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gladiates · 4 years

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175+ non-Western literature recommendations to diversify your academia, organized by continent + country

I love world literature, and I’ve been frustrated by the lack of representation of it in literature + academia communities on tumblr, so here are some recommendations. I haven’t read all of these myself yet, but the ones I have are excellent and the ones I haven’t come highly recommended from Goodreads and are on my to-read list!

With the exception of anthologies of older works, all of these books were written before 2000 (some literally thousands of years earlier), since I’m less familiar with super contemporary literature. Also, I only included each writer once, though many of them have multiple amazing books. I’m sure there are plenty of incredible books I’m missing, so please feel free to add on to this list! And countries that aren’t included absolutely have a lot to offer as well--usually, it was just hard to find books available in English translation (which all of the ones below are.)

List below the cut (it’s my first post with a cut so let’s hope I do it right... and also warning that it’s super long)

ASIA:

Bangladesh:

Pather Panchali by Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay (1929)

China:

Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu (6th century BCE)

The Art of War by Sun Tzu (5th century BCE)

The Analects by Confucius (circa 5th-4th century BCE?)

The Book of Chuang Tzu by Zhuangzi (4th century BCE)

Mencius by Mencius (3rd century BCE)

The Songs of the South: An Anthology of Ancient Chinese Poems by Qu Yuan and Other Poets (2nd century AD)

Li Po and Tu Fu: Poems by Li Po and Tu Fu (written 8th century AD)

Poems of Wang Wei (8th century AD)

Romance of the Three Kingdoms by Luo Guanzhong (14th century AD)

Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio by Pu Songling (1740)

Dream of the Red Chamber by Xueqin Cao (1791)

Six Records of a Floating Life by Shen Fu (1809)

Diary of a Madman and Other Stories by Lu Xun (1918)

Mr Ma and Son by Lao She (1929)

Family by Ba Jin (1933)

Love in a Fallen City by Eileen Chang (1943)

A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy by Wing-Tsit Chan (1963)

Red Sorghum by Mo Yan (1987)

Soul Mountain by Gao Xingjian (1989)

The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature edited by Yunte Huang (anthology, 2016)

India:

The Rig Vega (1500-1200 BCE)

The Mahabharata and the Bhagavad Gita (around 400 BCE but not known exactly. The Gita is part of the Mahabharata)

The Upanishads (REALLY wide date range)

The Dhammapada (3rd century BCE)

The Fundamental Wisdom of the Middle Way by Nāgārjuna (2nd century AD)

The Recognition of Sakuntala by Kālidāsa (4th century AD)

The Way of the Bodhisattva by Santideva (700 AD)

Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore (1910)

Annihilation of Caste by B.R. Ambedkar (1936)

The Discovery of India by Jawaharlal Nehru (1946)

Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh (1956)

A Source Book in Indian Philosophy by Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan and Charles Alexander Moore (1957)

Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie (1981)

A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth (1993)

Women Writing in India: 600 BC to the Present V: The Twentieth Century by Susie J. Tharu and K. Lalita (1993)

A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry (1995)

The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy (1996)

Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri (1999)

Indian Philosophy in English: From Renaissance to Independence (anthology, 2011)

Indonesia:

The Weaverbirds by Y.B. Mangunwijaya (1981)

Iran:

Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings by Abolqasem Ferdowsi (11th century AD)

The Essential Rumi by Rumi (13th century AD)

The Blind Owl by Sadegh Hedayat (1936)

Savushun by Simin Daneshvar (1969)

My Uncle Napoleon by Iran Pezeshkzad (1973)

Missing Soluch by Mahmoud Dowlatabadi (1979)

Iraq:

Fifteen Iraqi Poets edited by Dunya Mikhail (published 2013 but the poems are 20th century)

Japan:

The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu (9th-10th century AD)

The Pillow Book by Sei Shōnagon (1002 AD)

The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu (1008 AD)

The Tale of the Heike, unknown (12th century AD)

One Hundred Poets, One Poem Each: A Treasury of Classical Japanese Verse (not sure of year)

Essays in Idleness by Yoshida Kenkō (1332)

Kokoro by Natsume Sōseki (1914)

No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai (1948)

Snow Country by Yasunari Kawabata (1948)

The Makioka Sisters by Jun'ichirō Tanizaki (1948)

