Behind the curtain

As I get older, I try not to read more than one or two books by a particular author because I want to spread my reading more widely. But there are a few authors I cannot help but peek into their latest offerings, and be inevitably drawn into them. Milan Kundera in one of them. (Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Umberto Eco, Jose Saramago, Salman Rushdie, JM Coetzee and, lately, Orhan Pamuk being others. Yes, Sharon, none of them are women. That was not a conscious decision. None of them are Anglo-Saxon either. Again, not a conscious omission.)

Milan Kundrea's The Curtain is a small book of seven essays on the art of the novel (though the blurb on the cover says the book is an essay in seven parts). Having read his previous book on the topic, Testaments Betrayed, I more or less knew what to expect. But, still, Kundera does not fail to excite, though I can imagine the comment that this book is meant for his 'fans', which, I admit, I am one. (This, by the way, is not a review of the book.)

Kundera says on page 16, "Each aesthetic judgement is a personal wager, but a wager that does not close off its own subjectivity; that faces up to other judgements, seeks to be acknowledged, aspires to objectivity ..." (italics mine). Wow! How I wish I wrote that.

Yes, when someone says a book, or anything, is 'good', is he (or she) saying that it possesses some universal absolute indisputable 'good', or is the person merely saying that he liked it? Even the word 'like' then comes up for dispute. Another person could (and would) say the he 'didn’t like' it. So is it merely a matter of taste then? Of prejudice? Of subjectivity? In which case, of course, quality would not exist.

Fortunately, Kundera points the way out of that one when he quotes Jan Mukarovsky: "Only the presumption of objective aesthetic value gives meaning to the historical evolution of art." And says, in other words; (in the) absence of aesthetic value, the history of art is just an enormous warehouse of works whose chronological sequence carries no meaning. That is, the aesthetic value of art can only be seen from its historic value. And this is his main point in the first essay in The Curtain called The Consciousness of Continuity, in which he discusses, amongst many other things, the difference between the many types of history. 'History as such’ is the history of events, of victories (and defeats). It is the history of mankind, of things that no longer exist, and which have no direct connection to our present lives. The history of science (and technology) depends little on man and has nothing to do with his freedom ... it is nonhuman: "If Edison had not invented the light bulb, someone else would have." The history of art (including literature) is a history of (aesthetic) values ... (which is) always present, always with us."

In the second essay called Die Weltliteratur (World Literature -- a term coined by Goethe), Kundera provocatively says about Kafka (who, he emphasises, wrote in German and considered himself a German writer): "No, believe me, nobody would know Kafka today -- nobody -- if he had been a Czech", that is if he had written his works in the language of a "faraway country which we know little (about)".

This reminds me of a little incident that happened at Silverfish Books a few years ago. The, then, Austrian Ambassador, came in one day looking for books by Austrian writers (for an exhibition or something, in conjunction with something or other at the Embassy). I told him that I did have a few European writers but I was not sure if any of them were Austrian. (I often don't care about the nationality of a writer when I buy or read a book.) He asked me if he could look around, and came back from the shelves in a short while with a bunch of books. In his hands were Hermann Broch, Max Brod, Sigmund Freud, Peter Handke, and there was Kafka! (I didn't have Elfride Jelinek then.) And he subsequently proceeded to educate me on why Kafka was Austrian ­-- one of the things being that he wrote in German. I told him that I always though he was Czech. He said I was mistaken. It was sometime after that I ran into the wife of the Czech Ambassador (who was an active member in a book club I was helping) and related this story to her. I thought she would laugh about it, but I was wrong. She was livid. She must have told my little story to her husband because the next time we chanced to meet (at another one of those functions) I was witness to some very diplomatic but decidedly barbed exchanges between the Ambassadors of two central European countries! I quickly found an excuse to run off elsewhere. I guess, when one comes from a country whose fate has, for centuries, been decided entirely by the 'major' powers, one could get quite sensitive. (BTW, Wikipedia has Kafka as an Austrian writer. Now is Rasa Sayang and satay Malaysian, Singaporean or Indonesian?)

