Jelinek: clear sightedness

Because of the Austrian scandal, I've spent the morning re-reading commentaries on Elfriede Jelinek, the controversial 2004 Austrian Nobel Prize winner (Literature).

Josef Fritzl lived out exactly what she portrays in her books - the domination of women in Austria, controlled, over-powered and objectified by men. Jelinek is vilified in her home country for her books and plays. It seems however that she sees clearly.

This is the second case revealed in Austria. Therefore it is likely, statistically speaking, that more women are subjugated and living incarcerated lives in Austria - and probably elsewhere. In Fritzl's case alone, he dominated his wife just as he subjugated his daughter: it is logically impossible that his wife would not have known something, despite her denials.

Elfriede Jelinek portrays a relationship of domination and possession in ways that have been described as pornographic, but I would call explicit, aiming to horrify rather than titillate. The energy sustaining her writing stems from rage and contempt rather than lasciviousness. She links this domination of women to fascist attitudes which are still prevalent in Austria, vide Jorge Heider's fascist party success. While his party was in government, she banned the performance of her plays in Austria.

Which is not to say that all Austria is fascist. All Austria is not fascist, but fascism is more openly acceptable there than in other countries. Fascism and the mistreatment of women exist everywhere. Austria is in the limelight at the moment.

Many of Jelinek's works have been translated into English: Lust (translated by Michael Hulse, 1992, Serpent's Tail, NY) is available from Wellington Public Library.

Ondaatjes Major and Minor

Looked up Michael Ondaatje on Wikipedia - yet another example of how wrong my assumptions can be: because of his Dutch name, and his writing in English, had pigeon-holed him as a South African, - how wrong can you get? And because I did not like The English Patient (film), never read anything by him, not even the original book. Some catching up to do.

Ondaatje is Sinhalese/Canadian, with Dutch ancestry. Wealthy childhood, then father lost the family fortune. His famously rich brother started from nothing and also writes books now. Mysteriously, they both carry the name Philip - the writer is Philip Michael O., and his older brother is Philip Christopher O....One imagines a family tradition, or maybe the ego-driven father called Philip. Also much rivalry between the brothers. Makes me think of the Jones Bros here (Lloyd and Bob).

Ondaatje has written 13 books of poetry (so far). This is a start to my book review, which I need to have done by May 8th. Plenty of time, work on it bit by bit every day. Am engrossed in Bashevis Singer at the moment, shall have to finish that before I can get immersed in Ondaatje.

Some of the clouds on the horizon have disappeared. Relief.

Poetry overkill

Took out several more poetry books from the library and was unexpectedly enchanted reading Michale Ondaatje's The Cinnamon Peeler's Wife.

That's all for now, am taking a break from poetry for a few days. Indigestion.

Am indulging instead in prose with Isaac Bashevis Singer, The Moskat Family. I last read him forty years ago, before any writing courses and understanding of psychology. It's a different story now. Very enjoyable.

I am supposed to write a haiku this week.

Also discovered that to entitle something Ode to... is over the top, over emphatic. Too late. Am pleased with the sonnet, nevertheless. Only six more weeks of the online course and I shall feel less pressured.

End of The World

Did not continue with Anne Sexton, too much depression /talk of suicide in it.

Read some Mary Oliver (slim volume) last night, Dream Work (1986, The Atlantic Monthly Press). I'd read a poem of hers about roses some time ago and found it overdone, chintzy. This is better.

Today checked out what poetry there is at the local library (Ngaio) and found one volume (slim) of Curnow's poems - The Bell of Saint Babel's - lovely title - Poems 1997 - 2001 (2001, AUP) with neat cover illustration - a detail of a painting by Stanley Palmer entitled Bell - Manaia (1991), the bell is small and held up high by a rickety structure, against a mottled blue sky (diagonally half the cover) with two small clouds, and a rise of massive rocky mountains to one side.
Upon reading: so far, too many cards turned down, unrewarding. Maybe clearer for born-here Kiwis?

In the poetry/literature section, also found a book entitled The End of the World, (1997, L.H. Lapham, ed., with P.T. Struck, St. Martin's Press) beginning with an excerpt from Gilgamesh (3000 BC) by writers through the ages, including at the end the rantings of a nutter predicting the end of the world in '92, '93, 94, with (Biblical) chapter and verse in support, over and over, the last words of the last paragraph being: his predictions are "100% right".
I have a friend who might enjoy this.