Confessions of a Mask by Yukio Mishima (1949)

Masks by Fumiko Enchi (1958)

The Woman in the Dunes by Kōbō Abe (1962)

A Personal Matter by Kenzaburō Ōe (1964)

Silence by Shūsaku Endō (1966)

Korea (written before the division into North/South):

The Memoirs of Lady Hyegyong (written 1795-1805)

Lebanon:

Samarkand by Amin Maalouf (1988)

Gate of the Sun by Elias Khoury (1998)

Pakistan:

We Sinful Women: Contemporary Urdu Feminist Poetry (1991)

The Rebel's Silhouette: Selected Poems by Faiz Ahmed Faiz (1991)

The Taste of Words: An Introduction to Urdu Poetry edited by Raza Mir (2014)

Palestine:

Men in the Sun and Other Palestinian Stories by Ghassan Kanafani (1963)

Orientalism by Edward Said (1978)

I Saw Ramallah by Mourid Barghouti (1997)

Mural by Mahmoud Darwish (2000, which technically breaks my rule by a year but it’s great)

Philippines:

Noli Me Tángere by José Rizal (1887)

Saudi Arabia:

Cities of Salt by Abdul Rahman Munif (1984)

Sri Lanka:

Funny Boy by Shyam Selvadurai (1994)

Syria:

Damascus Nights by Rafik Schami (1989)

Taiwan:

Last Words from Montmartre by Qiu Miaojin (1996)

Turkey:

My Name Is Red by Orhan Pamuk (1998)

Vietnam:

Spring Essence: The Poetry of Hô Xuân Huong by Hô Xuân Huong (1801)

The Tale of Kieu by Nguyen Du (1820)

Paradise of the Blind by Duong Thu Huong (1988)

Miscellaneous Asia (country unclear or multiple current day countries):

The Epic of Gilgamesh (circa 1800 BCE)

Myths from Mesopotamia translated by Stephanie Dailey

The Arabian Nights (as early as the 9th century AD, lots of changes over the years)

The Qur’an

AFRICA:

Algeria:

Fantasia: An Algerian Cavalcade by Assia Djebar (1985)

The Bridges of Constantine by Ahlam Mosteghanemi (1993)

Cameroon:

Houseboy by Ferdinand Oyono (1956)

Egypt:

The Tale of Sinuhe and Other Ancient Egyptian Poems 1940 - 1640 B.C. translated by R.B. Parkinson

Palace Walk by Naguib Mahfouz (1956)

The Sinners by Yusuf Idris (1959)

Woman at Point Zero by Nawal El Saadawi (1975)

The Map of Love by Ahdaf Soueif (1999)

Ghana:

Our Sister Killjoy by Ama Ata Aidoo (1977)

Two Thousand Seasons by Ayi Kwei Armah (1979)

In My Father’s House: Africa in the Philosophy of Culture by Kwame Anthony Appiah (1992)

Guinea:

The Radiance of the King by Camara Laye (1954)

Kenya:

A Grain of Wheat by Ngugi wa Thing'o (1994)

The River and the Source by Margaret A. Ogola (1995)

Libya:

The Bleeding of the Stone by Ibrahim al-Koni (1990)

Mali:

The Fortunes of Wangrin by Amadou Hampâté Bâ (1973)

Nigeria:

The Palm-Wine Drinkard by Amos Tutuola (1952)

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe (1958)

Efuru by Flora Nwapa (1966)

The Joys of Motherhood by Buchi Emecheta (1979)

Aké: The Years of Childhood by Wole Soyinka (1981)

Sozaboy: A Novel in Rotten English by Ken Saro-Wiwa (1985)

The Famished Road by Ben Okri (1991)

Senegal:

God’s Bits of Wood by Ousmane Sembène (1960)

So Long a Letter by Mariama Bâ (1981)

Somalia:

Maps by Nuruddin Farah (1986)

South Africa:

When Rain Clouds Gather by Bessie Head (1969)

Fools and Other Stories by Njabulo S. Ndebele (1986)

Sudan:

Season of Migration to the North by Tayeb Salih (1966)

Tunisia:

The Colonizer and the Colonized by Albert Memmi (1957)

Zimbabwe:

The House of Hunger by Dambudzo Marechera (1978)

Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga (1988)

Miscellaneous Africa:

The Granta Book of the African Short Story edited by Helon Habila (2011)