One point I am not altogether sure I agree with Kundera, is his assertion that size and population does not matter in determining 'major' and 'minor' nations. He mentions how, though Spain and Poland have roughly the same population, the former is considered a world power but not the latter. But wouldn't that be ignoring the rest of the Spanish-speaking people in the world? In the Americas? I take the point of Iceland and how its massive collection of thirteenth and fourteenth century literature has been relegated to the 'archaeology of letters' and does not in any way 'influence world literature' (as they would have, if they had been written in English).

"The word 'kitsch' was born in Munich in the mid nineteenth century; it describes the syrupy leftover of the great Romantic period." He says that the concept of kitsch only arrived in France (and presumably the rest of the world) in the 1960s, that is, a hundred years later where the ultimate 'aesthetic reprobation' was (and still is) vulgarity -- from Latin vulgus, of the people. (There is an interesting, and sad, story involving Sartre and Camus after the latter won the Nobel prize in 1957 due to Camus' apparent 'vulgar' origins in Algeria.) From the evidence of giant fibreglass pitcher plants, lamp-posts with electric hibiscus light-bulbs, gold-plated palatial gates and Corinthian columns at residences, giant stores selling Emperors' furniture, and Kenny G, kitsch has met an entirely different form of vulgar, fallen in love and they are now happily married, and live in Malaysia.

In Getting into the Soul of Things, Kundera quotes Hermann Broch: "... the novel’s soul morality is knowledge; a novel that fails to reveal some hitherto unknown bit of existence is immoral ..." and adds his own comment further on, "... the novelist, unlike the poet or the musician, must learn how to silence the cries of his own soul ... the writing of a novel takes up a whole era in a writer's life, and when the labour is done he is no longer the person he was at the start."

What is a Novelist? A novelist is the person who lifts the curtain just a little bit, just momentarily, to let the reader have a peek at what is behind, the obvious cliche that is life,. Kundera says. A novelist is 'born from the ruins of his lyrical years.' "I have long seen youth as the lyrical age, that is, the age when the individual, focused almost exclusively on himself, is unable to see, to comprehend, to judge clearly the world around him." This he uses to differentiate between the poet and the novelist. He quotes from Proust: "Every reader as he reads is actually a reader of himself. The writer’s work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen himself without this book."

If I have to pick a favourite essay, it would have to be Aesthetics and Existence. When Kundera says: "I often think: tragedy has deserted us; and that may be our true punishment ...", I feel like I know what he feels. (I have not dismissed entirely the possible play of cognitive dissonance in taking this view.) When the entire world is seen in terms of black and white, in right and wrong, between the forces of good and those of evil, when we are constantly told of the 'grandeur in massacres' of innocents and of martyrdom, of indignant self-righteousness, the only real tragedy is the death of tragedy.

Kundera's essays do suggest and emphasise the Western, that is Greek, origins of the tragedy, and the resultant birth of the novel. If that were true in his definition, the Asian novel can only be an orphan at best, existing in a vacuum, but a bastard more likely. I can only speak of what I know. Didn't The Ramayana start as a tragedy, of a king's foolish (forgotten) promise to his favourite (third) wife, a lady of impeccable piety and virtue, who is cast as a villain and a monster only for trying to safeguard the interest of her only son, whose love for Rama is only exceeded by that for her own Bharath (who refuses the throne for himself but, instead, places the Sri Paduka on it as he awaits the return of the rightful king). It was a tragedy from the beginning, and one that leads to one after another, despite attempts by petty 'moralists' to conjure up 'divine' interpretations and tie themselves up in knots in the process. It is the tragedy that has breathed life into the tale through the millenniums, sparked numerous debates ,and kept the story alive till today.

