Time to Press 'Pause'

 I'm not quitting, just taking a break

In my natural habitat (photo by Deborah Jaffe)

I started this blog in June 2007. After an uncertain beginning, it pretty soon became a space where I could let my creativity run wild. Unsurprisingly, many of the pieces I wrote here made it to my first book, "Cuban, Immigrant, and Londoner". The experience of blogging and the (mostly) positive feedback I received as a blogger, gave me the confidence to approach publishers.

However, as many of you, fellow bloggers and readers, have noticed, I don't post here often. That's because in between holding two jobs (teaching English as a foreign language and delivering cycling training, in addition to promoting my book when possible) I find it difficult to update this much-cherished space of mine. That's why I have decided to pause for the time being. I won't be idle, though. In fact, I haven't been idle. One of the reasons why I'm taking a break from Blogger is that for the last seven years I have become more established on Medium. As a platform for writers, Medium felt like home as soon as I signed up to it. Becoming a member years later was the next logical step. What that meant was that I suddenly had access to a wide range of contributors, writing on anything from relationships to food. I also loved the sense of community we all created.

You, too, have the chance to access similar content (including my own posts) and become part of the Medium community. By clicking on the link below, you can sign up, become a member, start reading stories on your favourite topics and even write your own posts.

Don't delay. I'll be waiting for you.  Hear that sound? That's the sound of the kettle. I've just put it on.

Become a Medium member today

Four Ways in Which Writers Can Support Independent Bookshops

And why I, as a first-time published author, will be promoting my book at them

Photo by Deborah Jaffe

What have Irish poet Seamus Heaney and African-American novelist Toni Morrison got in common? Their books are amongst many I have bought at independent bookshops over the years.

Newly arrived in Britain more than two decades ago, I remember the excitement of venturing into an indie bookshop on West End Lane, in then chic-becoming West Hampstead. West End Lane Books is still there, its green exterior welcoming book lovers, both local and beyond.

Since then my love affair with these offbeat, unique and occasionally architecturally whimsical buildings has intensified. Some boast neatly arranged shelves. Others are jungles of higgledy-piggledy nooks and crannies. They all, however, offer a friendly hand to the visitor, inviting us to get lost in a volume’s open pages for hours.

It wasn’t long after I’d fallen for independent bookshops’ charm that the first threat appeared on the horizon. Behemoth Amazon arrived in the bookselling world and changed its business model overnight.

I confess that at the time I was as guilty as the next person of moving my custom online and using Amazon as my go-to for cheap music and literature purchases. Yet, at the same time I still frequented independent bookshops. It’s just that I did it less often.

Perhaps it’s because of more maturity on my part or the effects of an eighteen-month-long pandemic and its knock-on effect on socialising, but I have lately felt the urge to visit more indie bookshops. To amble in and ask the staff how they’re faring, how the business is doing and how the current situation is affecting them. As a newly published author whose book, Cuban, Immigrant, and Londoner, is being marketed and sold in all major retailers including Waterstones, WH Smith and, yes, you guessed it, online, on Amazon, I want to focus more on indie bookstores and its eclectic clientele.

An independent sector in such a crowded and commercially-driven world like bookselling is a precious resource to hold dear. Not every author has the backing of a big publishing house. That’s why I’ve come up with four ways (amongst many more. Please, feel free to leave your own suggestions in the comments box) in which we, writers and readers, can help keep indie bookshops afloat.

1-    If you move into an area where you’re planning to stay long, have a look online and check where your local indie bookshop is. Many are difficult to find. High rents and overheads mean that sometimes bookstores have to share the space with other venue users. Hoxton Books sits on a busy thoroughfare in trendy Hoxton, but unless you know where to look, you’ll miss it. Have a walk around. Who knows? It might even inspire your next post, or even book.

2-    Find out if they support other causes. Many independent bookshops link up with other creatives and support them in various ways. I’ve been to nights of poetry and music, where the money collected is split evenly between venue and performers. Again, have a butcher’s* online. That tenner you coughed up for the new edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets and Sujata Bhatt’s Augatora? It goes towards supporting the free performance you’ll attend next time.

3-    Join a book club. Many independent bookshops run them. Part of me feels funny in suggesting this one because when it comes to reading, I’m a lone wolf. But at the same time I understand the importance of analysing certain literary works with a group of like-minded readers, even if they don’t all agree.

4-    Bookshops nowadays double up as cafés, a trend that would have had fictional character Bernard Black (of Black Books notoriety) in a fit. But they do. If you can spare some time (and money) enjoying the homemade cakes on offer and drinking the freshly brewed coffee, you will still be supporting independent bookshops’ survival.

Independent bookstores are more than retailers. Many are community hubs, beating hearts of a neighbourhood, town or village, challenges to readers of all ages to broaden their horizons. Let’s hope these hives of creative power are still kicking around in years to come. Let’s get behind them.

*Cockney rhyming slang: “look”, from “butcher’s hook”

“Cuban, Immigrant, and Londoner”, on sale now.

What Makes a Good Writer? (originally written by Zadie Smith)

Third part now.

What writers know

First things first: writers do not have perfect or even superior knowledge about the quality or otherwise of their own work — God knows, most writers are quite deluded about the nature of their own talent. But writers do have a different kind of knowledge than either professors or critics. Occasionally it’s worth listening to. The insight of the practitioner is, for better or worse, unique.

