Caution; Rambling reflections of a literary heart

It is in our inherent human nature to take stock at this time of year and reflect on what we have lost and gained. Not the accumulation or discarding of things material but what has ultimately altered the landscape of our hearts. With as equally as many manifestations as love, loss has proven itself to be one of the main arteries of the beating and pulsating heart of literature and poetry. I could not afford the luxury of reflection a year ago as I was in the midst of experience which was tainted with the denial of loss. Today on this not so sunny December day I can do a double take of how through its many different guises loss has undeniably altered the person that sits here today. As throughout my life I have found solace though through music, mainly Florence, Mumford and sons and old Sarah Mclachlan songs and literature, most recently Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguru and the heartache that accompanied me has led me to the discovery, not only the reading of poetry, but the poet within where loss has been both fuel and driver of the metaphorical vehicle.

Its been a year and a half since I have seen my best friend and I wonder can I still use that term to refer to her if the friendship doesn’t exist any more. Perhaps it is a term that supersedes time and events, like the word brother or Lizette . Or perhaps it is a term that can only lay claim by mutual agreement in which an absent party nullifies it. Whatever the case may be it has proven to be the biggest continual loss of my life thus far. Through its manifestation of friendship how easy it was to love, how easy it was to destroy a thing of beauty and extreme depth which had the fragility of paperweight porcelain. How easy it was to be unforgivably faltered and misunderstood.How hard it is to grasp that an accumulated and compounded,misinterpreted few days outweighed 4 years. How hard it is to explain the ache and pain of the shards of the sharp edged paper-thin porcelain stuck within my flesh that pricks a little harder and deeper at the thought and sight of what has been lost. The emptiness of her absence is vast and has left even the most general attempts at friendship and bonding, hollow. The fuel, however, that taps from it is rich and rewarding and through words comes healing, and through new life comes a chance to be and do better. The crushing blow comes not from the realization that I am not perfect but that my imperfections are intolerable and unforgivable when weighed against the essence of who I am. Even though a certain light within in me has been diminished forever as soon as this concept began to hit home. I miss her and if she would let me reinterpret the broken shards to sand them to rounder edges I would but ultimately I know that this present, this void, will remain my reality.

On the 23rd of Decemeber someone who was very dear to me would have celebrated his 30th birthday but as fate would have it he will forever be 25. And how he has shaped my life for the few years he was present in it. He very harshly awoken a very naive self to the fact that life was not only black and white but an endless colour chart of grey. Although I should probably give half the credit to literature and Bernard Schlink for this as well. He forced me to think about things rather than just accept them and uncovered and instilled a sense of adventure in me that lay dormant for far too long. I am better for having met him even though I know I will never have the chance to yet fully understand his complicated heart.

In May 2010 my almost biggest lost became my biggest gain. My mom had a double heart attack and had to have and angiogram to open up one of her arteries. What was considered to be a simple procedure caused her heart to stop on the operating table. The doctors and nurses struggled for 20 minutes to resuscitate her, in other words her brain was left for 20 minutes without oxygen. After reviving her they had to induce a coma and bring her in a state of hyperthermia to save her brain and heart. They gave her a 1% of survival and if she did manage to survive, they prepared us for major brain damage and that she would never be herself again. It was hard to come to terms with these statistics but the unfailing support from my friends carried me through a time where I was incapable of anything accept begging prayer and hope. I could not lose my rock in life it just wasn’t an option, having that phone call come through to say she didn’t make it...not an option. As it is with grace that is undeservingly bestowed on us, and after what felt like an eternity my mother awoke from her coma unscathed. Her 1% survival rate didn’t even cause her a 1% loss of her brain capacity. I have never witnessed the kind of strength with which she manage to carry herself through her recovery. And I have never felt the intense agonizing pleading and bargaining within myself as I did in that week of hell. Her presence in our lives reminds us daily at what her doctors scientifically described as ‘impossible’ and a ‘miracle’. There are people who do believe in miracles and people who don’t and then you get us, people who get to witness one. Being able to still share in the bond between mother and daughter, stronger than ever, has been the biggest gain this year.

