintings were posthumously exhibited, in a solo exhibition, at Rio’s Museum of Modern Art.  Most dream of, but few succeed in, leaving behind such a legacy.

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The English edition of All Dogs Are Blue, published by And Other Stories includes an Introduction by Deborah Levy and the Publisher’s Preface to the Second Brazilian Edition by Jorge Viveiros de Castro (Rodrigo de Souza Leão’s Brazilian publisher) who was a friend of the author’s.

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Flash Cards, poetry by Yu Jian (translated from the Chinese by Wang Ping & Ron Padgett)

February 1, 2012 § Leave a comment

I purchased this little book of poetry sometime last year on a whim.  It didn’t pop back up on my radar until after I read The True Deceiver, and discovered in the course of writing my review that both books were nominated for the 2011 Best Translated Book Award.  I immediately pulled it out of the pile and devoured Flash Cards in just a few short hours.  It’s a brilliant, beautiful collection of poems.  I’ve returned to it several times since that first reading to re-visit my favorites.

Yu Jian is a Chinese poet.  “The second bestselling contemporary Chinese poet, behind Bei Dao” we learn in his translator’s, Ron Padgett’s, thoughtful note (really more of an introduction) at the beginning of Flash Cards.  The three pages of Padgett’s A Note on Translating Yu Jian provide a unique portrait of a poet living in today’s China.  It’s followed by an equally interesting analysis of the poetry by Simon Patton, who discusses T.S. Eliot’s influence.  And then we get to the meat of it:  the seventy-five poems that make up this collection.

Throughout the book Yu Jian grapples with China’s vast cultural history in an attempt to contextualize its present.  He repeatedly uses the traditional symbols and motifs – Autumn, leopards, flowering fruit trees, a porcelain bowl – and then contrasts them to a much less elegant modern world.  And so peach blossoms become pink cosmetic boxes glimpsed from an escalator and a presumably priceless Shang Dynasty antique reveals itself to be a mass-produced bowl used to hold chicken soup.  He shows us a China disconnected from its past.  The poems are short and yet, in just a few lines, Yu Jian tells surprisingly complex stories.

Someone discovered Xi Shuang Ban Na
“Beautiful Place”
The locals don’t know what that means
They’ve never discovered beauty in their native land
The world     has always been like this
The place has always been called     Xi Shuang Ban Na

This collection is not political.  But I still couldn’t help thinking of the Chinese artist Ai WeiWei and his 1995 piece:  Dropping a Han dynasty urn.  Both artists are smashing tradition – though, perhaps not so dramatically in Yu Jian’s case.  Both challenge the public’s attachment to a China that no longer exists by co-opting its icons and placing them within what has become an almost alien environment.  In Yu Jian’s case this includes the art of poetry. Nothing, it seems, is sacred.

(Poetry Recipe)

The lake takes off its blue mitten
exposing a red palm

The blue mitten is a metaphor for the lake
The red palm is the lakebed
Next     you should compare yourself
to something small and lovely on the shore
a gazelle or deer drinking water
but don’t ever compare yourself to a fish
because they’re doomed     the lake drying up

Yu Jien does not sacrifice beauty for meaning in his writing.  Nor do the translators.  The surprisingly lovely imagery, the distinctive meter and rhythm of these poems seems to have been strictly held to – an English and a Chinese translator collaborating to protect the integrity of the work.  For those who have to ability to confirm this:  the original Chinese text is printed on the page facing the English translation for each of the seventy-five poems.  The paperback is well designed with clean-cut pages and french flaps.  In short:  Zephyr Press has done a wonderful job.  Not surprising, as the non-profit, independent publisher specializes in international poetry translations.

Flash Cards is a joint project with The Chinese University Press and the Jintian Literary Foundation.

