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Ik hou van dikke boeken, daar kun je zo lekker lang in lezen. Inmiddels ben ik op de helft ;-)
I love thick books, the stories are long and one can read so many hours. I'm half way now ;-)
The book is published and it's so nice... These are just some parts of the book. Of course there's also the large interview and the alder branch plus a poem a local poet wrote about an alder branch. So fun to see it finally in print.
The book is written in the dialect of the region I live in. 8 Artists were interviewed and all the artists show a work related to the region. Each artist was linked to a poet. So 8 different poets wrote poems in this dialect, inspired by the artist and his/her work. My work was the Elder branch.
Lezennes (Nord, France) -
Fête de la pierre - Le géant local "Isidore Court-Orelle, le carrier" fête ses 18 ans.
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Auteur: © Koen Broos (in opdracht van VCOB)
Deze foto mag door Vlaamse openbare bibliotheken hergebruikt worden voor niet-commerciële doeleinden, mist vermelding van de naam van de fotograaf, voorafgegaan door het copyright-teken
Lezennes (Nord, France) -
Fête de la pierre - Le géant local "Isidore Court-Orelle, le carrier" fête ses 18 ans.
Merci pour le sourire !
Auteur: © Koen Broos (in opdracht van VCOB)
Deze foto mag door Vlaamse openbare bibliotheken hergebruikt worden voor niet-commerciële doeleinden, mist vermelding van de naam van de fotograaf, voorafgegaan door het copyright-teken
Meer lezen over Chinese knolraap? Surf naar: www.aziatische-ingredienten.nl
A special type of turnip from Wenzhou. Not much info on the internet. Anyone familiar with this type of turnip?
On discussing Karl Ove Knausgaard (on having read the first chapter of six volumes).
"A six-book autobiographical series ... outlining the "banalities and humiliations of his life", his private pleasures, and his dark thoughts." (quote lezen.tv)
Ruin: Re-reading Joyce was doing me in. He was so nasty to his less talented brother, Stanislaus, who, of course, adored him. Though I understand that tyranny. I feel I need to move forward, closer to the present.
Linda Boström Knausgård says:
“As a writer, I respect his right to use his own life as material and, objectively, I thought the books were very good. But on a personal level I was really angry about the way he looked at me. His view of me was so limited, he saw only what he wanted to see. It was as if he didn’t know me at all. Reading it felt like suffering a loss. Now I just wonder if maybe he’s one of these male writers that can’t really write about women.” (quote The Guardian)
“My Struggle” is six volumes and more than a million words. In that light, “Welcome to America,” [by Linda] with its valorization of silence, its poetic compression, and its slightness—the book is a hundred and sixty pages long—feels pointed. “Things would have been different, I think, if Karl hadn’t gone away into his books,” Boström Knausgård said. “He is really caring about his children, but he was bored being a full-time parent. He thought that he would like it, but he really didn’t. He would act like he was dying when I got home from work. The idea that he could not physically bear to spend time with his baby, that his writing was the only important thing—it hurt me.” (quote 'The New Yorker')
Nat: That narcissism, boredom, incapacity, hypochondria ...
Ruin: I wonder how many men can really write about women, and the reverse.
That sounds like the correct retort, to write your own book. Joyce faced a barrage of objectors too, when he published 'Ulysses', from people recognising themselves. I suspect that it might go with the territory. I certainly didn't like that description of me in that book of short stories I appeared in either. But hey ho, I will die (that universal and commonplace truth), and it won't matter. It's a strange feeling when it happens though, there's huge room for misunderstanding and misinterpretation, or for somebody else recognising something in you that you hadn't gotten around to recognising yet in yourself. One can always hope that the book in question, the one that 'mis-describes' you, will disappear into the oblivion of the remainder bin. Unless, of course, the narcissist in you enjoys the notoriety, as I suspect mine does.
Although I have been putting up some images of some remarkable suffragette literary women, I wouldn't dare suppose to write about them.
Anyway, I am also looking forward to reading the 'new' Simone De Beauvoir too. I loved her 'Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter' all those 50 years ago, so I am not a total male chauvinist pig. I also loved her 'Should We Burn de Sade?'.
