Literature Nobel Prize 2017 and The Remains of the Day

                                            

Having some old sentiments for Scandinavia and feeling European I particularly respect the Nobel Prize awards. The one that commands most of my attention is the Literature Prize. There is usually some controversy regarded the Nobel Foundation choices and that how it is this year as well.

                                 

It has been only two or three weeks ago that the Nobel prize was awarded to Kazuo Ishiguro. It was given to the person "who, in novels of great emotional force, has uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world".

Is the author worthy the honour that was bestowed on him? Apparently, he himself, at first, could not believe the news about this year’s literary verdict. It may only mean that he is a modest man. This is what I have assumed and decided to find out by myself what kind of a writer Ishiguro is. Frankly, this is the time that I heard his name for the first time. I decided it is the time to catch up and educate myself. Going through Wikipedia, I relised that I actually know and like the film based on one of his novels – The Remains of the Day. However, it did not seem like a Nobel Prize candidate or even the Man Booker Prize winner the book actually received many years ago. I knew the story pretty well, but film versions and originals very a lot, so I was happy to read the book. It is a smooth book, one could say an old-fashioned kind of a book. It could not be anything else as it is written in the first person and the narrator is a model English butler.  Very proper language without any colloquialisms and with good vocabulary the narrator is very proud of. Reading the pages, I almost heard a well measured voice of a traditionalist. A bit toffee-nosed, but in an endearing way. I like the language, even if I realise that it may be considered too proper and as such criticised as not literary enough. I read some critical comments regarding the form of Ishiguro books not being experimental enough. I am not quite sure why it has to be.

Yesterday, I heard that the film The Remains of the Day is a “girls film”. This stirred some feelings in me I did not like.  I typically respect the judgement of the person who expressed this view, so it was disturbing. For some reason a girl’s kind of film seems to me to be a put down. Maybe it is not? Maybe my sensitivity uncovers things I have not been aware of?

Having seen the film and then reading the book, I consider them both very good. I also consider the film faithful to the book story. If I remember the film correctly the emphasis on assessment of Mr. Steven’s life did not come that strongly as it is presented in the book. For me the book is all about Mr. Stevens retrospection and final realisation that his earlier values lead him to missing the point of what the life could have been.   Everything else including Miss Kenton is only necessary to make the point.

The story is about a middle age butler who realises that due to his values and upbringing, he lost the most important thing in life and this is love of a person he admired. This realisation becomes obvious as we read the book. The reader knows first what is going on in emotional lives of Mr. Stevens and Miss Kenton. Miss Kenton also soon knows, but not so Mr. Stevens. When he eventually understands his emotions it is too late, all he is left only with is continued service to his American employer. The service may not be that perfect as it used to be, but the perfection is no longer required. The addition to the master and his butler relationship is bantering, something Mr. Stevens has still to learn. For him it is a big challenge but it promises possibility of adding warm accents to the life of this exceptional butler. This is very little to be content with at “the remains of the day” of Mr. Stevens. Towards the end of the book Mr. Stevens knows it as well as we, the readers, do. And this a hard thing to face up to.

                             

Even if the book is about an English butler and it is a good story in itself, it is also a metaphor on more than one level. What resonated with me is the issue of dedication to one’s occupation often extended to blind loyalty towards the employers. Mr. Stevens dedicated his professional life to the man whose motives and deeds he never questioned. He even derived the sense of personal dignity from serving the man who was not worthy his admiration and obedience. He did not know it at the time (or maybe did not want to know?). 

It was one time in my life when it struck me that I may be wasting my life staying in my job. I was working on my mission statement and I could not link anything worthwhile to the job I was actually in. I was working diligently and successfully at a bank. Was my mission to make the successful bank even richer? Nothing wrong with that, but definitely not enough as a life purpose. There many people who work in industries that harm societies and they do not question it as the money is good. Maybe be The Remains of the Day is a good wake up call for all of us who work diligently for our employers without questioning what is behind the scenes.