(Click here to continue reading)

What Makes a Good Writer? (originally written by Zadie Smith)

Still from the archive. 2nd part.

The craft that defies craftsmanship

That is the end of the tale of Clive. Its purpose was to suggest that somewhere between a critic’s necessary superficiality and a writer’s natural dishonesty, the truth of how we judge literary success or failure is lost. It is very hard to get writers to speak frankly about their own work, particularly in a literary market where they are required to be not only writers, but also hucksters selling product. It is always easier to depersonalise the question. In preparation for this essay I emailed many writers (under the promise of anonymity) to ask how they judge their own work. One writer, of a naturally analytical and philosophical bent, replied by refining my simple question into a series of more interesting ones: I’ve often thought it would be fascinating to ask living writers: “Never mind critics, what do you yourself think is wrong with your writing? How did you dream of your book before it was created? What were your best hopes? How have you let yourself down?” A map of disappointments — that would be a revelation.

(Click here to continue reading)

What Makes a Good Writer? (originally written by Zadie Smith)

From the archive.

The tale of Clive

I want you to think of a young man called Clive. Clive is on a familiar literary mission: he wants to write the perfect novel. Clive has a lot going for him: he’s intelligent and well read he’s made a study of contemporary fiction and can see clearly where his peers have gone wrong. He has read a good deal of rigorous literary theory — those elegant blueprints for novels not yet built — and is now ready to build his own unparalleled house of words. Maybe Clive even teaches novels, takes them apart and puts them back together. If writing is a craft, he has all the skills, every tool. Clive is ready. He clears out the spare room in his flat, invests in an ergonomic chair, and sits down in front of the blank possibility of the Microsoft Word program. Hovering above his desktop he sees the perfect outline of his platonic novel — all he need do is drag it from the ether into the real. He’s excited. He begins.

(continue reading here)

Top Tips for Editing Your Writing During the Time of COVID-19

There’s a beautiful scene in High Fidelity, Stephen Frears’ 2000’s film adaptation of Nick Hornby’s novel, that I never tire of watching. Facing the camera, Rob Gordon, the character played superbly by John Cusack, shares his top tips in making the ultimate mixtape:

“The making of a great compilation tape, like breaking up, is hard to do and takes ages longer than it might seem. You gotta kick off with a killer, to grab attention. Then you got to take it up a notch, but you don’t wanna blow your wad, so then you got to cool it off a notch. There are a lot of rules.”

The making of a book, regardless of its future standing in literature’s canon, is equally hard to do and it also takes ages to complete.

Continue reading here.

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

Sometimes I remember an article not so much for the content of it but for a particular sentence that captures my attention. That has nothing to do with the quality of the piece but with the quality of the writer; someone who is so skilful that certain phrases cause me to do a double-take and go back to them. That’s exactly what happened recently when I came upon a feature by one of The New Yorker’s staff writers, Adam Gopnik. I love Gopnik’s writing and on this occasion I was really looking forward to what he had to say about a new Hemingway biography. Yet, I was more drawn to a couple of sentences almost at the beginning of his review than what came after.

On talking about Hemingway’s fall from grace after a long period of almost-sycophantic celebration, Gopnik states that “few would now give the old man the heavyweight championship of literature for which he fought so hard, not least because thinking of literature as an elimination bout is no longer our style.We think of it more as a quilting bee, with everyone having a chance to add a patch, and the finest patches often arising from the least privileged quilters.In recent decades, Hemingway has represented the authority of writing only for people who never read.”

I swear that I had never contemplated literature as an elimination bout. Elimination from what, exactly? It is my assumption that Adam is perhaps referring to an era when writing, especially in the States, was all about working on the Great Novel (or the Great American Novel, if we are going to be really specific). The next sentence and his mention of a quilting bee sounds slightly snobbish and sniffy. To me it looks as if Mr Gopnik disapproves of the way editors and publishers have cast their nets wider in recent decades to include an ever-growing, varied readership.

Literature is not just about the person who writes the book, but equally important, the person who reads it. The world we enter may be the writer’s, but the one opening the door is the reader. The reader then decides to stay in this world or not. Sometimes the reader stays when this world resembles their own somewhat. Sometimes, they stay for the opposite reason. The landscape in front of their eyes looks nothing like what they experience in their daily lives. Whether realism or escapism is the outcome, literature has achieved one of its main aims: to create a relationship between writer and reader.

Reading is a skill not to be learned passively. It doesn’t matter if you choose a couch or a chair to sit on whilst devouring a book; you are still allowing a piece of someone’s brain (to put it crudely) into yours. You, reader, deserve utmost respect.

And yet, and yet, and yet…

What happens when literature becomes a single-identity creative platform, catering chiefly to a particular demographic? Is this the elimination bout Adam Gopnik was referring to? A group of writers from said demographic sparring with each other to see who comes out on top? In my view, this goes against the democratic nature of reading. Let’s consider this: writing, by its very nature, is anarchic, or at least it should be. It should only obey the laws imposed by its master/mistress. Reading, on the other hand, is democratic (and individual[istic]). We share our passion for a specific book or author with like-minded readers. Harry Potter, pre-marketing frenzy, is a good example. For some reason, the idea of JK Rowling being given a free ride as a quilter (After what? Dozens of rejections from publishers!) makes no sense to me. If I were to twist Adam’s theory around, I would say that the quilting bee he so easily dismisses also includes patches by renowned writers like Papa Hemingway. But the more diverse patches we add, the better literature we will have.