Publisher: Zephyr Press & Chinese University Press; Brookline, Mass./Hong Kong (2011)
ISBN: 978 0 9815521 3 2

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Monkey Business (new writing from japan) – volume 01 / 2011

October 2, 2011 § 2 Comments

If you know me, then you probably know of my obsession with podcasts.  The latest and greatest being the Three Percent Podcast, hosted by Chad Post from Open Letter Books and Tom Roberge from New Directions.  I couldn’t give you a reason why I like listening to these guys – other than the great recommendations for translated lit and their knowledge of random (and frightening) facts:  such as the Power Rangers have been around for at least 13 seasons (actually 19).   Chad’s baseball enthusiasm cracks me up, Tom comes off as a bit of a misanthrope which I find even funnier.  Together they’re just a great team. I encourage you to listen to them.

One excellent recommendation they made was the Japanese literary magazine Monkey Business.  The title comes from an old Chuck Berry song.  It’s an editorial collaboration between Motoyuki Shibata (editor of the Japanese edition) and Ted Goossen (who translates of 9 of the 14 stories collected in Volume 01).  You can purchase a copy through A Public Space ‘s website.

I think for most readers the immediate draw will be a 2008 interview with Haruki Murakami, conducted by the Japanese novelist Hideo Furukawa.  But the short stories, poetry and haikus – many involving monkeys – will hook the adventurous reader.  These Japanese authors are incredibly visceral, both in their subject matter and descriptions.  Squeamish beware!  Some of the plots border on the bizarre.  Monsters, deformities, mythology and horror are all par for the course.

What I enjoyed most was style in which the stories are told, which is entirely different from anything I’m used to.  They made me think in new ways (if that makes sense?).  I imagine repeat readings will uncover ideas and points I’d missed the first go around.

As I said, Volume 1 is still available.  Volume 2 (I believe) will be out Spring, 2012.  If you’re looking for an overview of or a quick introduction to Japanese literature… or just something out of the norm… Monkey Business is a good place to start.

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Poems from the Book of Hours by Rainer Maria Rilke

April 27, 2011 § 1 Comment

Put out my eyes, and I can see you still;
slam my ears to, and I can hear you yet;
and without any feet can go to you;
and tongueless, I can conjure you at will.
Break off my arms, I shall take hold of you
and grasp you with my heart as with a hand;
arrest my heart, my brain will beat as true;
and if you set this brain of mine afire,
upon my blood I then will carry you.

Explanations and apologies first.  It has been a bit hectic around here.  What with a trip to France, a new puppy and working on an adoption application, BookSexy has suffered from neglect.  Fortunately, things are now settling down, so I’m pleased to say that there will be no more interruptions.

Seeing Paris was a lifelong dream.  Visiting Shakespeare & Co. was a pilgrimage.  And Rainer Maria Rilke’s Poems from the Book of Hours, published by New Directions, made it a triple play. The cover is soft green textured paper with french flaps and gold embossing.  The book opens with a preface by Ursula K. Le Guin followed by an introduction by the translator Babette Deutsch.  The poems are printed with the original German on the left page followed by the English translation on the right.  I love this book.  The presentation is as beautiful and thoughtful as the words within.

I discovered Rilke, like many people, when I was young (Le Guin tells a funny story about her own first encounter  with the poet’s works and subsequent enthusiasm).  Rilke is one of those authors who, if you connect to his writing, the connection stays with you for life.  I was originally drawn to his prose: The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge and Letters to a Young Poet.  I re-read these two books every few years.  The poetry came to me late and my response to it has always been lukewarm.  The truth is that I bought Poems from the Book of Hours as much for its cover as I did because of name recognition.

The Book of Hours, which I believe was a larger work from which the poems in the New Directions edition were selected, was Rilke’s first published book of poetry.  It was completed  in parts during the years of 1899, 1901 & 1903. The poems were written as meditations, conversations between the poet &  God (the original edition bore the subtitle: Love Poems to God). It is religious, but in a way that very much reminded me of Emily Dickinson’s poetry.  Like Dickinson addressing her anonymous “Master”, the subject matter of Rilke’s poems frequently appears secular in nature.   Lines like: “No, my life is not this precipitous hour through which you see me passing at a run” do not scream God!  Instead, the poems focus on their author’s preoccupations.   Rilke writes about youth and mortality, human isolation, spirituality; not about organized religion.  In fact, I wouldn’t have made the connection to God at all if the preface & introduction hadn’t both pointed me in that direction.