Arguably, the greatest Indian tragedy is the Mahabaratha. Kunti upon giving birth to a child out of wedlock, Karna (later day 'morally correct' versions suggest some divine intervention by the gods and involvement of a form of parthenogenesis -- in fact, later day moralists, who rewrote whole chunks of the Mahabaratha, would imply that all her other five children were also conceived asexually given that Pandu, her husband, was impotent), and gives him away, drifts him down a river in a reed boat, ala Moses, without anyone's knowledge. Later Kunti's other son Arjuna and Karna meet and become sworn enemies. The battle between the two warriors (neither Arjuna nor Karna know that the enemy is his brother) is one of the highlights of the epic. It is a tragic tale that is alive and well even today and affects the very Indian psyche. (All this inspite of moralists who like to take sides, and the 'Conversation with God' bit, which most people don't even understand, inserted in-between by person or persons unknown centuries after the original was written -- not unlike political versions of Antigone, Kundera talks about, during WW2 in which Creon was cast as a wicked fascist against a 'young heroine of liberty' and thus completely ruining the tragedy). How many tales, and tragic Bollywood movies, have been written involving battles between long lost brothers, and a mother who couldn't speak the truth? (A bit of trivia: did you know Sukarno was named after Karna?)

History doesn't like tragedies. It prefers clear winners, it prefers the 'grandeur of massacres', even if it kills the very thing that makes us human, even if it kills us. Good and bad, we (like to) define these terms, quite clear, no doubt, somehow. But I was so much older then, I am younger than that now. (Apologies Robert Zimmerman).

Independent bookshops fight back

A report in the Twin City Daily Planet says that independent booksellers are not going to take it any more. They are fighting back. In a story titled Independent booksellers fight chains with community and character, correspondent Taylor Cisco says that after decades of assault by corporate giants that offer 'sweeping discounts, multimedia merchandise, coffee, snacks and other non-literary goods ... a few indies (are) looking to give the big guys a run for their money.'

[A bit of trivia: Amazon Bookstore Cooperative, the oldest independent feminist bookstore in North America -- which had by then been in business for thirty years -- filed a suit against Amazon.com for trademark infringement in 1990. They ended up 'signing over the rights to their own name, then licensing it back from the corporate website'.]

The formula appears commonsensical enough: focus on 'hard-to-find niche materials and a truly personal shopping experience'. One indie bookshop differentiates itself by 'offering titles by local authors as well as titles by those who regularly top bestseller lists' with 'shopping environment (that) was warm and social'. When customers were asked why they picked a particular indie bookshop instead of Borders or Barnes & Noble, the most common answer was: '... customer service that is well above average, a unique selection, and a neighbourhood focus'.

"You know, I have always wanted to open a bookshop," has to be the most popular comment we have heard since Silverfish Books opened eight and a half years ago. (One customer told us a story of how her friend wanted to open a bookshop and call it Silverfish, and didn't know what to do, now that the name had already been taken. The customer said she helpfully suggested an alternative name: termites.) There is no shortage of people who want to open their own indie bookshop. So what is my advice?

First of all, be prepared to give up your life as you know it. (If you don't have a life, it helps.) Absentee bookshop owners almost never make it. The bookshop is about you. It should reflect your personality, your tastes, your niche and your work. Trust your instincts. What do you really know a lot about? Don't try to fool your customers. You will be found out fairly quickly. Be prepared to dedicate your whole life to it – ten/twelve hours a day and six/seven days a week until it stabilizes (which can take several years), and don't expect to employ staff to do all your work. Don't curi tulang from yourself. Work hard and do it yourself, and save the money until you can't squeeze anymore out of your body. Dig in for the long cold winter, which can last several years. The ability to sustain is everything. And don't expect to make a lot of money. Diversify (into related areas) to supplement your income (and pay the rent.)

Still interested?

Okay, then you have the customers to deal with. That will be the best part. Bookshop customers are generally quite a fantastic lot. They will be friendly, helpful and a joy to serve. Help them. Some will be shy to ask, others will be forthright. Good recommendations are mostly appreciated. Offer to help but don't insist. Don't bluff. And, you know what? You will learn as much from your customers as they will learn from you.