Here is a quote, it's the entire thing, entitled Epitaph, the obituary to the Heath Hen, an indigenous bird of Martha's Vineyard, last seen alive on March 11th 1932:

"We are looking upon the utmost finality which can be written, glimpsing the darkness which will not know another ray of light. We are in touch with the reality of extinction."
by Henry Beetle (sic) Hough, editor of the island's Vineyard gazette.

The book also includes a section from Rachel Carson's Silent Spring. I thought, ah, but her predictions are true, and wondered - am I right?

BBC doco recently: 90% of bees have disappeared in the US, they import them from Oz. In NZ, many are sick too. In China, a region exists where orchard pollination is carried out by hand.

I'll read this book bit by bit.

Lightness

I feel a bit exposed since giving my blog address to the class. Dilemma: what's the point of writing if no reader exists, or only one or two?

I often write stuff that I remove upon re-reading, if it's not related enough to the writing and reading I am engaged in. It's interesting how much lighter the text becomes - not a care in the world. Hah.

The Whitireia sonnet is finished, inasmuch as I have put it out for critique on Blackboard. Worked at ten syllables per line. When I looked at it again today, I couldn't wait to clear away all the unnecessary words and pare it down. It's much thinner now, but clearer. Lighter. That's the second time. The unbearable lightness of. I should look it up, what was that lightness about?

The work on the mutilated poem continues, easier than last time. I'm not sure whether I am doing what is required. My verses echo and continue the previous ones, a logic which may not serve well. The author has repeated the same words several times, so have taken the liberty of doing so too, keeping safe. What is new is the feeling of rhythm in the writing, almost physical. Shall look at it tonight again, more objectively, I hope.

Peter and I went to No Country for Old Men, the latest film of Coen Bros, very violent, very well-made. The wonders of under-statement, the pitiless editing, things left unseen, the various murders hinted at, the mind of the viewer deftly manipulated. I am in admiration. The general message is not a good one for us who are getting older. The retired policeman, at a loss, telling his wife his nightmare, dreaming of his own demise. She is unaffected, I have my own life, she says. (She'll be right).

Am reading Anne Sexton, Selected Poems of, (1988, Houghton Mifflin, with an introduction by Diane Wood Middlebrook and Diana Hume George). More about that tomorrow.

Also occasionally reading old copies of The Guardian lent by a friend, good writing and mostly instructive, things one wants to know. It's a boon for us.

I've been writing and editing for close to 20 min. Far too long.

More Bodil

I went back to the writing bits in The Price of Water - the main protagonist, a Bodil clone, argues with her French friend Madame C about writing and happiness:

Madame C says: "Please taisez-vous [shut up, but more politely] and write. Write your happiness, shut up and write."
They then have a huge argument where the Bodil character says that it is impossible to write happiness:
"Writing your happiness turns into platitudes. Happiness writes white."
"Write it," she says. Curt and hard as a diamond.
[...]
"Simile, Madame C., simile is the death of everything, a rose fresh as the dew is a rose fresh as the dew. Everything written is fabricated, wrecked. Only what is, is."

That last sentence is Zen-like and therefore irrefutable-seeming.

Madame C was right: she did write her happiness into the book.

Back to Bodil

A bit of a gap since last writing -Passover is a demanding time. Much cooking and eating.

Have dived back into Bodil Malmsten's The Price of Water in Finistere, (2001, translated from Swedish) to rescue myself. It's like talking to a friend. This is my second reading of it, in only about three months, a pleasure.

I pay attention to what she writes about writing, full of hope.

Am working on a sonnet. In praise of Whitireia. Seriously, it has changed my life.

Have read a New Zealand poet, a Bulgarian woman. She arrived here as a young refugee, after passing through many countries, including France. Her name is Kapka Kassabova, it is called Someone else's life (2003, Auckland University Press). (See www.auckland.ac.nz) I had read a poem of hers in The Listener and been impressed.

I miss the luminous clarity of Waslawa Szymborska's poems. I thought I missed them because I understood them, but I realise that I often do not fully understand them either - there are hints in various directions which raise further questions. Also she writes with tenderness and humour.

I had better get to bed and start afresh early tomorrow.