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Monterey Bay Aquarium
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đ©” avery cochrane đ©”
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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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@roughghosts
That strange face in the mirror: Maybe This Time by Alois Hotschnig
The stamps on the envelope were still moist. I noticed they were foreign. As I got to the window I realized that I was, in fact, in another country, somewhere unfamiliar. I didnât know where. To confirm or dispel my sense of foreboding, I went into the bathroom. A strangerâs face looked at me from the mirror. An uncertain, shifting sense of identity haunts Maybe This Time, a collection of nineâŠ
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âI fall awake and think, I want to go homeâ: Is Beauty Good by Rosalind Belben
I think, it doesnât matter where I am, whether calm or with nerves shot to pieces, in the mountains, in towns, sleeping well or sleeping badly, it doesnât matter, I am quite lost, wherever I am. I want to surrender. I wish to retire. I am tired. Iâm not disappointed, but I canât cast my mind any farther, Iâd prefer to draw it in and keep it in a bag. (from âExileâ) Rosalind Belben is not aâŠ
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A walk on the wild side: The Pure and the Impure by Colette
Coletteâs The Pure and the Impure opens in an opium den in Paris sometime during what would come to be known, looking back through the veils of nostalgia, as the Belle Ăpoque. Our narrator, also named Colette, arrives, not as a participant but as a writer intent on conducting a little research. Perhaps, it is implied, for novel. Fully prepared to be bored, I settled down on my own littleâŠ
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âIs your heart still beating? If so, how?â â The Heart of Man by JĂłn Kalman StefĂĄnsson
There are very few things that man needs: to love, to be happy, to eat; and then he dies. Yet there are over six thousand languages spoken in the world â why do there need to be so many in order to make such simple desires understood? And why do we manage it so rarely, why does the light in words fade as soon as we write them down? One touch can say more than all the worldâs words, thatâs true,âŠ
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Living in exile: Dying in Toronto by DaĆĄa DrndiÄ
Toronto consists of enclaves. All right, and parks. Enclaves are areas inhabited by minorities. There are a hundred and five minorities in Toronto, and new ones are being created all the time. Surrounded by invisible lines, walls and wires of separation and by a very visible medley of customs and languages, these minorities are becoming the majority. The little territory left over, in the centre,âŠ
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To live is to love life: Aside from My Heart, All is Well by HĂ©ctor Abad
Father Luis Cordoba was a large man, and his heart even largerâtoo large, in fact. When, after attempts to treat his condition with a pacemaker, diet, and exercise proved insufficient to ease his poor organâs further decline, it became apparent that he would require a transplant. But while waiting for a suitable donor to die, he would have to rest quietly and refrain from strenuous activity, likeâŠ
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A dark, grimy fable: Glantz by Tobias Ryan
On the street in front of a sleazy bar in a low-rent part of an unnamed city there has been a catastrophic incident. A man who was, just moments before, inside the bar, suddenly walked out and stepped in front of a moving bus, intentionally or otherwise. Now he lies disfigured on the pavement. The eponymous heroâno, hero is not quite the right wordâof Tobias Ryanâs discomfiting novel, Glantz,âŠ
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Latest #IFFP Review The law of being average F: A Novel by Daniel Kehlmann
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In it for the money : My PrizesâAn Accounting by Thomas Bernhard
In recent weeks, talk, at least in the literary circles I circle, has turned to literary prizes and prize winners, more explicitly to the question of the use of AI to at worst generate complete stories or at best, toss ideas around in the creation of said stories. So, wanting a fresh, pre-artificial intelligence take on the matter of awards honouring writers and artists, I naturally thought ofâŠ
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A few thoughts on twelve years of blogging
Roughghosts is twelve years old today. I debated whether or not I would officially mark this day with a post as I typically do, but have decided as the day nears an end, to say a few words anyhow. My immediate thought was to comment on the ongoing gnashing of teeth about the death of book reviews which always seems to go hand in hand with blaming the decline on book blogging. It seems to me thatâŠ
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âI donât know, Heinz, are you the one or arenât you?â My Motherâs Silver Fox by Alois Hotschnig
The past is so long ago. A lot is certain and clearâthere are documents. But I was only a few years old at the time, so itâs difficult: I only know what I experienced physically. That I do know. But the paths, the detours we followed, even the ones I was there for, those I have to imagine. Heinz Fritz grows up haunted by a past filled with mystery, secrets, ghosts. He is the son of a NorwegianâŠ
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Of poets and prophets: Ah!merica by Allen Ginsberg
The latest offering from isolarii, the unique publishing venture that produces smallâthink palm-sizedââisland booksâ that feature the work of novelists, scientists, artists, theorists, and philosophers and others. But donât let the small scale fool you, these micro-masterpieces can pack a punch. The latest, their sixteenth title, is Ah!merica by Beat poet Allen Ginsberg, a meditation on theâŠ
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A jay in the grass is a turning point in history: In a Cabin, in the Woods by Michael KrĂŒger
There must be a crack in the fabric of the house, the candle flickers as if it canât decide, and the piece of paper on which Iâd been scribbling all day long, trying to find a beginning, lies on the floor, butter-side down. But the doors and windows are all tightly closed. A beginning of what? âfrom poem #13 When we look back now at those eerie early months of the pandemic, when we all retreated,âŠ
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Of beggars and kings: The Abyss by Jeyamohan
This is not a novel that eases you in slowly, gradually revealing its excesses. Rather, the truth of the situation at hand is immediately on display. Grotesque and disturbing, the first few chapters can make for uncomfortable reading. It is not simply the event taking place, but the attitudes that surround it, the relationships and circumstances that are swiftly and bluntly made clear. In a hutâŠ
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The earth was a rose fully opened: Eternidades / Eternities (1916â1917) by Juan RamĂłn JimĂ©nez
My feeling and the star were ecstatic in their idyll. You passed through the garden and your hand, playing, paying no attention, tore off my feeling. (poem 107, âFlowerâ) Winner of the 1956 Nobel Prize for Literature, Juan RamĂłn Jimenez (1881â1958) is widely regarded as one of the most important Spanish language writers of the twentieth century. But, as is often the case, the popularity of hisâŠ
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Patience is life: Gold Dust by Ibrahim al-Koni
âWe always say that the Mahri is the mirror of his rider. If you want to stare into the rider and see what lies hidden within, look to his mount, his thoroughbred. Now that I look at you more closely, I can see that youâre a young man whoâs got everything. Whoever owns a Mahri like this piebald will never complain for want of noble values. Youâve honored our homes, O noble youth descended fromâŠ
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In praise of ordinary people: Maybe Even Happiness by Ludovic Bruckstein
Imagine a travelling fair in a small provincial town, complete with all of the expected food stalls and amusements. And there, amid the festivities, stands a small unassuming structure with a sign advertising it as a panoptikumâa wax museum. But when our narrator steps inside, there are no heroes or historical figures waiting for him. âWhat is this?â he wonders: But because I have handed over myâŠ
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