Customers are your best friends. No, seriously. I have made more friends in the years at the bookshop than at my previous career of twenty-five years. I make new friends every single day. There will be so many who will come in and tell you, "I'd rather give my money to you then to one of those mega bookstores." And you know they are being absolutely sincere. They are not unreasonable. (We don't sell cookbooks, because we know nothing about cooking. So when they want something like that, they know where to go.) Then you will have customers who walk into the shop, look around as if for a supermarket cart, run through the shelves, pick up two-dozen books, or more, and deposit it on the counter, all in twenty minutes. All this, without saying a word. The only exchange will be, "Will that be cash or credit?" and, finally, a smile and a thank you. And they will be back again and again. You will still not know who they are although you would have progressed to acknowledgement nods, smiles and, even, exchange of niceties. Many book people are very shy. Not everyone will want to be hugged. Respect that.

There will be those who become friends enough to drop by for a chat and a drink while they browse. There are those who will insist on bringing you goodies from the local delis -- and not cheapo ones, either. Sometimes you will have entire families of customers, leaving with books for mom, for dad, for abang, for adek and for the baby. That is really quite a heart-warming experience. (Who said reading is dead in Malaysia?) But you also get parents coming in with such badly behaved children that you want to slap them. (The parents, I mean.) Watch out for these children of parents from hell -- you will have to learn how to handle that without killing one of them (disposing of dead bodies can be quite messy, and might even ruin more books) even as you worry about that child spilling Coke on a perfectly good Peter and the Wolf pop-up book, or another smearing ice-cream on the new encyclopaedia, because the parents don't seem to care or bother to control them. (One father looked on indulgently as his two-year-old daughter ripped up a perfectly good book, but refused to buy it when asked. He simply grabbed the child and ran out the door and down the stairs. We thought that was the last we would see of him. Good riddance. But he came back! A few days later. This time without the child, but still refused to pay for the book, pretending not to know what we were talking about. Instead he tried to smooth things over by turning on his nauseating charm. If ever we came close to manslaughter, that must have been it.)

There are a few other types of insufferable customers you will have to suffer. Some will spend hours looking through your shelves, and then come and ask you for an obscure book they are sure you don't have, just to look intelligent. (There was once when such a customer did that. I was sure we had the book on the shelf, though. I searched and found it in another location, left there accidentally by another customer. When I brought it to him, he turned red, stammered, "Actually I ... I am looking for the ... the .. er .. other edition ... the othe cover.” So there. (The print was either too big or too small or both.) There will be those who will come in and, before anyone asks, declare loudly (as if someone asked) that they did not read 'fiction', or 'non-fiction' -- presumably to establish his pedigree. You will be tempted to go, "How sad for you." Resist that temptation.

Though these customers seldom buy books either, you will still need to suffer them because they can influence others. They will then try and tell you that they have libraries in their houses bigger that your bookshop, just make you feel small. Smile, and breathe deeply. Similar, but not exactly the same, are those who will come in and try and talk your ears off to impress you with their knowledge. (Don't ask why). This type of customer doesn't buy books either, and you will feel like throwing him down the stairs. Don't.

In the early days in Sri Hartamas, I had this person come in and spend several hours in the bookshop, quietly sitting in a corner, reading, browsing through every shelf. He looked like the type who could hardly afford books. He was forty something, hefty, with a weather-beaten face, dressed in what looked like a work uniform. He didn't say a word, or even look at any of us, and left just before closing time. After he left I went through the shelves to see if anything was missing. He was back the next day soon after we opened shop and left just before we closed, again without saying anything, or buying anything. I noticed he came in on an old motorcycle. On the third day, I said, "Hello," which he responded to with a grunt and a nervous half-smile before striding off (as if afraid I was going to ask him questions) towards the bookshelves. But the brief exchange was enough for me to notice a sadness in his eyes. I became determined to talk to him. This I did as he was about to leave that evening. He worked at Tenaga. He said he loved books but he couldn't afford to buy them, and he said that we had all the books he liked. I felt so stupid and embarrassed for pre-judging him. I told him that he was welcome to the shop anytime and that he could read whatever book he wanted, for as long as he wanted, and that he didn't have to buy anything. He smiled fully for the first time.