© 2017

Next Post: “London, my London”, to be published on Saturday 15^th July at 6pm (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

As a reader, I find non-fiction as compelling as fiction. However, non-fiction becomes a minefield when polarising conflicts are thrown in. Biographies and autobiographies are usually straightforward affairs in which history has as much a big part to play as character. Memoirs or real-life-based accounts, however, are a different kettle of fish. I was reminded of their complex nature recently after reading a diary entry by the Libyan-American writer, Hisham Matar, in the London Review of Books.

Hisham was in Arkansas last year touring his latest book, a memoir entitled The Return (I am acquainted with his work through his novel In the Country of Men). At a public reading at a library, a Syrian woman asks him how it is possible for him to still be able to write with everything that has been happening in the Arab world for the last half decade.

Hisham’s response made me think of the relationship between politics and literature. A relationship that is less natural than many people might think and more nuanced than many others would prefer.

In between these two positions: one claiming that all literature ought to be political somehow or other, and another saying that literature and politics should never mix, the writer’s voice is lost. If an author’s oeuvre depends chiefly on adhering to one of these two extreme positions, the result will not be a work of art but a party manifesto.

By coincidence around the same time I read Hisham’s article, I had just finished The Gate, by the French writer Francois Bizot. The Gate is a powerful, detail-rich insight into the rise of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia. Bizot is an ethnologist who is captured by young guerrillas and taken deep into the jungle. His interrogator happens to be the school-teacher-cum revolutionary Comrade Douch (sadly famous Comrade Douch) who would go on to kill thousands in the horrifying Tuol Sleng prison. Bizot was kept three months in the jungle. He was the only foreigner to come out alive from his group. All the others were murdered. The book stayed inside him for thirty years. This is the price of nuance.

Non-fiction by its very nature tends to be more tyrannical than fiction. Writers need their readers to believe that the way they are telling the story is the way it actually happened. In order to achieve this, sometimes they adopt the view that is more prevalent around them as opposed to the more truthful to them and their narrative. In doing so, they are exercising someone else’s imagination whilst sacrificing theirs. This is why it is so important to understand what the Syrian woman was saying to Hisham. I get it. In the face of horror, how can we pick up a pen instead of a gun?

Horror of the type being visited upon the people of Syria nowadays surely leads to trauma. One of the consequences of trauma is numbness. A mental numbness that cancels out some of our functions. We can still breathe, eat and defecate. But it is hard to create in those circumstances. This is what happened to many Holocaust survivors. The tragedy they had just experienced was too unreal to make sense of it immediately. This is also why it is essential to read books like Primo Levi’s If This is a Man/The Truce. Far from adhering to a particular discourse, Primo comes up with his own one. One that is unique whilst not letting the Nazis off the hook, humourous whilst not “pretty-ing up” what happened in the gas chambers.

In the end Hisham tells the woman that, when faced with horror like the Syrian one, writers should still attempt to write. In doing so, writers should free themselves from any obligation, no matter how lofty the ideal. It is to literature that authors are contracted first and foremost. Writing about a conflict, or a difficult political issue, is fine. But above all, it must be literature.

© 2017

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 3^rd June at 6pm (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

Judging by the title, Arundhati Roy’s second novel must be a joyfest. Named The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, this will be the author’s sophomore effort after a 20-year wait. Compared to famous procrastinators such as Harper Lee and Leon Tolstoy, two decades might not seem much, but what hides behind the wait?

I, for one, am really looking forward to reading The Ministry of Utmost Happiness. If it is anything like The God of Small Things, Arundhati’s only novel so far, I expect free-jazz-like sentences jumping off the page. A language as rich as the twins Rahel and Estha’s imagination. And a million-story plot. I want to be surprised and shaken, but also entertained.

Therein, then, lies the dilemma of the “tardy” author.

I have often wondered what led the likes of Joyce and Kundera to wait several years before continuing to do what was apparently natural to them: writing a novel. The former let seventeen years slip by between Ulysses and Finnegans Wake. The latter took thirteen to complete The Festival of Insignificance after the publication of Ignorance. Was it fear of not rising up to the challenge posed by the devoted reader? Or perhaps dea(r)th of creativity?

I have a theory. Authors whose oeuvre transcends the confines of literature and become bywords for cultural phenomena (think Rushdie’s Satanic Verses and its social and political connotations) have much more to lose if their next book does not stand up to scrutiny as their previous one. That is quite a lot of pressure already. On top of that, there is the commercial one. They have to make money. After all, this is their craft. So, making money whilst remaining authentic. Fancy giving it a try, reader?

A second reason for any dilly-dallying about bringing another book out could be linked to fear of disappointing followers. For me, Kundera’s philosophical musings are central to his narratives. Without them, I would not have enjoyed The Joke or The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. Hence my feelings of frustration when I read his three “French” novellas(they were written in French rather than Czech, the language he had used until then). They lacked his usual insightful, eagle-eye examinations, even if any trace of philosophy in them felt as if it had been thrown in at the last minute. Understandably, Milan went away and came back with what many thought was a return to the golden years of The Unbearable Lightness of Being, his 2015 effort The Festival of Insignificance.