Another issue that made me ponder was the question of dignity. This is what Mr. Stevens deliberates on from the first pages of the book. His definition is never too clear and never final. It is adjusted as the journey of our hero progresses. Reading the book, I have realised that dignity is important in my life as well and that I am not clear on my definition either.

There are many definitions of dignity as we look up various dictionaries. I selected the two:

1. Bearing, conduct, or speech indicative of self-respect or appreciation of the formality or gravity of an occasion or situation.
2. Nobility or elevation of character; worthiness: dignity of sentiments 

To me  me the second point is the more relevant one, but first of all courage of living in accordance with one's convictions and values is the basis of dignity for me.

Do I agree with the Nobel Foundation verdict? Not sure yet. I am reading The Buried Giant and I am struggling with the fantasy form of the book. Not my cup of tea.

Strawberries, memories and regrets

In current times strawberries and generally berries are considered to be super food. I have been always a bit careful about what I eat and, I must confess, even worried about my health. Perhaps overly so, but with my Polish background this is normal. An average Pole is very much preoccupied with health and diet. I even heard that Poles like to be sick. Being sick gives a certain amount of self-importance and commands attention of others. But I have digressed and the simple point I am trying to make is that I eat strawberries every day as I consider them good for me. When at home, I eat Australian type of strawberries, the berries  I looked down at some years. I even did not eat them for a long time considering them inferior to the strawberries I was used to in Europe. With time my memories of old fashioned European type of strawberries faded and the Australian strawberries improved its taste and prices, so now I eat them every day with my breakfast. The strawberries here are big, read and firm. From time to time, they even have pleasant taste. They last few days in my fridge and much longer in the fridge of the local fruit market and prior to that at the growers’ fridges. I wonder how many days pass from the time the strawberries are picked to the time they land up on my plate. 

Often, the memories of old days come to me together with the memories of fragrance of old fashioned strawberries my father used to grow. He came from the family of farmers and always had a farmer sole in him even if he led an urban life of a business person. As his business became successful he was able to indulge in a hobby farm near the industries town we lived in. He started an orchard which with time became a show case for the university of agriculture. The famous professor and his students used to come and visit my father’s orchard as it was considered to be a model and example for modern cultivation of apples.  

My father was a very pragmatic person and considered a waste of opportunities to be sinful. He had this orchard and as the apple trees were taking their time to become productive he considered it a good idea to plant strawberries under the trees. As I recall, in  the first years potatoes were planted and strawberries followed as my father’s knowledge of horticulture improved. My parents had a business to run so there was little time to dedicate to the farm activities, especially that my mother did not support my father enthusiasm for growing things. I was a child of urban tastes with reading being my favourite pastime, but taken to the farm I would partake in activities of the moment. I remember one day of potato-lifting time. It was September or October and the air was cool and fresh. The hired people were working on the field and after a while of observing the activities I joined in. As I was only a child my work had to be light, but father looked very proud observing me lifting the potatoes from the black fragrant soil. I will always remember the time and the smell of the air and the soil. I enjoyed what I was doing and it gave me the feeling of accomplishment, but I did not understand then how magical the time actually was.   

In those times agriculture was based on the rhythm of the seasons. Strawberries were ready for picking late June and early July. This is the time in Europe when the school year finishes and it is time to go away for summer holiday. My family could not do it, this was the strawberry season and one had to take advantage of it. This was however only my father’s view, the rest of the family did not share his love of farming and I even felt deprived of rightful pleasures available to my school friends. 

                                   

During the day my parents worked in their business, but come afternoon, my father sneaked out to go to his garden farm to pick a couple of baskets of strawberries for his family. He would proudly put them on the table in front of us and we would reluctantly pick at some the most beautiful strawberries I have even tasted. Only I did not know then that the fruit in front of me was so very special. I was upset that I had to stay at home when some of my friends were at the seashore. And I did not realise that my father was a very special man. The man of passion and wisdom, perseverance, courage and many talents. I did not understand so many things then... He was lonely in his passions; the family did not want to share his dreams. This must have been difficult and discouraging, but he was not to be stopped even if unappreciated by us. I am relieved to know that he was greatly appreciated by the agriculture authorities of Poland, but saddened that this is only now that realise those things.