The Penguin Book of Modern African Poetry edited by Gerald Moore and Ulli Beier (1963)

AMERICAS:

Antigua and Barbuda:

A Small Place by Jamaica Kincaid (1988)

Argentina:

Ficciones by Jorge Luis Borges (1944)

Hopscotch by Julio Cortázar (1963)

The Museum of Eterna’s Novel (The First Good Novel) by Macedonio Fernández (1967)

Kiss of the Spider Woman by Manuel Puig (1976)

The Sixty-Five Years of Washington by Juan José Saer (1985)

How I Became a Nun by César Aira (1993)

Thus Were Their Faces by Silvina Ocampo (2015 but written earlier)

Brazil:

Dom Casmurro by Machado de Assis (1900)

Chronicle of the Murdered House by Lúcio Cardoso (1959)

Dona Flor and her Two Husbands by Jorge Amado (1966)

Pedagagy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire (1968)

The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector (1977)

Vast Emotions and Imperfect Thoughts by Rubem Fonseca (1988)

Chile:

The Obscene Bird of Night by José Donoso (1970)

Emergency Poems by Nicanor Parra (1972)

The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende (1982)

Colombia:

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez (1967)

Cuba:

The Kingdom of This World by Alejo Carpentier (1949)

Cold Tales by Virgilio Piñera (1958)

Dominican Republic:

In the Time of the Butterflies by Julia Alvarez (1994)

Guatemala:

Men of Maize by Miguel Ángel Asturias (1949)

I, Rigoberta Menchú by Rigoberta Menchú (1985)

Guadalupe (part of France but overseas):

I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem by Maryse Condé (1986)

Haiti:

Breath, Eyes, Memory by Edwige Danticat (1994)

Jamaica:

No Telephone to Heaven by Michelle Cliff (1987)

The True History of Paradise by Margaret Cezair-Thompson (1999)

Martinique (part of France but overseas):

Discourse on Colonialism by Aimé Césaire (1950)

Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon (1961)

Poetics of Relation by Édouard Glissant (1997)

Mexico:

Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo (1955)

Aura by Carlos Fuentes (1962)

The Hole by José Revueltas (1969)

Underground River and Other Stories by Inés Arredondo (1979)

The Collected Poems, 1957-1987 by Octavio Paz (1987)

Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel (1989)

Nicaragua:

Azul by Rubén Darío (1888)

Peru:

The Cardboard House by Martín Adán (1928)

The Time of the Hero by Mario Vargas Llosa (1962)

The Complete Poems by César Vallejo (1968)

St. Lucia:

Omeros by Derek Walcott (1990)

Trinidad and Tobago:

The Black Jacobins: Toussaint L'Ouverture and the San Domingo Revolution by C.L.R. James (1938)

A House for Mr. Biswas by V.S. Naipaul (1961)

Uruguay:

Open Veins of Latin America by Eduardo Galeano (1971)

Venezuela:

Doña Bárbara by Rómulo Gallegos (1929)

Indigenous Writers from Canada and the United States:

American Indian Stories by Zitkála-Šá (Dakota) (1921)

Winter in the Blood by James Welch (Blackfeet and A’aninin) (1974)

Emplumada by Lorna Dee Cervantes (Chumash) (1982)

She Had Some Horses by Joy Harjo (Mvskoke) (1982)

Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich (Chippewa) (1984)

Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko (Laguna Pueblo) (1986)

Custer Died for Your Sins by Vine Deloria Jr. (Dakota) (1988)

The Grass Dancer by Susan Power (Dakota) (1997)

Miscellaneous Americas:

And We Sold the Rain: Contemporary Fiction from Central America edited by Rosario Santos (1988)

Short Stories by Latin American Women: The Magic and the Real edited by Celia Correas de Zapata (2003)

Bordering Fires: The Vintage Book of Contemporary Mexican and Chicana and Chicano Literature edited by Cristina García (2006)

#dark academia #light academia #academia aesthetic #academic #academia #academics #studyblr #litblr #reading #books #booklr #literature #world literature #poc literature #writers of color #bookworm #bookaddict