Self-consciousness could be another factor. Harper Lee famously miscalculated the impact of To Kill a Mockingbird on both the public and the critics. The fact that the novel was so well received and that there was such open encouragement for her to keep on writing might have been one of the reasons why she became a recluse.

Some of you are probably thinking “Yes, but writing and publishing are two different things. The former can take two days or two years or two decades. The latter is decided by a group of people, including the writer’s agent, a publisher and editor and it is done within a reasonable time frame.”

You are right. Not only that, but also, not writing a second or third or fourth novel for fifteen, twenty or thirty years does not mean that the writer does not write at all. Arundhati Roy has been very, very busy writing non-fiction for the last two decades. Some of it I have read and it is just as good as the make-believe world she created in The God of Small Things.

What, then, makes a writer procrastinate? I have no idea. What I do know is that sometimes, just like now, it is worth the wait. I have not read The Ministry of Utmost Happiness yet, but I am sure that by the end of the book I will have surely partaken in Roy’s literary joyfest.

© 2016

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 15^th October at 6pm (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

One of the reasons why I became a pacifist years ago was the sudden realisation that most wars (I would probably say “all”, but I do not want to be absolute) are senseless. The brutality involved contrasts sharply with the glory they supposedly bring. Of course, there are conflicts that are necessary, either because of nations being invaded and having to defend themselves or border skirmishes that turn into full-on confrontations. One of them was the First World War, which became the backdrop for Ernest Hemingway’s wartime novel A Farewell to Arms.

I first read this book back in uni. I say “read” but what I actually mean is that the book content somehow went through me, including my brain and left no traces. Nothing to do with the writing, which I think it’s pretty good in my humble opinion. At the time I am describing there were still coffins arriving from Angola, the result of a decade-long “international adventure” that cost Cuba twenty thousand troops. I do not think that I was then in the frame of mind to understand Papa Hemingway’s universal message: war is chaotic and produces neither saints nor sinners.

Re-reading the book now I realise that in the intervening 20-odd years I have become more staunchly anti-war. Coming across again the lives of Frederic Henry, the American “tenente” and main character, and his Italian confreres, I cannot ignore the sense of detachment one must adopt in the theatre of war. What this approach does to one’s humanity is, paradoxically, to take it away. The only way the Italians can kill the Austrians is by seeing them not only as the enemy and invader but as non-humans first and foremost. Same with the Italian battle police when they arrest their own officers during the army’s retreat: they kill them.

A Farewell to Arms can be said to be not just a novel about the crumbling of columns of soldiers but also about the crumbling of an ideology: wars are necessary and are winnable. The human wreckage left behind betrays this idea and turns it on its head. The fragile minds, the inability to display any kind of rational thinking and the moral collapse amongst troops are testament to war’s barbaric nature.

Hemingway’s language when describing his characters’ actions is casual, almost ordinary. There is a sort of quotidianness that lulls the reader, almost making us comfortable and misleading us to think that perhaps war is not that bad. Yes, there is a little bit of suffering and killing but it is all for a good cause. Until reality kicks in to great effect. Frederic Henry kills an engineer who tries to desert him and his men as they leave their jeep behind, stuck in the mud. The murder is in cold blood, but even calling it murder feels wrong and Papa wants us to know that, for this is war, what did you expect? It is not called murder but execution. His description of the death of Aymo, one of the Italian drivers, takes him fewer than ten lines.

And yet, there are beautiful moments in the novel that remind the reader that maybe, just maybe, there is hope somewhere at the end of the tunnel. Henry falls in love with a British nurse. Although love is the wrong word here. Both Frederic and Catherine, the nurse, are fleeing personal demons: she, a dead fiancé, he the spectre of a war he feels ambivalent about. Together, they build a relationship based on pain and escapism rather than love. I must admit that I found the dialogue between them repetitive and monotonous; however, it is one of the ingenious ways in which Hemingway shows us the futility of war. At any given moment one of these two characters can be wiped off the face of the earth forever and then what? Nothing, because that is war really, the battle for nothingness.

The novel might have reinforced my pacifism but I doubt it made Hemingway feel the same as he was writing it. Machismo is everywhere: there is plenty of braggadocio, especially of the womanising variety, Italian men are shown as virile and hot-blooded and the American lieutenant as calculating and decisive. A Farewell to Arms might be more nuanced than other Hemingway novels but in its no-holds-barred depiction of war it somehow celebrates old-fashioned masculinity.

Whereas Books 1; 2 and 3 create the background for Hemingway’s plot-setting and character-exploration, the last two parts bring powerful reflections on war and its controversial role in peace-brokering. Who knows? Perhaps Papa Hemingway was also a pacifist after all.

© 2016

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 28^th May at 6pm (GMT)

Urban Diary

“No, there’s no blue plaque here.”

“Unbelievable. He lived here, as I understand.”

“Well, nope. No blue plaque. Maybe one day…”

Maybe one day, I repeat to myself. Maybe one day… Have I got the energy to start a blue-plaque campaign to honour and celebrate the life and work of one of Cuba’s foremost writers? One who made London his residence for decades?

