Category Archives: Books

No Fear

I would like to thank Chuck (aka Doctori Sadisco) for gifting me a signed copy of his wonderful book, and even though I had not had enough time to sit down and read deeply the work he had shared over a month ago, here I am turning pages and reading into Doctori’s subtle messages conveyed in verse. I read his words at a perfect time in my life when I am in need of a fresh perspective, some hope, and a better vision of who we are as people. What Chuck manages to do is follow his inner voice, the mysterious images and meanings birthed from lyrical words, you not only enjoy the music in the poem but also the message. How rare is that? Most of us get lost in trying to create the perfect poem, so we either destroy the music by rigid structures or lose the meaning and deliver an empty sentence that is just structurally perfect.

I found the following words speaking to me directly:  

“To remain in the days
Which gifted you with love
The angry days must pass
And the futile days and
The frail ones bent and broken
Full of sorrow and remorse
Not because your soul has wings
But for the rising flame of that love
Which took you from womb and carried you
Day after long day you woke
To the world and took your first step

So now take the next step
Deeper into love where your salvation
Isn’t with a God but is inside your own heart”

(p. 27, Sonnet XXVII, No Fear – Doctori Sadisco)

What a valuable gift these words are, priceless and to be cherished and read in times of darkness and need. Thank you, Doc.

Don’t hesitate to get a copy of No Fear and enjoy these wonderful sonnets!

http://virgograypress.blogspot.com/2010/11/doctori-sadisco-no-fear.html

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February Ping Pong with Guy ‘Dhyan’ Traiber & Sana Rafiq

You can read the interview of my friend, Guy ‘Dhyan’ Traiber on LiteraryMary!

We talk about culture, countries, writing, and ourselves!

Dhyan writes on his blog: http://utopianfragments.wordpress.com


catching up on the books

I read Charles Bukowski’s Factotum today. It’s a short little book (which works for me) since I am always running low on time or my attention span is limited to the level of interest which a particular prose style can sustain.

If you haven’t yet picked out your copy, here’s your chance. He’s easy to read.
Factotum

Merriam-Webster

Pronunciation: \fak-ˈtō-təm\
Function: noun
Etymology: New Latin, literally, do everything, from Latin fac (imperative of facere do) + totum everything
Date: 1566
1 : a person having many diverse activities or responsibilities
2 : a general servant


nor word nor touch nor sight of lover, you shall long through the night but for this: the roll of the full tide to cover you, without question, without kiss*

One fine evening of utter despodency I decided to order the biography of Proust, thinking to myself, how fascinating it would be to read in depth about this wonderful author, and I go ahead and make the purchase. When the book arrived, I was like wtf, it is fatter than a chinese sumo wrestler. So anyways, now that it has graced my presence, I realize what a mission it is going to be to complete it, and I have only traversed about twenty pages of the nine hundred something that it is made of.

Of the many authors I have read, what I most love about Proust is that, as a writer he was pretty pro-active in encompassing all the senses of a human being within the limited and narrow cage of verbosity. Even though his stories were not the stories one would naturally expect, they were scattered bits of moments and recollections captured together and glued with a lot of descriptions of people, geography, the weather and his infinitely strange attachment to his mother, ‘maman’ we all love our mothers, that is an irrefutable truth, however akin to Freud’s oedipal complex theory, here we find Proust initiating his awareness of his surroundings through his mother as the common denominator.

Stories have a strange way of telling themselves, whether through the mouth of a horse, or a relentless branch waving to the sky shamelessly for want of attention. We find how altruistic these attempts are, that they may not appear to fit in with any pre-defined mold, yet each voice seeks to be heard and that is where the slow and silent journey of transcribing begins. We trace our lives back to the root, the seed of conception, and ruminate over our hearts. How, many a times we step on these delicate organs, push them behind our sights in order to have a clearer view of where we are going. All stories have a begining, and they eventually tell us when it is the right time, to put our pen on the paper.


*Lethe


Bernhard Schlink – The Reader: A book review

the-reader1

One must not be decieved by the size of this book, despite its two hundred something pages, there are several themes that are interwoven throughout. The story unfolds as straight forwardly as someone would go on to describe the weather. Fifteen year old Michael Berg is rescued by Hanna Schmitz, a woman in her mid-thirties, who finds him sick on the street and whom she takes to her apartment to clean and tend to. This marks the begining of an unconventional year-long affair between the teenager and the young woman, who is particularly interested in hearing Michael read to her. However here is the catch, Hanna is illiterate, she cannot read or write and this is a very important aspect of the story because it determines almost all of her life’s decisions and their implications that she eventually comes to bear. The story takes place during and after the Holocaust period.

The book is simply not one which would revolve around a love affair that ensued between these two, it is much more than that. The issues raised here concern the legitimacy of morality, it’s accountability on human actions and whether a person should be considered responsible for things done or acted upon in ignorance of their actual consequences. Do we live inside the box and ignore all that exists outside or let go of conventions? It was not a book that I would read on random and enjoy because the language is translated, secondly prose loses it’s orignal intended effect when clothed in another tongue, thirdly the narration is at times clinical; lacking richness. Like the white-washed walls of an empty house the words are often stark and devoid of warmth. The Reader reads like a holocaust report, by a living corpse, that was burned by the consequences of an unconventional love affair and swallowed by the vaccume of moral guilt.