The last two years has taught me that I am person of strength, that I can be wrong and learn from it to be better, and I have learned to be patient with myself, with others and with life which I now discover has probably prepared and led me to be more ready to for this moment where life and another gain is rapidly growing inside me with every breath. I am still aching from past events and with some I carry a perpetual pain which on days leaves me grasping for my crippled altered heart and pleading with it to stop yearning for what no longer is, but I can also state with confidence, crippled heart and all that I have managed to be happy and content with what I have.

Even though it is loss that fuels the pen to create the metaphors to understand human emotions, it is from the strength that we witness in others and ultimately gather within ourselves as a result from these experiences, that inspire us to have the confidence to pen them down and carry on through the loss, use it an channel it, even if it is through a forever altered version of ourselves.

Holiday reading spots

It's at last holiday time and I am armed with my favourite holiday indulgence Phillipa Gregory, my half finished Haruki Murukami's Norwegian Wood, Milan Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being and and my Everest, Marlene van Niekerk's Agaat and this is where I will be enjoying them: Old Mac Daddy Luxury Trailer Park.





I can't wait, just a few more things to pack then we are off tomorrow morning on an early flight. I can't wait to see our quirky For Better or Boerewors suite and unwind swimming, hiking and of course reading.



(images; Old Mac Daddy)

The rest of my reading will be happening between Christmas and New Years here:


A work in progress, my own little makeshift bohemian reading spot at home for the hot summer days. I am sure here I will make a considerable dent in Agaat, as well as making some progress on our new and improved upcoming website.

I remember fondly our holiday reading spot from exactly a year ago, Koh Lanta Thailand which housed us and our companions, The Girl who Played with Fire and Shantaram for hours and days on end.



Happy reading this holiday and here is hoping that you find your perfect spot.
From the lazy bloggers of The Paperhouse Review

Gone nesting

December holidays are approaching and I have my guilty pleasure's reading list ready. A reading nook usually adds to the pleasure and I wouldn't mind passing the time in one of these:

Read-Nest by Dorte Mandrup Architecture



via Apartment Therapy


Nest Rests designed by Daniel Pouzet and Fred Frety



via Black Eiffel

Writer Harry Mulisch dies

Harry Mulisch has died at the age of 83 on the 30th of October 2010. It was only last year that I was introduced to this celebrated Dutch author when I read The Assault (De Aanslag). It is a beautiful and complex story set in WWII, a period Mulisch often revisited in his novels. De Aanslag, very much like Bernard Schlink's The Reader, highlights the ethical grey areas of war. It is a perfectly scripted crime puzzle of a young Dutch boy who witnesses the demise of his whole family by the hand of the Germans. The family is mistakenly believed to be responsible for the shooting of a much hated Dutch fascists/German informer. The boy survives and grows up to become an anaesthetist later in life but it is rather he who in turn becomes numbed by this traumatic event from his childhood and throughout his life becomes indifferent towards the mystery of why it was his family that had to pay the unfair price, but the answers come to find him and seek him out through life events and the solution to the puzzle is most riveting and unexpected. I loved every second of this book and the end haunted me for months. I walked with the answer and I felt incomplete with its resolve, not from a literary perspective but from an inherent human one who seeks justifiable black and-white finger pointing answers. It is a novel so rich in perspective and as with the Dutch language, beautifully descriptive and I wish I had been introduced to Mulisch sooner. De Aanslag was made into a movie which won best foreign film award at both the Golden Globes and Oscars. Mulisch was also thought by many to be a possible candidate for the Nobel Prize for Literature. His book The Discovery of Heaven (De ontdekking van de Hemel) was named Best Dutch Book Ever in 2007.

The Future of books is taking some notes from the past

This is a very interesting look at the future of books or rather books within the realms of social networking which I spotted on Cherryflava. It considers three different approaches of which the last one reminds me of the adventure books I used to take out from the library where at one point in the story it would give you the option to choose how the main character should proceed by turning to different pages which all lead to different outcomes. The past is always inspiring the future.