I have come out of Gloucester Road tube station, looking for number 53 on the street of the same name. A slant of late afternoon sunshine slides down the white-washed columns in this well-off part of southwest London. I am on my way to the Goethe Institut to watch the premiere of “Victoria”, but first, I need to catch at least a glimpse of what I believe to have been the house of the late Cuban writer Guillermo Cabrera Infante.

I find it easily, sandwiched inconspicuously by terraced houses on either side. I want to take a photo of it but realise that the owner has arrived at the same time. Only one of us is the intruder and after a short Q&A regarding the non-existent blue plaque, I turn around to resume my walk. Not, though, without first stealing a photographic moment. After all, I convince myself, it is what Cabrera Infante would have wanted.

The Gibara-born man who fell for Havana and its charms as a twelve-year-old would have approved of my small transgression. He built an outstanding literary career on writing about the myriad characters who challenged the status quo, whether before or after Fidel. His best-known work, Tres Tristes Tigres (literally, Three Sad Tigers, after a famous Spanish tongue-twister) was a homage to Havana’s night life. Drunkards, drug-addicts, prostitutes, pimps, artist and politicians filled up its pages.  It is only fitting that I have stopped outside his former abode as dusk envelops me and a magenta-tinted sunset magically furnishes London. The shadows grow longer. I want to explain to the owner of the house that the man who lived here, at 53 Gloucester Road, was often compared to James Joyce (TTT was at some point called Cuba’s answer to Ulysses) and yet I have always found that comparison misleading. Joyce focused on diurnal Dublin, whereas Cabrera Infante centred on Havana at night.

I tramp down Exhibition Road recalling what appealed to me best about Tres Tristes Tigres. It was not just the plot, or lack of it thereof, or the seductive atmosphere of the bars and cabarets Cabrera Infante’s characters frequent. It was, above all, the author’s tribute to language, to the beautiful and often misunderstood - occasionally ridiculed – Cuban vernacular.

With the fast-disappearing sun behind me I ask myself again the question: have I got the energy for a blue-plaque campaign? Maybe one day, maybe, one day…

© 2016

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday7th May at 6pm (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

I only did realise after the seventh or eighth day in succession. It was the craving that did it. Window of our office semi-open (just the tiniest of gaps, enough to avoid the heater's steam from misting up the glass) and the sweet aroma of croissant wafting up to the operations department where I worked at the time. The smell awakened a primal instinct inside me and I could not wait until lunchtime to dash downstairs and part with my usual two or three quid for my regular prandial treat. That’s when I knew I was developing a problem. A croissant-and-hot-chocolate addiction by literary proxy.

I was reading Joanne Harris’ Chocolat at the time.

Forgettable plot and clichéd characters but sublime food. This is how I remember this novel. It all came back a few days ago when I read an article about memorable meals in books.

Cuisine can play an important role in literature as the feature states. I still remember Leopold Bloom’s liver slices fried with crustcrumbs in Ulysses. And what to say about that Cuban masterpiece, Paradiso by Lezama Lima? Banana soup (probably plantain), beetroot salad and roast turkey amongst other succulent ingredients.

Feeling peckish?

I imagine that authors are presented with a choice when including food in their narrative: be descriptive or suggestive. If I remember correctly the latter applies to Chocolat, which is probably the reason why every morning and afternoon for less than a fortnight (I read the book very quickly. As I mentioned before, if the plot had been like the food…) I would add an almond croissant and hot chocolate to my breakfast and the butter version and same hot beverage to my lunch after the main course. Descriptive meals tend to leave this madeleine-chaser somewhat cold.

I like my food. I am not afraid to say that. And when it comes to literature, I like “happening” upon food. A good example is in Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel, Half of a Yellow Sun, when Ugwu arrives at Odenigbo’s house to apply for a position as a houseboy and sees a “a roasted, shimmering chicken” in the kitchen. He touches the chicken and to me that moment even has erotic connotations, bearing in mind that when it comes to epicurean matters, carnal desires can and do often make a cameo.

Talking of eroticism, I have occasionally heard comparisons between sex and food scenes and even a sort of continuum drawn between the two. I do not dispute that. Some writers do use food as a preamble to sexual intercourse between characters. However, sex scenes very often feel “flat” (in my humble opinion), due to a lack of honesty. Either the author is doing too much or too little. Let us not forget that sex is, whether we like it or not, linked to our innermost, primitive selves. Inevitably conclusions about who we are or what we want in bed will be reached, no matter how detached we claim to be from our dramatis personae. With food, on the other hand, it is different. No revelation is necessary. We can disassociate completely from the meal we knock up. I’ve read very precise descriptions of Asian food, including the sourcing of ingredients, the cooking of them and the methods used, from non-Asian writers, as if they had been born in the subcontinent and lived there all their lives. Part of it could be the fact that we live in such an intricately connected, globalised world that geographical barriers count for nothing anymore. Plus, in cosmopolitan cities such as London, Paris or New York, there is always the opportunity of delving into other cultures and getting to know them properly without really being part of them. This, of course, will include food, too. Which is probably why I went through my croissant-binge stage. Chocolat takes place in France and at the time of reading it my office was sandwiched between two French pattiseries. Well, at least the Indian restaurant was a few doors further down, otherwise, well, who knows what would have happened?