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tvdas · 4 years

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John Berryman in 1966, two years after the publication of “77 Dream Songs.” The Heartsick Hilarity of John Berryman’s Letters is a book review by Anthony Lane (in The New Yorker) of The Selected Letters of John Berryman. The book is edited by Philip Coleman and Calista McRae and published by the Belknap Press, at Harvard. My acquaintance, the generous Philip Coleman, mailed me a copy of this book at the end of October. Lane writes, “. . . anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. ‘I have to make my pleasure out of sound,’ he says. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse.” Here is the book review:

The poet John Berryman was born in 1914, in McAlester, Oklahoma. He was educated at Columbia and then in England, where he studied at Cambridge, met W. H. Auden and Dylan Thomas, and lit a cigarette for W. B. Yeats. All three men left traces in Berryman’s early work. In 1938, he returned to New York and embarked upon a spate of teaching posts in colleges across the land, beginning at Wayne State University and progressing to stints at Harvard, Princeton, Cincinnati, Berkeley, Brown, and other arenas in which he could feel unsettled. The history of his health, physical and mental, was no less fitful and spasmodic, and alcohol, which has a soft spot for poets, found him an easy mark. In a similar vein, his romantic life was lunging, irrepressible, and desperate, so much so that it squandered any lasting claim to romance. Thrice married, he fathered a son and two daughters. He died in 1972, by jumping from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis. To the appalled gratification of posterity, his fall was witnessed by somebody named Art Hitman.

Berryman would have laughed at that. In an existence that was littered with loss, the one thing that never failed him, apart from his unwaning and wax-free ear for English verse, was his sense of humor. The first that I heard of Berryman was this:

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.

“Wag” meaning a witty fellow, or “wag” meaning that he is of no more use than the back end of a mutt? Who on earth is Henry? Also, whoever’s talking, why does he address us as “friends,” as if he were Mark Antony and we were a Roman mob, and why can’t he even honor Achilles—the hero of the Iliad, a foundation stone of “great literature”—with a capital letter? You have to know such literature pretty well before you earn the right to claim that it tires you out. Few knew it better than Berryman, or shouldered the burdens of serious reading with a more remorseless joy. As he once said, “When it came to a choice between buying a book and a sandwich, as it often did, I always chose the book.”

“Life, friends” is the fourteenth of “The Dream Songs,” the many-splendored enterprise that consumed Berryman’s energies in the latter half of his career, and on which his reputation largely rests. His labors on the Songs began in 1955 and led to “77 Dream Songs,” which was published in 1964 and won him a Pulitzer Prize. In the course of the Songs, which he regarded as one long poem, he is represented, or unreliably impersonated, by a figure named Henry, who undergoes “the whole humiliating Human round” on his behalf. As Berryman explained, “Henry both is and is not me, obviously. We touch at certain points.” In 1968, along came a further three hundred and eight Songs, under the title “His Toy, His Dream, His Rest.” (A haunting phrase, which grabs the seven ages of man, as outlined in “As You Like It,” and squeezes them down to three.) Two days after publication, he was asked, by the Harvard Advocate, about his profession. “Being a poet is a funny kind of jazz. It doesn’t get you anything,” he said. “It’s just something you do.”

There was plenty of all that jazz. Berryman forsook the distillations of Eliot for the profusion of Whitman; the Dream Songs, endlessly rocking and rolling, surge onward in waves. Lay them aside, and you still have the other volumes of Berryman’s poems, including “The Dispossessed” (1948), “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet” (1956), and “Love & Fame” (1970). Bundled together, they fill nearly three hundred pages. If magnitude freaks you out, there are slimmer selections—one from the Library of America, edited by Kevin Young, the poetry editor of this magazine, and another, “The Heart Is Strange,” compiled by Daniel Swift to toast the centenary, in 2014, of the poet’s birth. And don’t forget the authoritative 1982 biography by John Haffenden, who also put together a posthumous collection, “Henry’s Fate and Other Poems,” in 1977, as well as “Berryman’s Shakespeare” (1999), a Falstaffian banquet of his scholarly work on the Bard. Some of Berryman’s critical writings are clustered, invaluably, in “The Freedom of the Poet” (1976). In short, you need space on your shelves, plus a clear head, if you want to join the Berrymaniacs. Proceed with caution; we can be a cranky bunch.

Of late, Berryman’s star has waned. Its glow was never steady in the first place, but it has dimmed appreciably, because of lines like these:

Arrive a time when all coons lose dere grip, but is he come? Le’s do a hoedown, gal.