The Future of the Book. from IDEO on Vimeo.

Literature as inspiration: Yeats

(image; Lissadel)

I am taking a break from Homer for a day, for it is one of those days where it just seems silly to be almost 30 and to be studying again from scratch but be it 20,30 or even 50 Homer never seizes to inspire, as art and literature throughout the ages has taught us. What I am learning this time round is there is no age limit where that which we love and value will ever stop to inspire us. And this semester I was thrilled when I discovered that one of my assignments was to be based on a poem that over the last two years have become dear to me. It all started with a band...who on a day became inspired by literature.

We all have that cd, or a few of them that have a permanent home in our cars or have become a cemented figure next to your cd players. When you haven't played them in a few months or when radio starts to become only white noise we reach for them and it is like hearing it for the first time. My finger for years went to track 5 on that disk: Bad Dream by Keane



Why do I have to fly
over every town up and down the line?
I'll die in the clouds above
and you that I defend, I do not love.

I wake up, it's a bad dream,
No one on my side,
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired
to be fighting,
guess I'm not the fighting kind.

Where will I meet my fate?
Baby I'm a man, I was born to hate.
And when will I meet my end?
In a better time you could be my friend.

[chorus]
I wake up, it's a bad dream,
No one on my side,
I was fighting
But I just feel too tired
to be fighting,
guess I'm not the fighting kind.
Wouldn't mind it
if you were by my side
But you're long gone,
yeah you're long gone now.

Where do we go?
I don't even know,
My strange old face,
And I'm thinking about those days,
And I'm thinking about those days.

I have always been infatuated with the chorus and there were days when it became a mantra that I kept repeating to myself. On a flight from Dubai late May 2008, I started searching the menu of the onboard entertainment. Music and comedy has always been the best remedy for my all consuming fear of flying. I found Keane's Live at the O2 concert. Almost instant calmness ensued. Front man Tom Chaplin revealed that Bad Dream was inspired by W.B Yeats' An Irish Airman Foresees his Death. The chorus carries even more weight for me now and the poem has become a beloved one of mine. Even the intro to the song sounds like the droning of propeller driven World War 1 airplanes and the air raids of the time and so sound links itself to the words of this great WW1 poem. Co-writer of the song Rice-Oxley said that “We wanted to get a balance between a kinda dream sequence. It starts very quietly, and I love the idea of being in a plane, like a Spitfire or something, being so high up in the sky that you can't hear the guns below you and so on. And it's almost got a serene silence which is what this Yeats poem seemed to really express. The song starts very quietly, but it gets huge and angry as it goes on... The big distorted washy piano sound in the middle is a pretty vast sound and it's I guess an attempt to express all that anger bursting out"


Neil Hannon reads Yeats at Keane's Live at the O2

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Literature can inspire so much greatness from within us and it can be channeled into so many forms and translations. This is by no means a new phenomena but one that has taken place since the birth of literature, since Homer. And today even a popular song can lead us to great literary discoveries, it can lead us to Yeats. We should never be afraid to go down that curios rabbit hole...

The A.W.O.L Trifecta

It has been a brutal past two months on both body and mind which has led me away from TPH. I have recently learned the joyous news that I am pregnant but had to deal with some pregnancy woes but everyday is one that is getting easier. The supposedly honeymoon phase of the second trimester is now only a few weeks away, apparently the creative juices is at its most vibrant during this period, thus looking forward to what might sprout from this. I am also in the midst of a very hectic exam schedule. And thirdly where will writers be without a little bit of never ending emotional suffering from the past that sends us into solitary literary confinement away from our blogs and seeking comfort mostly from pillows, wide blue skies and luckily for me into the arms of the most profound book that I have read this year. So a lot has happened, a Man Booker prize winner, which has left me underwhelmed and a new Nobel laureate has been announced. I have 3 more exams dates left until we speak again and catch up on all things literary which should be early November.