The man
by Jaime Grijalba
I was not entirely happy with the choice the people at the Nobel made when they decided to give the most important award in modern literature to peruvian author Mario Vargas Llosa, mainly due to a bad experience reading some of his early short stories, but that dread was surpassed when I had the chance to read ‘The Time of the Hero’, his first novel, which was first rate and a real treat. I did this because I promised myself that I would read every book he had written before the next nobel prize winner was here. And here I am, with only two reviews done on the subject of Vargas Llosa, and a new Nobel has arrived. I’m so sorry, because the reviews were halted because the book I was supposed to look at (the second novel of Vargas Llosa, called ‘The Green House’) was left at a friend’s house, and due to many events that have happened, involving my forgetfulness and his, I still don’t have it and the result is just two reviews in the wake of a new winner, and that is my excuse. A poor excuse, but what the hell, it’s the truth.
And then today I woke up, knowing that I’ve failed you, but at the same time expecting for the new Nobel prize winner. I went up at 6:45 am to eat my breakfast, and then I slept until 7:35, when I took a shower. When I came back with nothing but a towel on and a lot of sleepyness due to going to bed at almost 2 in the morning (I was working on a presentation I had at 8:30 am that same day) I turned on the TV, expecting to hear news about the Nobel. I spent about 20 minutes hearing half-baked news from CNN Chile (how many news can you have at 8 am), so I left my house to go to my university. I was always looking at the televisions that they have set at all the metro stations, not that I expected that they would interrupt the whole stream of videoclips and day-old news for the Nobel prize winner, but one can hope, right? Then I arrived at the university, it was still early (about 8:20) so I crashed into the sitting room we have at our faculty, which had a TV set with CNN Chile on. And then, as soon as I come in, I see the guys at the studio say the name (or at least try to say it) of the winner of the Literature Nobel Prize. My only reaction was… ‘What?’. Someone, half-asleep, asked who Tomas Transftrömer was, and I just answered the truth: ‘I don’t know’. ‘And it’s from sweden? How can sweden poetry rhyme?’, ‘How do I know?’ was my honest and concerned answer. There I was, standing in a sitting room, staring at a TV that also had no idea who he was, sorrounded by people who had no idea who this poet was, and all I could think of was… poor Murakami, how much time does he need to wait?
The Nobel Prize for Literature given to Tomas Tranströmer was given to him ”because, through his condensed, translucent images, he gives us fresh access to reality”. He only writes poetry. This may be easy, yet at the same time really difficult. I want all the help that I can have in this new adventure, specially when I’m not a fan of poetry. I’m looking for the original publications in his language (not to read in actual swedish, but I mean read the poems that have everyone of his books, not reeditions or ‘best of’ or whatever. I’m specifically talking about his first book, called ’17 Poems’ published in 1954, which is available in spanish, but in a very expensive and international version (it’s published in Spain, and I’d love to have the book as it manages to compile many of his early books in one nice bundle). Anyway, the call is out there, here I have a link for you, an almost entire book which has (surprise, surprise) many of his poems, including the ’17 Poems’ (but not all of them are available to read online, sadly, which would’ve helped a lot): here.
Storm, Tomas Tranströmer
Here the walker suddenly meets the giant
oak tree, like a petrified elk whose crown is
furlongs wide before the September’s ocean
murky green fortress.
-
Northern storm. The season when rowanberry
clusters swell. Awake in the darkness, listen:
constellations stamping inside their stalls, high
over the treetops.
-
Anyway, those interested on my reviews on Mario Vargas Llosa books, who will resume if I finish with this author before the next Nobel comes (which seems fairly plausible), you can read them here: ‘The Leaders’ and ‘The Time of the Hero‘.
Next: ’17 Poems’
Sounds like a blast from the past when the Scandinavians favored their own to a disproportionate extent, but a poet was overdue by this point. A different poet was probably expected in many places, while the Americans who care presumably still seethe over the annual snub to Phillip Roth. On the actual choice, the sample doesn’t look like much but I’m no expert in poetry appreciation. One of these years the Nobel will go to a full-time screenwriter — though you can argue that if they never gave it to Bergman they’ll never give it to anyone — and that year the Nobel will be real news.
“My only reaction was… ‘What?’. Someone, half-asleep, asked who Tomas Transftrömer was, and I just answered the truth: ‘I don’t know’. ‘And it’s from sweden? How can sweden poetry rhyme?’, ‘How do I know?’ was my honest and concerned answer. There I was, standing in a sitting room, staring at a TV….”
Love it!!!!! This is classic Jaimie!!!! Well, I will say that I am completely unfamiliar with Transtromer’s poetry, though I will admit there is a longtime kinship between the Nobel prize and Sweden. Ha! Your engaging anecdote of how you got the news of the prize is worth the read alone. I really like “The Storm” and am currently wrestling with it. Great post here!
It’s sort of… I’m don’t know unsubstantial.
Fact is Tomas Transftrömer is a sublime modern poet. One foot in the adventurous world of modernity, one in the romantic past of yesteryear.
While the Nobel Prize for literature is generally to be respected as it does care about the form(s) it’s sort of like getting riled up about the Oscars. It’s a bureaucratic organization that is outside the beauty that’s between the covers. I don’t need a prize or an award to point me towards, or tell me truth.
Nice feature having the Nobel winners covered at the site. And such a well-written piece. Never heard of this Swede.
Very interesting, Jaime. Must admit Tranströmer’s work isn’t familiar to me, but here is a poem of his which I saw today and like a lot – it is always hard to know how much is down to the translator, but, anyway, I’ll be interested to read more of his work.
After a Death
by Tomas Tranströmer
translated by Robert Bly
Once there was a shock
that left behind a long, shimmering comet tail.
It keeps us inside. It makes the TV pictures snowy.
It settles in cold drops on the telephone wires.
One can still go slowly on skis in the winter sun
through brush where a few leaves hang on.
They resemble pages torn from old telephone directories.
Names swallowed by the cold.
It is still beautiful to hear the heart beat
but often the shadow seems more real than the body.
The samurai looks insignificant
beside his armor of black dragon scales.
It is with mixed feelings you (as a Swede) hear that another Swede has received the Nobel price in literature. It has been given to Swedes far too often, embarrassingly often in fact.
Selma Lagerlöf, Erik Axel Karlfeldt, Pär Lagerkvist, Eyvind Johnson/Harry Martinson (shared). I’m not saying that they are bad authors but that’s just ridiculous for a small language like Swedish. And Strindberg, probably the only one who should have gotten it, did not.
However, when Tomas Tranströmer receives the price you can’t complain too much. His poetry has been translated into over 60 languages and he is just in a class of his own.
Tranströmer suffered a stroke in 1990 causing Aphasia (an impairment of language ability) and partial paralysis. Nevertheless he has continued to write his inimitable poetry as well as performing, playing the piano with his left hand.
Death bends over me – I’m a chess problem, and he has the solution.
from The Great Mystery by Tomas Tranströmer
Hello people who have commented!
I plan to investigate and read more of this interesting writer, do not worry those who think I was dissapointed (I was, but due to ignorance more than anything and I’m not shy at admiting it).