“The Dream Songs” is a hubbub, and some of it is spoken in blackface—or, to be accurate, in what might be described as blackvoice. It deals in unembarrassed minstrelsy, complete with a caricature of verbal tics, all too pointedly transcribed: “Now there you exaggerate, Sah. We hafta die.” To say that Berryman was airing the prejudices of his era is hardly to exonerate him; in any case, he seems to be evoking, in purposeful anachronism, an all but vanished age of vaudeville. Kevin Young, who is Black, prefaces his choice of Berryman’s poetry by arguing, “Much of the force of The Dream Songs comes from its use of race and blackface to express a (white) self unraveling.” Some readers will share Young’s generously inquiring attitude; others will veer away from Berryman and never go back.

For anyone willing to stick around, there’s a new book on the block. “The Selected Letters of John Berryman” weighs in at more than seven hundred pages. It is edited by Philip Coleman and Calista McRae, and published by the Belknap Press, at Harvard—a selfless undertaking, given that Berryman derides Harvard as “a haven for the boring and the foolish,” wherein “my students display a form of illiterate urbanity which will soon become very depressing.” (Not that other colleges elude his gibes. Berkeley is summed up as “Paradise, with anthrax.”) The earliest letter, dated September, 1925, is from the schoolboy Berryman to his parents, and ends, “I love you too much to talk about.” In a pleasing symmetry, the final letter printed here, from 1971, shows Berryman rejoicing in his own parenthood. He tells a friend, “We had a baby, Sarah Rebecca, in June—a beauty.”

And what lies in between? More or less the polyphony that you’d expect, should you come pre-tuned into Berryman. “Vigour & fatigue, confidence & despair, the elegant & the blunt, the bright & the dry.” Such is the medley, he says, that he finds in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and you can feel Berryman swooping with similar freedom from one tone to the next. “Books I’ve got, copulation I need,” he writes from Cambridge, at the age of twenty-two, thus initiating a lifelong and dangerous refrain. When he reports, two years later, that “I was attacked by an excited loneliness which is still with me and which has so far produced fifteen poems,” is that a grouse or a boast? There are alarming valedictions: “Nurse w. another shot. no more now,” or, “Maybe I better go get a bottle of whisky; maybe I better not.” There are letters to Ezra Pound, one of which, sent with “atlantean respect & affection,” announces, “What we want is a new form of the daring,” a very Poundian demand. And there are smart little swerves into the aphoristic—“Writers should be heard and not seen”; “All modern writers are complicated before they are good”—or into courteous eighteenth-century brusquerie. Pastiche can be useful when you have a grudge to convey: “My dear Sir: You are plainly either a fool or a scoundrel. It is kinder to think you a fool; and so I do.” It’s a letter best taken with a pinch of snuff.

Berryman was a captious and self-heating complainer, slow to cool. Just as the first word of the Iliad means “Wrath,” so the first word of the opening Dream Song is “Huffy.” Seldom can you predict the cause of his looming ire. A concert performance by the Stradivarius Quartet, in the fall of 1941, drives him away: “Beethoven’s op. 130 they took now to be a circus, now to be a sea-chantey, & I fled in the middle to escape their Cavatina.” The following year, an epic letter to his landlord, on Grove Street, in Boston, is almost entirely concerned with a refrigerator, which has “developed a high-pitched scream.” Berryman was not an easy man to live with, or to love, and the likelihood that even household appliances found his company intolerable cannot be dismissed.

Yet the poet was scarcely unique in his vexations; we all have our fridges to bear. Something else, far below the hum of daily pique, resounds through this massive book—a ground bass of doom and dejection. “You may prepare my coffin.” “If this reaches you, you will know I got as far as a letter-box at any rate.” “I write in haste, being back in Hell.” Such are the dirges to which Berryman treats his friends, in the winter of 1939–40, and the odd jauntiness in which he couches his misery somehow makes it worse. It’s one thing to write, “I am fed up with pretending to be alive when in fact I am not,” but quite another to dispatch those words, as Berryman did, to someone whom you are courting; the recipient was Eileen Mulligan, whom he married nine months later, in October, 1942. To the critic Mark Van Doren, who had been his mentor at Columbia, he was more formal in his woe, declaring, “Each year I hope that next year will find me dead, and so far I have been disappointed, but I do not lose that hope, which is almost my only one.” We are close to the borders of Beckett.