There are basically two kinds of poetry.  The first freezes a moment in time and then explores it from every angle.  The other, the type of poem Rilke writes, takes an abstract concept or emotion and solidifies it into something tangible.  The result can be a poem like the one I opened the post with.  The last line of which, “upon my blood I then will carry you” demonstrates the value in subtlety.  The choice of the word “upon”, rather than “in” is significant.  Its use highlights the isolation between the the poet and who he addresses his poem to.  For Rilke individual consciousness is a bridge which cannot be crossed.  It is an idea that he struggles with and returns to again and again.  Always with a quiet thoughtfulness, which the translator manages to convey while still retaining the directness of  the original German language.  (Excellent work Babette Deutsch).

If I have one criticism of Poems from the Book of Hours it is that the cover flap, the preface and the intro all stress that the poems the book contains are only examples of his early, immature work.  That these poems are not Rilke’s best and were written before he’d fully developed as a poet.  This is a huge pet peeve of mine.  Please don’t tell me that what I’m about to read is mediocre.  I believe that all criticisms should be put at the end of a book.  Allow me, the reader,to form my own opinions without anonymous influence.  Because if you delve into Poems from the Book of Hours  without preconceptions,  to my mind it holds its own against Rilke’s other works.

***A quick note on New Directions Publishing Co.  I was familiar with the name, but hadn’t realized what beautiful editions they put out until after I’d googled the company.  They also have an impressive catalog of authors.  If you haven’t already familiarized yourself with their offerings, it’s definitely worth checking out their website.


Publisher:  New York, New Directions Books (2009).
ISBN:  978 0 8112 1853 5

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Don’t Forget the Poems

February 19, 2011 § 2 Comments

There was a quote from Lyndall Gordon’s Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family’s Feuds, describing the poems.  I wasn’t able to fit it into my review of the book.

A Dickinson poem can open out into any number of dramas to fill its compelling spaces.  As a woman unmodified by mating, a stranger to her time, speaking for those who are not members of the dominant group, Dickinson’s dashes push the language apart to open up the space where we live without language.

This act of daring takes off from a logical argument along the tightrope of the quatrain.  She flaunts her footsteps.  Her poetic line is a high-wire act:  a walker pretends to hesitate, stop, and sway; then, fleet of foot, skips to the end.

Gordon gives a thoughtful analysis of Dickinson’s poetry.  The foundation of her claim that Emily suffered from epilepsy is constructed on the clues she picks out of the poems, making it all the more convincing.  So if you love the poetry, and aren’t interested in the drama of the poet’s life, Lives Like Loaded Guns won’t disappoint.

Another source, one I highly recommend, is Adrienne Rich’s On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978.  It contains an essay, written by Rich in 1975 – Vesuvius at Home: The Power of Emily Dickinson.  It was my introduction to the Emily described in both Lyndall Gordon’s and Jerome Charyn’s books.

Dickinson is the American poet whose work consisted in exploring states of psychic extremity.  For a long time, as we have seen, this fact was obscured by the kinds of selections made from her work by timid, if well-meaning, editors.  In fact, Dickinson was a great psychologist, and like every great psychologist, she began with the material she had at hand: herself.  She had to posses the courage to enter, through language, states which most people deny or veil with silence.

And then, of course, there are the poems.  I’ve been reading them since I was 13 years old and still find them bewildering.  But isn’t that the mark of genius?  Like the cliché onion, great poetry has layers that we can peel away; at different stages of our lives we discover different meanings.

There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself –
Finite infinity.

 

On Lies, Secrets, and Silence: Selected Prose 1966-1978 by Adrienne Rich
Publisher:  W.W. Norton & Company, New York (1995)
ISBN:  0 393 31285 2

The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, edited by Thomas H. Johnson
Publisher:  Little, Brown and Company, Boston (1960)
ISBN:  00355 13 01

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