This was the man who considered my father an authority on growing apples. This man even has a monument. How blind I was not to see my father achievements...

I know now that my father was a great role model and I must have learned from him some things by osmosis, and I am grateful to him for that.  I feel  sad, however,  that I never told him  about my respect and admiration. I understood things too late.

Books we read

                                                      

I belong to a book club and, of course, I read books not of my choice. Actually, this was the whole point of joining the club. That and the possibility of discussing the books with like-minded people. But, it somehow does not work for me very well and I wonder why. I always have been individualistic and do not like to be directed in my actions. Maybe this is the reason why I look at the club books in a negative way? I think, however, that there is more to it than that. I, often, do not find the books relevant and I question the time spent on reading things I do not learn from, enjoy or even approve of. The book I am reading now is Rocks in the Belly by Jon Bauer. A young Australian writer and his first book. I must say that it is well written book and because it is well written its depressing impact is rather profound. Does it make the book worthwhile reading? I would say that the effect of reading the book may be even harmful for somebody of more sensitive feelings. Like me. I have been reading the book for a couple of weeks now, I could not take more than a couple of short chapters in one go. I felt dirty, sticky, ill, depressed and generally horrible. This power of the book makes it perhaps a good book. I am asking myself a question though, how relevant it is to me? What does it bring into my life in addition to depression? And I do not find a good answer. One could say that I should watch a comedy show or a film or read a funny book if I want to be entertained. But I not always want to be only entertained. I want the time I spent on reading to bring some new thoughts relevant to my life (to any life in fact), even some answers to existential questions or at least some insightful observations.

Dostoevsky is not a cheerful lecture, but I consider his books worth reading, even if one should read them with caution. My literature teacher at school was saying that two Dostoevsky's books read one after the other present a danger to one’s emotional life, more than two present a danger to the reader’s life. Jon Bauer wrote only one book so far and I think it is save to read this one book, but I wonder why I should put myself through the process of reading it. I think, I got the message the author wanted to pass. People are cruel, parents can profoundly hurt their children psyche, bad is inherent to our nature, what you soak in at your early years will show up in your later life, cancer is a very cruel illness, sex is good to get you out of the dumps, if only for a short moment, we’ll all die at the end.  This is what I got out from the book, this and a very unpleasant sticky feeling. This is a very brutal book in my opinion.

The life truths the book reveals have been known to me for a while, I find them pretty obvious and not particularly worth spending hours on reading the book and pondering on the intended messages.

One observation, however, caught my attention and this is the uncertainty of what we actually experience versus what belongs only to our feelings, predispositions and imagination. The hero, who is unnamed in the book, wonders if the drama created in his life was a result of actual neglect by his mother or his own blinding jealousy of her feelings towards foster children who lived with the family. Reflecting on it, I am not sure myself what the deciding factor was, because both aspects were there.  The mother was not attuned sufficiently to her son feelings and sometimes behaved in the way I would consider neglectful or even cruel. On the other hand, the eight-year-old boy was predisposed to see live as negative and scary. However, a loving, careful mother should have seen his sensitivities and act with more care. 

I am glad that I am trough with the book and I will try not to be too critical of the book choice in the forthcoming book club meeting. Especially, that the situation will change and soon the members of the group will be picking themselves the books to read.

I find The Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara by far the best book I have read the last year, but this is not the book I will be recommending for the group. My three candidates are Pamuk’s The Red-Haired Woman, Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend and the new Nobel Prize winner Kazuo Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day. I started reading the last book only today, but I know and love the film made based on the novel. So, I have high hopes I will love the book as well.