He came a few times after that, and then I didn't see him anymore. (Maybe he doesn't know we we moved to Bangsar now.) But several others have taken his place. They come in quietly, browse, read and then go back. You can spot them quite easily from the way they, practically, caress the books. Once in a while they will buy something, and this will please you tremendously. You will love selling the book to them. Knowing how much books cost, that will be lunch money for a week for them. And that the books have found a good home.

And talking about the price of books, do be reasonable. I have had several customers come in and complain about the price of books at a certain mega-bookstore. While some bestsellers are heavily discounted as loss-leaders, others can be quite seriously marked up. (One customer was so glad he had not been tempted to buy a certain book the previous day at that place. A book we were selling for MYR69.90, was priced at the mega-store at MYR 99.90 -- MYR 30.00 markup! A difficult to find book, no doubt. But still, not quite ethical.) Book distributors generally fix selling prices and most bookshops adhere to this. Obviously, there are rouge elements. Don't be one of them.

Then, there will be customers you don't want to sell a book to because of the way they handle books, or because of something dumb they said earlier, and you don't think they 'deserves' to own a particular book because they are unlikely to appreciate it or likely to mistreat it. When that happens, force a smile and repeat this mantra: I need the money, I need the money, I need the money, I need ... Remember, you still have to pay the rent.

There will always be room for independent booksellers, just like there will always be boutiques. Remember James Joyce, D.H. Lawrence, Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, and a host of other writers? All of them rose from independent bookstores. Can mega bookstores claim anything remotely close?

The TC Daily Planet

A literary blogger shuts down

So why is that news? One would think bloggers, literary or otherwise, open and shut daily without a world war breaking out. But the demise of the Return of the Reluctant by Edward Champion after four years (2003 to 2007) is talked about as if it were an end of an era. On his last posting on 18th December 2007 he says, "I filed for divorce from Return of the Reluctant, citing irreconcilable differences ... I'm a different person now ... When something stops being fun, it's pretty easy to become decisive." He also says, "I may be back. Old habits die hard." and "For now, however, I’m done with blogging. And I’m serious this time." How is that for keeping your options open?

Edward Champion continues, "... Reluctant was more of a chore. Often a thankless one. A daily grind in which I regularly asked myself why I wasn’t putting this kind of energy into the novel I’ve been working on …"

Personally, I do not read the blogs of any kind. This has become a point of contention, unfortunately. Blogging is the in-thing, if not a very new thing. (Sometimes it looks like bloggers outnumber readers. Or, are they one and the same?) Will you read my blog? used to be one of the most frequently asked question directed at me. (Now it is, Will you join my Facebook? Or some such.) I have decided to respond to all this with a completely non-committal smile, now. I used to tell them that I didn't have the time but after seeing some of the shocked expressions to my answer, like I had just confessed to murdering a favourite aunt or something, I have decided to change tactics. I have become aware of other thing in the blogosphere as well. There are lots of 'blog cliques' out there and they, apparently, can get quite vicious. So by not reading any blog, I can try to keep equidistant, or so I think. But that has not stopped some parties from believing that I should side with their 'righteous' cause, as oppose to the 'lies' spread by some others. So, it has been a 'no win' for me.

I believe, from the way people talk, that blogs can get quite addictive. Before I do anything I ask myself, 'Why do I want to do this?' If I cannot get a satisfactory answer, I don't do it. Simple. (That’s why I don't play golf -- no good answer, but a lot of bad ones). I am sure there is some interesting stuff out there for some people -- as I am sure there is one on Tiddlywinks -- but I really cannot afford to get screen-sucked into anything right now, or any time in the foreseeable future. (Though some may say that, being the egomaniac I am, I prefer my own opinions – and every one knows just how opinionated I am!) I also have a short attention span.

Anyway, I was curious about Reluctant. So I decided to look at the comments on the last posting to see what the big deal was. Here are some comments:

Who will keep the New York Times Book Review on its toes, now?

How dare you ruin my morning ritual of reading lit blogs and drinking coffee! I might take up smoking in its stead.

Aw, damn. you're one of my favorite cranks.

... Anyway, bettter you sweat and strain over stuff that pays than that which don't ...

There are plenty more ... (yawn) but I just got tired.

The Return of the Reluctant