Kategori: Edebi

and yet another entry written in English…

Recently, I’ve been reading the ‘legendary’ Out-of-Print Publications of J.D. Salinger which includes (as far as I know) his 22 stories only appeared in magazines but never transferred to a book because of Salinger’s prohibition. If you have, like me, suffered for years for just the probability of finally reading Hapworth 16, 1924 but at the end got bored and pissed of all the (non-)developments, then you can guess the degree of my joy when I acquired this set of stories. The collection begins with the 1940 dated The Young Folks and ends with the Salinger’s final published item, Hapworth 16, 1924. For further reference, I’m including the publication details of all the Salingers:

I remember myself (must be around 1993/94, being a lycee student) aimlessly scanning the New Yorker magazines in the USA Embassy’s Library archives in the hope of stumbling a rare Salinger story. Have I told that I love internet? 8)

Anyway, as I’ve said earlier, nowadays I’m into these stories. Last year I’ve re-read Franny and Zooey and I will re-read Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction before tuckling with Hapworth 16, 1924. When Edip Cansever’s poem collection were published by Yapı Kredi, they had included even the poems that Cansever didn’t consider to select. He had purposely omitted these poems, which mostly were earlier ones, because he did not find them as impressive as the latter ones. This, I can understand and blame the Yapı Kredi for conducting such an ill-intended collection. But I guess Salinger’s version of prohibition is a completely another type. In Edip Cansever’s version, he rejects the works because he finds that they lack something the others don’t. Salinger prohibits the republishing not because -I think- he thinks those stories are inferior or anything but because the potential readers don’t deserve them, or more likely he just detests more fuss that will be unavoidable. After all, we live in a world with the Harper Lee example in it.

There’s this thing with me and the literature I had read in past times. In the case of novels, I usually remember the plot with or without its ending and one or more characters and their names after 5-6 years. If it is one of those smash-in-the-face for me as in the case of Michel Butor’s La Modification or Sartre’s L’aige de la raison then things are a little bit exceptional and in these rare cases I sort of remember approx. 70% of all the teeny-meeny details. But this isn’t the case with the stories. However good a story is, given 2 years, I tend to forget everything. This defunction may be considered an adventegous one because you never happen to have, like, running out of Salingers. Of course I never forget the end of the A Perfect Day for Banana Fish, after all, I’m something little more than a 3-second memorizer fish – I hope you understood what I’m trying to say.

Back to the Out-of-Print Publications, the first few ones heavily resemble to O. Henry stories with the punch lines they deliver at the end. You’ve got the introduction, the development and the finishing with all the ties knot and with a punch line delivered at you. But, as the years goes by, meaning if you start reading backwards, you find yourself with the familiar seas where everything is naive and the narrator pokes his head once in a while out of the story and reminds you who he is actually and what are the possible outcomes going to be…

One additional reason for Salinger to keep this stories from publishing may be that, they (the latter ones) tend to contain a very high level of sorrow and grief. In more than one story, some specific letters are never answered back, the characters tell that they will keep in touch or at least call tomorrow but never do that and then wham! their correspondents came up dead or unreachable.

Among the stories, I can easily say that The Inverted Forest was one of the best Salingers I’ve read. Also A Girl I Knew and the Blue Melody are good enough to stop the world in its tracks even if for a minute or two. The O. Henry type punch lines are still there, the plot makes you rush for the end where you know something heartbreaking will be waiting for you but the indifference of the narrator keeps you from exchanging the humane feeling with the eye-watering melodrama – this is a quality I have encountered while reading the stories Raymond Carver and another New Yorker-er, Haruki Murakami (especially his A Perfect Day for Kangooro and Tony Takitani stories). Although it is kind of natural for Murakami to arouse similar feelings since he is known to be into Salinger with the translations and such.