There are definite jitters of comedy in so funereal a pose, and detractors of Berryman would say that he keeps trying on his desolation, like a man getting fitted for a dark suit. The trouble is that we know how he died. Even if he is putting on an act, for the horrified benefit of his correspondents, it is still a rehearsal for the main event, and you can’t inspect the long lament that he sends to Eileen in 1953—after they have separated—without glancing ahead, almost twenty years, to the dénouement of his days. The letter leaps, like one of those 3 a.m. frettings which every insomniac will recognize, directly from money to death. “I only have $2.15 to live through the week,” the poet says, before laying out his plans. “My insurance, the only sure way of paying my debts, expires on Thursday. So unless something happens I have to kill myself day after tomorrow evening or earlier.” To be specific, “What I am going to do is drop off the George Washington bridge. I believe one dies on the way down.” If Berryman is playing Cassandra to himself, crying out the details of his own quietus, how did the cry begin?

It is tempting to turn biography into cartography—unrolling the record of somebody’s life, smoothing it flat, and indicating the major fork in the road. Most of us rebut this thesis, as we amble maplessly along. In Berryman’s case, however, there was a fork, so terrible and so palpable that no account of him, and no encounter with his poems, can afford to ignore it. The road didn’t simply split in two; it was cratered, in the summer of 1926, when his father, John Allyn Smith, committed suicide.

The family was living in Clearwater, Florida, at the time, and young John was eleven years old. There was a bizarre prelude to the calamity, when his brother, Robert, was taken out by their father for a swim in the Gulf. What occurred next remains murky, but it seemed, for a while, as if they would not be returning to shore. One of the Dream Songs takes up the tale, mixing memory and denial:

Also I love him: me he’s done no wrong for going on forty years—forgiveness time— I touch now his despair, he felt as bad as Whitman on his tower but he did not swim out with me or my brother as he threatened—

a powerful swimmer, to         take one of us along as company in the defeat sublime, freezing my helpless mother: he only, very early in the morning, rose with his gun and went outdoors by my window and did what was needed.

I cannot read that wretched mind, so strong & so undone. I’ve always tried. I—I’m trying to forgive whose frantic passage, when he could not live an instant longer, in the summer dawn left Henry to live on.

Smith’s death would become the primal wound for his older son. Notice how the tough and Hemingway-tinged curtness of “did what was needed” gives way, all too soon, to the halting stammer of “I—I’m trying.” The wound was suppurating and unhealable, and there is little doubt that it deepened the festering of Berryman’s life. As he writes in one of the final Dream Songs, “I spit upon this dreadful banker’s grave / who shot his heart out in a Florida dawn / O ho alas alas.” Haffenden quotes these lines, raw with recrimination, in his biography; dryly informs us that the poet, in fact, never visited his father’s grave; and supplies us with relevant notes that Berryman made in 1970—two years before he, in turn, found a bridge and did what he thought was needed. He sounds like a patient striving mightily to become his own shrink:

Did I myself feel any guilt perhaps—long-repressed if so & this is mere speculation (defense here) about Daddy’s death? (I certainly pickt up enough of Mother’s self-blame to accuse her once, drunk & raging, of having actually murdered him & staged a suicide.)

Alternatively:

So maybe my long self-pity has been based on an error, and there has been no (hero-) villain (Father) ruling my life, but only an unspeakably powerful possessive adoring mother, whose life at 75 is still centered wholly on me. And my (omnipotent) feeling that I can get away with anything.

For readers who ask themselves, browsing through “Berryman’s Shakespeare,” why the poet bent his attention, again and again, to “Hamlet,” to the plight of the prince, and to the preoccupations—as Berryman boldly construed them—of the man who wrote the play, here is an answer of sorts. And, for anyone wanting more of this unholy psychodrama, consider the list of characters. Berryman’s mother, born Martha Little, married John Allyn Smith. Less than eleven weeks after his death, she married her landlord, John Angus McAlpin Berryman, and thereafter called herself Jill, or Jill Angel. As for the poet, he was baptized with his father’s name, was known as Billy in infancy, and then, in deference to his brand-new stepfather, became John Berryman. This is like Hamlet having to call himself Claudius, Jr., on top of everything else. As Berryman remarks, “Damn Berrymans and their names.”