© 2015

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 7^th November at 6pm (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

So, how are you getting on with reading only in German these days, I hear you ask? After all, it was only a few months ago that I decided to buy four books in the original German by the same author (three novels and two novellas) and immerse myself once again in the beauty of the Teutonic language. I have not been disappointed at all. The writer, Marlen Haushofer, has turned out to be better than I expected. I must admit that I still struggle a bit with certain words and phrases but on the whole the experience has been very enjoyable.

One of the reasons for the switch from my perennial English- and sporadic Spanish-language reading to German is the way syntax is built in the latter. I mean that almost literally. Sentences in German, at least in the literature I have read so far, seem to have been put through a very effective cement mixer in order to have a good, long-lasting product to lay across the bricks that make up the edifice. What you end up with is page after page of pure poetry in prose.

The two novellas are included in the same volume. Wir töten Stella (We kill Stella) is narrated from the point of view of a housewife. She uses a weekend when her husband is away to put down on paper all the events of the past few months. This involves the eponymous Stella, a teenager who comes to stay with her family and who is shamelessly seduced by the narrator’s husband. Stella gets pregnant and is forced to have an abortion. After attempting and failing to kill herself, Stella accidentally steps in front of a passing lorry and gets run over.

The shortness of the work belies the intensity of it. Wir töten Stella stays long with the reader, her (almost silent) voice echoing down the corridors of one’s mind.

I found similarities between this novella and the novel I am reading now, Die Wand (The Wall), which incidentally was turned into a motion picture. Both tales are written in the first person singular and both feature female narrators. Also, although not stated explicitly in Wir töten Stella, both women write about their experiences in order to stay sane. In the case of the protagonist of Die Wand, she is invited to go on a hunting trip by a couple with whom she is good friends. Once at their hut, the couple decide to take a walk around the forest before setting off on their expedition the next morning. However they fail to come back at dusk. The woman decides to look for them the next day. After walking for a long time without much success she finds the couple’s dog sitting in the middle of a path looking afraid. The woman ventures forth but the dog refuses to follow her. She carries on down the path herself and all of a sudden bumps into an invisible wall. From then on an internal monologue takes place. A monologue that leads us into a world (the woman’s internal world) full of questions but with very few answers, other than those about survival.

Heute, am fünfsten November, beginne ich mit meinem Bericht...

I mentioned that one of the reasons why I had gone back to German was to remind myself of the beautiful syntax this language possesses. The other reason was the actual author I am reading. Marlen Haushofr was a post-war writer who had to fight, first her own lack of confidence and, secondly the hostile world in which she lived. As someone not familiar with many Austrian, German or Swiss (those from the German-speaking part) post-war works of literature I was curious to see what they were like. One of the comments I often heard when I began to learn German all those years ago was that in the wake of Hitler’s defeat and the demise of Nazism many German-speaking writers decided to carry out an act of self-censorship in relation to the war. They stopped mentioning it. Marlen’s works might validate that theory. Certainly Wir töten Stella, Das fünste Jahr (the two novellas) and so far Die Wand stray from any mention of World War II. This begs the question: should writers who happened to be born in countries where atrocities were committed by brutal regimes have to confront these demons of the past? Should a Russian (Stalin), a Cambodian (Pol Pot) or an Italian (Mussolini) writer always or at least most of the time have to reference their country’s past as a way of acknowledging former misdeeds?

I do not think so. If I move swiftly from literature to cinema I remember watching Argentinian films many years ago and pondering whether they all had to mention the terrible dictatorship that South American nation suffered in the late 70s and early 80s. Do not get me wrong. Many movies of that era, especially the ones that came out in the immediate aftermath, were top-notch. But I also recall some whose plot had nothing to do with the dictatorship and yet it felt as if by not mentioning the “disappeared” and the “junta”, these film-makers were betraying some kind of secret agreement.

Back in the world of literature, I am of the opinion that any pressure on a writer to approach or acknowledge a certain subject, chiefly in relation to their country’s past, and even more specifically one on which their homeland might not come out a in good light, risks placing shackles on both reader and writer. It hinders development, not only at an individual level, but also nationwide. What I have enjoyed about Marlen Haushofer’s writing so far is that she was more concerned with equipping her main character in Die Wand with a credible internal voice than with Hitler’s ascension to power. The main beneficiary? Culture. And of course, yours truly, for I have reconciled my long-term affair with the German language.

© 2015

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 6^th June at 6pm (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

If, like me, you buy or you are subscribed to The New Humanist, you, too, probably read a recent essay by Philip Pullman that appeared on the pages of the magazine. Under the title “Writing is despotism, but reading is democracy”, the best-selling author mixed cuckoos, philosophy, censorship and writers’ responsibility towards their readers. I might not be familiar with Pullman the fiction writer (my son is), but I have always been really keen on Pullman the essayist.

The title of Pullman’s piece is, of course, confrontational. Because that is what the better intellectual minds do; they provoke, and in the process they make us think. Pullman’s statement might come across as absolutist and dogmatic, but scrape the surface and you will find plenty to agree with. Equally, some of his ideas will leave you shaking your head.