So, enough for today. To summarize, it is really good meeting a favourite author of yours with works you had known but could not reach. And I thank to internet and one Miss Grace Dela Pena for some reasons. By the way, I will not reply nor approve nor supply any of requests to mail/send these stories but if you want them so bad, I suggest you to go fishing for a nice little song called “Slow Train to Jacksonville” which resides in the Blue Melody. Look over the Hungarian skies, where the grass is green and the web is free, so to say! 😉

-over and out-

P.S.: …but the most important aspect of Salinger’s is, I think, whenever I finish another of his stories, I feel like I’m breathing the same air with my honorary blood brother Doğan wherever he is. 8) After all, what is it to have an honorary blood brother if you can’t share the Salinger stories?..

The day before yesterday, I finished reading Neil Gaiman’s Anansi Boys. Meanwhile writing this, I checked at Wikipedia that this one is currently his latest novel. It was the Sandman series that first introduced me to Gaiman, and then my interest geometrically increased via the spin-off Death series, various other comics & graphical novels, the Neverwhere TV series, his relation with Tori Amos, and the American Gods. He is indeed a wordslinger as Dark Tower’s Roland would express and definitely has his trademark stamped upon wherever he has contributed to such as in that episode of the Babylon 5 (was it titled the Day of Dead?, not sure but something like that) or the Matrix story Goliath he had written.

American Gods included some firm and original ideas but lacked the empathy it was supposed to arouse for the reader. It was like some non-fictional pulp in which you witness the preplanned course of actions. Also, it happened to be pretty boring when tried to lecture the reader about something that the reader had already figured out (In Turkish we have a saying that can be crudely translated as “Fingering the blind eye”). But again, as I mentioned earlier, it was exceptionally original and I must admit that calling the roadkills as a sacrifice to a traffic god was definitely a revolutionary innovation – a new breath of fresh air to all said and done before.

A week or so ago, my friend Barış passed me his copy of the Anansi Boys. I’ve got to say, I began reading out of boredom than curiosity but the book succeeded in binding me along with its components. First of all, there was the successfull merging of the reader with the protagonist and as a bonus humour was thrown in, too.

The characters are like they came out from a Douglas Adams novel – they are pathetic, clumsy most of the time, shy but clever enough to be embarrassed by themselves. The plot’s pace is well managed. You’ve got the introduction with fragments with past to get an opinion about who’s who, then comes the big bang and events roll on. The ending is also well knitted so to say. The 4 old ladies by the way, reminded of me the Erinyes/Moirae/Graeae ladies of the Sandman (obviously their Moirae interpretation than the other two and I guess this was what Gaiman had intended to be at the first place.

The prose is enriched by Gaiman’s classic-but-thankfully-not-yet-cliché exaggerative and poetic style as can be observed in the following two sentences:

The best thing about the book was that, you always kind of feel that everything’s gonna be all right. The characters are almost always cool about the really bad things happening to them and this makes you relaxed for their upcoming fates: you don’t pitifully worry for the folks who don’t worry for themselves in a pitiful way (by the way, this is the one of the main reasons for me favoring the works of some northern european directors, most notably: Aki Kaurismäki).

On Wikipedia, under the subject of Neil Gaiman, there was a section entitled as “Neil Gaiman and Shakespeare” so, I’d like to end this blog with one of my favourite mottos as well as the title of Shakespeare’s play:

P.S.: I couldn’t refrain myself from telling that: Although it was a nice homage to -I guess- Tori Amos by the sweet cameo of the mermaid at the end, one thing for sure Mr. Gaiman: It’s not the mermaids but the sirens who can sing above the waves! 😉

Connections with The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World
Spoiler warning: Plot and/or ending details follow.

Towards the end of the Kafka on the Shore, the protagonist Kafka Tamura has intercourse with his supposed sister Sakura in a dream he enters while waiting in the isolated hut. Later on, this dream is verified also by her. This is highly similar to the hotel scene in which Toru Okada, protagonist of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle enters through the well. At the end of the book, the village where Kafka gets to through the entrance in the forest, is directly a copy of the town of the Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World with the bookless-library and the memories stored in there. The half-shadow issue also finds its correspondence (as well as its explanation) in Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. Also, the two characters Mrs. Saeki and Oshima of Kafka on the Shore can be considered as the mirror images of Akasaka Nutmeg and her son Cinnamon Nutmeg of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.