I think it might be virtually impossible to write as the other gender. I certainly could never write as a woman, and I don't think any male author can, and the reverse of course. "Light and non-judgemental" might be the only way forward, as you suggest. It's has certainly taken me years to get to that point with my mother. I have no memories of my father at all, up to that point when I said I was leaving home at 18 years old, with him sitting in that darkened room, with the bulb removed from the lamp, crying. So, trying to write about him would be virtually impossible. It doesn't start one off on a firm footing at all, unless you start with absence, which I suspect might be the only way to go. I also learnt how to make myself absent, how to walk away. It was a survival instinct, one I continue to struggle with utilising. But now survival seems less attractive, in a type of slap in the face to that whole idea of continuing.
That's quite a crater to look into, men and their absent fathers. Karl, in the first chapter, remembers his father at eight years old. I am already envious, though not pulled in yet. I am willing to continue further because his father became an alcoholic, so I would like to see what that does to him, and how it works its magic. I can guess already though and see it in his interviews and his need to please and be supported in what he writes, evidence that reading of 50 pages of his working manuscript to a friend over the phone. I understand this neediness completely. I see his hurt little boy and understand why a mother might detest, or resent, this.
But yes, "That narcissism, boredom, incapacity, hypochondria" I recognise them all. I comfort myself with the notion that no one sets out to be a bad mother, an alcoholic father, a vengeful son, or even Adolf Hitler, for that matter. It's cold comfort, but it might be all that is available. In the best of all possible worlds we work it out somewhat, without actually hurting people or generating a school shooting in our formative years or a world war later on. But Goya and Saturn were both right, the son has to eat the father, or rather a child has to eat his or her, or their, parents, there is no other way. I see us both struggling with this 'autophagy' in different ways. Personally I have always been more Rabelaisian than Epicurean. I suspect this might cause tensions between us, as I recognise in you a certain Epicureanism. I don't think either approach is 'right' or 'wrong'.
A book might be a 'safety valve' of sorts, it might relieve some of the pressure. I have come to believe that the artist or writer, or basically any of those who are saddled with this awful trap of being deemed ‘creative’, needs to remove themselves from ‘decent society’, decent people, people who are capable of just getting on with their lives. There is a maniacal quality to describing others, and it includes that four-word description of yours. It's a bit like having an awful fever. It's beyond having an itch to scratch.
So yes, I will read Knausgaard and will probably read his ex-wife's answer too. We are hampered by time restrictions, and we are also holding on in this double-pandemic age, but I am more than willing to see how far I can get.
Sometimes I like brevity, thinking about his ex-wife's 160 pages, a 'quickie', but sometimes I like and want to be relentlessly pounded. Proust me or 'Orlando' me, I can appreciate both.
Quoting me, because I dare:
“I would love to eat at your epicurean restaurant in Downtown Manhattan. From your description of your own encroaching financial undoing, I might never get to do so. Let’s slink off together to lick our wounds and find a hovel somewhere to hide from the world and make art and write! We can describe the licking.
But, that scurrilous suggestion excludes your gloriously epicurean companion, your ‘Him indoors’. I love to watch him eat, drink and savour. He manifests the most extreme Epicureanism I have ever encountered. As you know, my tendency is towards the Rabelaisian, though I must be Rabelaisian with a worm, resembling Laurel rather than Hardy. I like to think that a rake is just a glutton with a worm. However, an Epicurean could never get a worm as his refined palate would never allow it to pass his constantly monitoring lips. To make yourself bankrupt due to excess of taste, as opposed to excess of appetite, seems noble and romantic to me. Duchamp and Joyce would have approved, Austen would not.”
Thankfully there is room for both.
Lezennes (Nord, France) -
Fête de la pierre - Le géant local "Isidore Court-Orelle, le carrier" fête ses 18 ans.
Musiciens de Steenvoorde.
www.facebook.com/pg/musique.steenvoorde.fr/posts/?ref=pag...
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Lezennes (Nord, France) -
Fête de la pierre - Le géant local "Isidore Court-Orelle, le carrier" fête ses 18 ans.
Les géants de Dinant.