I think Pullman is right when he avers that arts have other values (...) that can’t be measured in financial terms. In this case his use of Wilde’s theory of books not being either moral or immoral, only good or bad, is apposite. Similarly, the kernel of his argument, the writer’s despotism vs reader’s democracy is hard to disagree with prima facie. On writing a book (fiction, poetry, non-fiction, I am not being discriminatory here), the writer creates a private space between the reader and themselves. It is this intimate relationship that I seek when I take a book off my shelf and rest it on my lap, when I decide to delve in its pages, when I close myself off to the outside world. But whilst I buy the despotic nature of the author, I do not totally agree with the reader’s democratic character.

Who is the real victim, the writer or the reader? Or both?

We, readers, can be as brutal as any writer. We demand, that is our essence. This is even more so, when we follow a certain author. Like junkies, albeit of the literary type, we strap up our arm whilst cooking up the next volume of letters slowly on a leather-bound spoon. We fill up the syringe with each word, sentence and trope, until we finally sink it into our flesh. Yes, you might say that I have gone a bit too far with my metaphor or you could say that I have been watching too much Breaking Bad lately. About the latter, yes, I have, but I am merely catching up. Still the metaphor applies. Because if we are not happy with the product, if we feel let down, even cheated, we will not return to the same dealer. i.e. writer. So, no democracy, as in demos (common) and kratos (rule). “Reading is tyranny” could well have been the second part of Phillip’s essay title.

Of course, not all readers are the same, and in this respect you could well agree with Pullman’s use of the word “democracy”. Just as there are intolerant readers for whom a change of genre signifies a breakdown in their imaginary relationship with their favourite author, there are also readers who behave otherwise. The latter are the ones who understand development and evolution. Sometimes at the expense of structure, mind you. But the gains are far better than the losses.

What about the financial side of writing? Pullman touches on it briefly and, in my opinion, he is quite dismissive of it. I would not dare adopt the same approach. When I worked in the cultural and creative industries (CCIs was the handy acronym we used in those days), we always had to emphasise the revenue the arts generated in the wider economy. Without making that point it was nigh impossible to convince the movers and shakers of local authorities, funding bodies and community organisations that the print and design industry, for instance, had a value to the office of the Exchequer. Writing, sadly, falls into the category of jobs in which most people struggle to make ends meet. So, when someone says, to quote Pullman – who is already using a quote in his article – that “the arts are important because they bring in so many billion pounds to the economy”, s/he is not being money-minded, but trying to place the creative industries in the same context as the banking or manufacturing ones. Let us not forget that Britain is chiefly nowadays a “service” nation. What this means in reality is that the service sector is one of the industries leading the economic recovery.

Where I do fully agree with Philip is on what motivates a writer to pick up a pen or switch a computer/laptop on. It is that interaction with the medium in which the writer frees up her/his imagination that gives us the Dickens and the Munro. Forget about the relationship between author and reader, it is the engagement with language that constitutes the ultimate display of despotism, democracy and anarchy, all rolled into one. Despotism because our friend, l‘écrivain, exercises absolute authority. Democracy because very often this authority is undermined by a conglomerate made up of agents, editor, publishers and last, but not least, the public. And anarchy because writing, as an art form, is sometimes chaotic and unstructured and therefore it should ideally respond first and foremost to the writer and then to everyone else.

Read Philip Pullman’s essay and let me know what you think. Is writing despotic and reading democratic or is there space for overlapping?

© 2015

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 21^st March at 6pm (GMT)

Living in a Multilingual World (The One About Translation)

You have laughed or you have cried. You have perhaps indulged in hours of cogitation, your thoughts strongly interosculating and contaminating each other giving birth to random ideas which will only find a logical existence after even more deep reflection. Or maybe you have chosen the easy, accessible text, the one that helps you “unwind” and forget about modern life’s constant demands. Reading is like that, challenging or fun, or challenging and fun. Fiction is the epitome of this process, the semi- or pseudo-real world created for us, readers, whose key we might obtain at the beginning, middle or end of the book, according to the author’s wishes.

What is then, fiction in translation?

It is all of the above, plus an intrinsic search in the writer’s mind. It is the attempt to return to what happened before the first word was typed or handwritten on the page. Translation, and I mean literary ones, is not just a direct transposition from original text to target language. It is rather a more subtle process in which the translator’s own life experience comes into play through her/his interpretation of the work at hand.

The key to the world made for us. Will the translator make our passage easier or harder?

I have never translated a work of fiction officially. I have translated short fiction texts for family and friends, chiefly to throw some light on the subject matter. But, translating a whole book? No, I do not think I have that capacity. I am not selling myself short here; I just think that translating fiction works at a whole different level, almost superhuman level.

Sometimes I read a book in the original language it was written (mainly Spanish and French, although I just bought four novels in German by the same Austrian author, which means I’ll be going back to the Teutonic lexicon soon) and I think of someone who might like it, too. Then, I realise that it is quite likely they will read the book in translation and this poses a problem. What if the translation is not good? Will the book have the same effect on her/him?

The best translations I have read in my life reach all the way back to the pre-written language that gave the book its foundations and core. I have often mentioned here my devotion to the work of the Czech writer, Milan Kundera. It only dawned on me a few years ago when reading his novel Immortality that I have always read Kundera in translation, be it from Czech to Spanish, or Czech to English, or French (he has written a few short novels in that language, the result of living in France for several years) to English. Yet, I know that if I were to read him in the original Czech (impossible, as I know that I will never learn that language) the magical effect Kundera’s always had on me would still manifest itself.