Spoilers end here.

Dün nihayet Murakami’nin Kafka on the Shore‘una başladım. Benden önce Bengü okudu, bitirdi, beğendi, bakalım, biraz yavan başladı desem ayıp olacak ama öyle. 50 yaşındaki adam 15 yaşındaki bir çocuğun ağzından yazmaya kalkınca ve bunu da anlatım biçimine yansıtınca pek parlak olmuyor sonuç.

Nicedir belirteceğim, bu vesileyle yazayım: Murakami’nin kitaplarını The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, A Wild Sheep Chase, Dance Dance Dance ve Pinball, 1973 olarak okudum (listede en baştaki ilk okuduğum olarak kronolojik sırada yer alıyorlar). Ama ilginçtir ki, WUBC’ı sanki bir saat evvel okumuş gibiyim ama sonrakileri giderek daha silik hatırlıyorum. Tavsiye edecek olsam WUBC ve HBWEW’i söylerim, belki bir de WSC. Ayrıca hala özlüyorum May Kasahara‘yı.. Az evvel images.google.com’dan şöyle bir arattım, sürpriz Rusya’dan geldi. Hakikaten çok yakışmış:

Kafka on the Shore’da bugün rastladığım bir güzellik ile bitireyim bu girişi de:

Bugün, tatilde Side’de okumaya başladığım Raymond Carver’ın Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?‘ini bitirdim. Raymond Carver, O. Henry ve Roald Dahl ile birlikte, hikayelerini okumaktan epey hoşlandığım bir yazar (O kadar çok hikayelerini okumamış olsam da). Beni gençliğimde Aşktan Söz Ettiğimizde Sözünü Ettiklerimiz ile vurmuştu yerden yere… Zaten onun edebiyatta yaptığı şeyi Edward Hopper resimde, Tom Waits de ilk albümlerinde yapmakta (Ayrıca Tom Waits’in hem Short Cuts‘da oynuyor oluşu, hem de Nighthawks at the Diner‘da kapak olarak Hopper’ın Nighthawks‘ını kullanması iyice köprülüyor bu üç ismi. Bir detay daha : Hopper İletişim’den çıkan Aşktan Söz Ettiğimizde Sözünü Ettiklerimiz‘in de kapağını süslüyor ki, bu detay Amerikan ve İngiliz baskılarında bile yok!)

Carver sakince, dipten giderek, bütün o önemsiz ayrıntılara şöyle bir değinerek anlatıyor anlatacağını. Sanki size bir hikaye anlatırken sigarasını içeduran, gözü ötelere dalan, etrafından geçenlere bakıp da anlatıya ara veren yaşlı bir dayı gibi. Sonra bazen göstererek, bazen hiç çaktırmadan yapıyor yapacağını. Bazen tek bir cümlede hatta bir tek sözcükte saklıyor bütün manayı, hikaye bittikten sonra olacakları.

Ve bazen onu bile yapmıyor. Hayat gibi.

Hayat gibi sıradan.

Aşağıdaki alıntı toplamaya adını veren “Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?” hikayesinden. Ralph, ısrarlı zorlamaları sonucunda karısı Marian’a vaktiyle onu aldattığını itiraf ettirtmiş, şüphelendiği bu gerçek yine de onu çarpmış, bir müddet sebepsizce gezdikten -ve bir kavgaya karıştıktan sonra- evine dönmüştür:

