Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Review of 'The Savage Detectives' by Roberto Bolaño

Review of 'The Savage Detectives' by Roberto Bolaño

I was doing really well at keeping up to date on posting on this blog last month, and then I read this massive tome. So, sorry for my absence, but this novel took a while to work through. I was meant to read it two and a half years ago as part of my lit course, but it was big and heavy with small font so I avoided it at all costs and Wiki'd it for the seminar. I've read quite a few nice, speedy novels recently so I thought it was time to tackle it.

The Savage Detectives is one of Bolaño's longest works. Initially a poet, he turned to, in his opinion, an inferior form of literature: fiction. Bolaño was a traveller, and spent most of his life poor, finally turning to fiction as a way to secure income. 

Usually I wouldn't do a little author bio for you, but as one of the main characters, Arturo Belano is a loosely autobiographical figure, I felt as though it was important.

The novel is very much a South American novel. Not all of the text, or possibly not even the majority of the text, takes place in South America, and yet it remains an intangible zone throughout the entirety of the novel. It's there in the conversation between narrators, and there in the discussion of literature, which features heavily in the book. 

The Savage Detectives is written in three parts. The first is a story from the viewpoint of a 17 year old poet named Garcia Madero. He becomes entangled with a group of poets who name themselves the visceral realists. Even if you search this term, all you get are mentions of Bolaño and this novel. It's a form of poetry that is discussed at length in the text, but as with any avant-garde form of art, it's true form is never pinpointed. It's un-pinpoint-ability is part of what it is.

The second part features over 40 narrators. It's confusing, and at some times mindless. Some narrators only feature once, and some come in waves of repetition. It took me a while to link this mass of scenes, but the one thing they all have in common is that these people have met Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima, the founders of visceral realism. These people tell stories that span twenty years as well as multiple continents. Movement between chapters and narratives is harsh and abrupt. It constantly keeps you questioning and leads you off into different realms of thought. Again, I feel as though this is part of the idea of visceral realism.

If you define 'visceral' you come across the idea of something relating to ones feelings rather than to ones intellect. This features throughout The Savage Detectives. We're met with  crude sexual scenes, scenes of abject poverty, alcoholism and the desire to learn. Belano and Lima do not do what they need to do in life, they do what they feel like doing. 

The final section picks up exactly where the first section leaves off. Belano, Lima and Garcia Madero are travelling across the desert with a prostitute they saved from her pimp. The pimp is hot on their tails, but they're also in search of a visceral realist poetess, who has only ever published one piece of work. This final section follows them in their journey to the heart of visceral realism. 

Have you read this? What did you think?

Friday, 22 July 2016

My 10 favourite classics of all time


I think it's been over a year now since I posted anything other than just a straight up review on here, and I've decided to make things a little bit more varied over the next couple of months. I'm kick-starting this with this super-quick top 10 classics post. Hopefully (maybe?) it'll inspire your choice in the next classic to read, or you'll be able to relate with me on some level about my love for that particular text. So, without any further babble, let's go. 

In no particular order, here are my 10 favourite classic texts of all time:

1.) Pablo Neruda's poetry, in particular 'Ode to the Clothes'. He manages to make the most ordinary of things the most beautiful, and really changed my opinion of what poetry could do.

2.) Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. Let's face it, this was always going to be on my list, I mean, I am an ex-English student after all. This was the first text I ever remember studying in which it was clear that the author had imbued every scene with symbolism and hidden meanings.

3.) Shakespeare's Titus Andronicus. This is one of his earliest and least famous texts. It's also one of his bloodiest and seeing it at the RSC was a once-in-a-lifetime treat for me that I'll never forget.

4.) Dickens' Bleak House. Part of me has no idea why I like this - it's long, I had to make a physical list of characters so I didn't get confused, and the plot has about 17 thousand strands. But, seeing all those strands come together and finally reading a book in which Dickens offered a fairly realistic insight into the mind of a woman (for once) made it all worth it. 

5.) Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. Pre-warn: there are going to be a fair few Victorian texts on here, but I love them, so we're all just gonna have to deal with it. This is possibly my favourite book of all time, and it's something that I really savour coming back to time and time again. I've possibly read it five? times now and each time I come away feeling bowled over by this woman's incredible writing.

6.) Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. I actually remember borrowing this off of my mum when I was a teenager and I fell totally in love with the whole Jane-Rochester debacle. I'd tried reading Austen before, and assumed all Victorian texts fell under the same dreary brush (sorry Austen fans), but this definitely opened up my eyes to the power of Victorian literature.

7.) Stoker's Dracula. I've got a little confession here: I only actually read this for the first time about a year and a half ago. It's one of those texts that was so hyped up I was actually put off of it. When I read it however I was totally wowed by how many of our notions about Vampires come from this one text, and how forward it was in terms of discussing sex.

8.) Hardy's Tess of the D'Ubervilles. All I can say is that I warned you about how much of this would be Victorian. Sorry not sorry. Seriously though, get your hands on an unedited copy of this and you can get a real insight into how society treated a 'fallen' aka non-virginial woman, way back when.

9.) Harriet Beecher Stowe's Uncle Tom's Cabin. This broke my heart and mended it all over again about seven times. If you're looking for an insight into the world of America's slave trade, then this is a good place to start.

10.) Donne's 'The Broken Heart'. I actually read this Medieval poem when I was studying my a-levels, in an attempt to secure some extra reading to help with my university application. What I didn't envision was falling totally in love with it and finding what still remains my favourite poem of all time.

I honestly thought I was going to struggle to think of 10 texts, but here I am struggling to contain all my favourites within a mere list of ten. I feel like writing this post in itself has been a journey for me, reminding me of why I love reading, and why certain books touched me at certain points in my life. I'm also feeling totally inspired to get back in to reading poetry and plays, to the extent that I'm now considering having a 'poem of the week' post once a week. Would you guys like that? I'd love to hear some input!


Saturday, 20 December 2014

Book A Day | #19 and #20

Day 19 - Travelling Home Reading This


Although this picture was clearly not taking whilst travelling, I did read this as I came home from uni a couple of weeks ago, ready for the festivities to kick in. Check out my review of the book here

Day 20 - Set Where I live

I don't have a picture for this one, but I do have a poem for you guys:

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now, 
There isn't grass to graze a cow. 
Swarm over, Death!



Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens, 
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans, 
Tinned minds, tinned breath.



Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown 
For twenty years.



And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win, 
Who washes his repulsive skin 
In women's tears:



And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.



But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad, 
They've tasted Hell.



It's not their fault they do not know 
The birdsong from the radio, 
It's not their fault they often go 
To Maidenhead



And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars 
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.



In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.



Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.


Pleasant, I know. But let's be realistic, this little town on the edge of London still isn't the nicest of places, though Betjeman may have been a tad extreme here.

What were your choices?
Steph