Literary works that are based on a word-for-word translation are poor and rob the reader of the pleasure of reading. Even technical texts must be injected with some oomph every now and then. I remember years ago reading a book by the Chilean author Isabel Allende in the original Spanish and an English translation after and having mixed feelings about the outcome. If the act of writing fiction is the need to tell a story, the impulse to let the world know that this alternative reality must be known, then, if the translator fails to give us a believable version of this story, she or he will be validating the old Italian saying “traduttore, traditore” (translator, traitor). What the translator will be betraying is not just the mere transferral of ideas, syntax and grammar from the original language to the “host” language, but also the author’s life experience.

Whenever we are touched by a novel or a collection of short stories which was originally written in another language and which we are now reading in translation, let us pause for a second and think of the process. Let us place ourselves in the role of that translator and let us travel with her or him all the way back to the moment when the story was first conceived by the author. The feelings, emotions and situations that generated the desire to write those lines. Those lines that might have made us laugh or cry.

© 2015

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 18^th January at 10am (GMT)

Of Literature and Other Abstract Thoughts

It is hard to be original in literature. Good, up-and-coming authors have to put up with being compared to literary giants from the past, both distant and recent. Writing styles have become defined along such demanding lines that only by putting them all in a big cauldron, mixing them and stirring them up can one attempt to come up with a new breed. Sometimes I think that writers are defter at chemistry than at their craft. Wizards of letters could be a new job description to appear in the ad pages of the London Review of Books.

This is the reason why I can’t think highly enough of Dirty Havana Trilogy, a novel written by the Cuban author Pedro Juan Gutiérrez. I read it last summer and it left me with a nasty, and yet at the same time pleasant taste in my mouth. Whilst conforming to some of the stereotypes people have of Cubans (even those who have never paid a visit to the island), the book escapes classification. The nasty/pleasant taste in my mouth had nothing to do with the sex scenes, mind you, unbridled and “in your face” as they were. It was not the heavy dose of realism that permeated each and every single sentence of the book. It was something else and I would like to use this column and the next three-hundred or four-hundred words to explore it.

Because it is so hard to be an original author nowadays, many of those who choose writing as their profession resort to clichés, either in form or content. Pedro manages to manoeuvre himself out of these literary booby-traps.

Dirty Havana Trilogy is a novel in three parts about a man’s (called Pedro Juan as well) observations and experiences of the Havana of the 90s. Having lived through those years myself (’90 – ’97, when I relocated to London) I looked forward to reading what this fellow habanero had to write about one of the more significant periods in the history of our nation. I was left with mixed feelings but with a sense that for Pedro it was mission accomplished.

Havana is presented as a city of sex, drugs and... more sex and drugs. No surprise about that. I recognised some of the characters because I used to hang out with many of them. The sex scenes (plentiful, sorry about the spoiler) were also familiar to me. The language was shocking. It was not just the foul language in the mouths of the characters but in the narrator’s mind.

A cliché is not just a stereotyped expression but also the loss of original thinking. In Dirty Havana Trilogy Gutiérrez avoids this by enhancing the sense of smell. It seems as if he were saying “This is the reek of my city. It won’t feature in the brochures you pick up on the high street of your western country, but it’s the stench I wake up to and have to put up with every day”. No wonder the book was banned in Cuba after publication. It's not the economy, stupid; it’s the stink!  The novel very adroitly describes the hopelessness that swept through Cuba in the terrible 90s in the wake of the fall of the Berlin Wall and the start of the “special period” (not very special for those at the top). Occupying a lead role in the volume is the rafters’ crisis in ’94, probably the closest the Cuban system came to collapsing.

Some books find themselves in the unenviable position of being one or two words away from the edge of the abyss of platitudes. Use the wrong phrase and down you go; you lose your reader. This is particularly characteristic of what I call books with “risky” subject matter.The trick, As I see it, is in feeling the writing as it comes along, as it leaves your head and it’s passed onto the blank paper. Let the reader make up his or her mind.

Dirty? Yes. Smelly? Yes. But cliché-free

Pedro skips around the pitfalls that come with writing a “socio-political” novel. His book is at times cynical like when he praises a mulatto woman who has the typical swagger many of my fellow countrywomen display. Twenty years from now, his description goes, she will still be desired and that is one of the reasons why he would stay on the island until the end of his days. His internal speech is impassioned and full of candour for his subject but it is given a reality-check at the end. This woman, like many others, is looking for a “yuma” (“foreigner” in Cuban slang) who will take her out of the country. The novel has moments of real humanity and I remember those vividly. Not everyone is out to get you. Not everyone is out to rob you. Not everyone is out to con you. Yes, the 90s were terrible, to the point where for the sake of a dollar someone could put a knife on your throat. However, underneath this social decay there were still some decent human beings, fewer but present.

In the same way that Ginsberg’s best minds of his generation were “destroyed by madness”, Pedro’s characters are crushed by the dyad of, on the one hand the self-inflicted Cuban embargo and on the other hand, the five-decades-old US one. That he carves such a fine, cliché-free piece of work out of this situation is a testament to good, original literature and we should enjoy it while we can.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Morning: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 28^th September at 10am (GMT)