[…]He came at last to his house, porch light on, windows dark. He crossed the lawn and went around to the back. He turned the knob, and the door opened quietly and the house was quiet. There was the tall stool beside the draining board. There was the table where they had sat. He had gotten up from the couch, come into the kitchen, sat down. What more had he done? He had done nothing more. He looked at the clock over the stove. He could see into the dining room, the table with the lace cloth, the heavy glass centerpiece of red flamingos, their wings opened, the draperies beyond the table open. Had she stood at that window watching for him? He stepped onto the living-room carpet. Her coat was thrown over the couch, and in the pale light he could make out a large ashtray full of her cork cigarette ends. He noticed the phone directory open on the coffee table as he went by. He stopped at the partially open door to their bedroom. Everything seemed to him open. For an instant he resisted the wish to look in at her, and then with his finger he pushed the door open a little bit more. She was sleeping, her head off the pillow, turned toward the wall, her hair black against the sheet, the covers bunched around her shoulders, coven pulled up from the foot of the bed. She was on her side, her secret body angled at the hips. He stared. What, after all, should he do? Take his things and leave? Go to a hotel? Make certain arrangements? How should a man act, given these circumstances? He understood things had been done. He did not understand what things now were to be done. The house was very quiet. In the kitchen he let his head down onto his arms as he sat at the table. He did not know what to do. Not just now, he thought, not just in this, not just about this, today and tomorrow, but every day on earth. Then he heard the children stirring. He sat up and tried to smile as they came into the kitchen. “Daddy, Daddy,” they said, running to him with their little bodies. “Tell us a story. Daddy,” his son said, getting onto his lap. “He can’t tell us a story,” his daughter said. “It’s too early for a story. Isn’t it. Daddy?” “What’s that on your face, Daddy?” his son said, pointing. “Let me see!” his daughter said. “Let me see, Daddy.” “Poor Daddy,” his son said. “What did you do to your face, Daddy?” his daughter said. “Its nothing,” Ralph said. “Its all right, sweetheart. Now get down now, Robert, I hear your mother.” Ralph stepped quickly into the bathroom and locked the door. “Is your father here?” he heard Marian calling. -Where is he, in the bath¬room? Ralph?” “Mama, Mama!” his daughter cried. “Daddy’s face is hurt!” “Ralph!” She turned the knob. “Ralph, let me in, please, darling. Ralph? Please let me in, darling. I want to see you. Ralph? Please!” He said, “Go away, Marian.” She said, “‘I can’t go away. Please, Ralph, open the door for a minute, darling. I just want to see you. Ralph. Ralph? The children said you were hurt. What’s wrong, darling? Ralph?” He said, “Go away” She said, “Ralph, open up, please.” He said, “Will you please be quiet, please?” He heard her waiting at the door, he saw the knob turn again, and then be could hear her moving around the kitchen, getting the children break¬fast, trying to answer their questions. He looked at himself in the mirror a long time. He made faces at himself. He tried many expressions. Then he gave it up. He turned away from the mirror and sat down on the edge of the bathtub, began unlacing his shoes. He sat there with a shoe in his hand and looked at the clipper ships making their way across the wide blue sea of the plastic shower curtain. He thought of the litde black roaches in the tablecloth and almost cried out Stop!. He unbuttoned his shirt, leaned over the bathtub with a sigh, and pressed the plug into the drain. He ran hot water, and presently steam rose. He stood naked on the tiles before getting into the water. He gathered in his fingers the slack flesh over his ribs. He studied his face again m the clouded mirror. He started in fear when Marian called his name. “Ralph. The children are in their room playing. I called Von Williams and said you wouldn’t be in today, and I’m going to stay home.” Then she said, “I have a nice breakfast on the stove for you, darling, when you’re through with your bath. Ralph?” “Just be quiet, please,” he said. He stayed in the bathroom until he heard her in the children’s room. She was dressing them, asking didn’t they want to play with Warren and Roy? He went through the house and into the bedroom, where he shut the door. He looked at the bed before he crawled in. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He had gotten up from the couch, had come into the kitchen, had … sat… down. He snapped shut his eyes and turned onto his side as Marian came into the room. She took off her robe and sat down on the bed. She put her hand under the covers and began stroking the lower part of his back. “Ralph,” she said. He tensed at her fingers, and then he let go a little. It was easier to le go a little. Her hand moved over his hip and over his stomach and she was pressing her body over his now and moving over him and back and forth over him. He held himself, he later considered, as long as he could. And then he turned to her. He turned and turned in what might have been a stupendous sleep, and he was still turning, marveling at the impossible changes he felt moving over him. Raymond Carver, “Will You Please Be Quiet, Please?” Harvill Press 1999, London.