A book of back-and-forth correspondence with his mother was published in 1988, under the title “We Dream of Honour.” (Having picked up the habit of British spelling, at Cambridge, Berryman never kicked it.) Inexcusably, it’s now out of print, but worth tracking down; and you could swear, as you leaf through it, that you’d stumbled upon a love affair. The son says to the mother, “I hope you’re well, darling, and less worried.” The mother tells the son, “I have loved you too much for wisdom, or it is perhaps nearer truth to say that with love or in anger, I am not wise.” We are offered a facsimile of a letter from 1953, in which Berryman begins, “Mother, I have always failed; but I am not failing now.”

One obvious shortfall in the “Selected Letters” is that “We Dream of Honour” took the cream of the crop. Only eight letters here are addressed to Martha, six of them mailed from school, and, if you’re approaching Berryman as a novice, your take on him will be unavoidably skewed. By way of compensation, we get a wildly misconceived letter of advice from the middle-aged Berryman to his son, Paul, concluding with the maxim “Strong fathers crush sons.” Paul was four at the time. Haffenden has already cited that letter, however, and doubts whether it was ever sent. One item in the new book that I have never read before, and would prefer not to read again, is a letter from the fourteen-year-old Berryman to his stepfather, whom he calls Uncle Jack, and before whom he cringes as if whipped. “I’m a coward, a cheat, a bully, and a thief if I had the guts to steal,” the boy writes. Things get worse: “I have none of the fine qualities or emotions, and all the baser ones. I don’t understand why God permitted me to be born.” He signs himself “John Berryman,” the sender mirroring the recipient, and adds, “P.S. I’m a disgrace to your name.”

To read such words is to marvel that Berryman survived as long as he did. If one virtue emerged from the wreckage of his early years, it was a capacity to console; later, in the midst of his drinking and his lechery, he remained a reliable guide to grief, and to the blast area that surrounds it. In May, 1955, commiserating with Saul Bellow, whose father has just passed away, Berryman writes, “Unfortunately I am in a v g position to feel with you: my father died for me all over again last week.” He unfolds his larger theme: “His father’s death is one of the few main things that happens to a man, I think, and it matters greatly to the life when it happens.” Bellow’s affliction, Berryman reassures him, lofts him into illustrious company: “Shakespeare was probably in the middle of Hamlet and I think his effort increased.” Freud and Luther are then added to the roster of the fruitfully bereaved.

None of this will surprise an admirer of the Dream Songs. Among the loveliest are those in which the poet mourns departed friends, such as Robert Frost, Louis MacNeice, Theodore Roethke, and Delmore Schwartz. Berryman the comic, who can be scabrously funny, not least at his own expense, consorts with Berryman the frightener (“In slack times visit I the violent dead / and pick their awful brains”) and Berryman the elegist, who can summon whole twilights of sorrow. In this, a tribute to Randall Jarrell, he gradually allows the verse to run on, like overflowing water, across the line breaks, with a grace denied to our harshly end-stopped lives:

In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces, of liberations, and beloved faces, such as now ere dawn he sings. It would not be easy, accustomed to these things, to give up the old world, but he could try; let it all rest, have a good cry.

Let Randall rest, whom your self-torturing cannot restore one instant’s good to, rest: he’s left us now. The panic died and in the panic’s dying so did my old friend. I am headed west also, also, somehow.

In the chambers of the end we’ll meet again I will say Randall, he’ll say Pussycat and all will be as before when as we sought, among the beloved faces, eminence and were dissatisfied with that and needed more.

A photograph of 1941 shows Berryman in a dark coat, a hat, and a bow tie. His jaw is clean-shaven and firm. With his thin-rimmed spectacles and his ready smile, he looks like a spry young stockbroker on his way home from church. Skip ahead to the older Berryman, and you observe a very different beast, with a beard like the mane of a disenchanted lion. Finches could roost in it. The rims of his glasses are now thick and black, and his hands, in many images, refuse to be at rest. They gesticulate and splay, as if he were conducting an orchestra that he alone can hear. A cigarette serves as his baton.

If you seek to understand this metamorphosis, “The Selected Letters of John Berryman” can help. What greets us here, as often as not, is a parody of a poet. Watch him fumble with the mechanisms of the everyday, “ghoulishly inefficient about details and tickets and visas and trains and money and hotels.” Chores are as heavy as millstones, to his hypersensitive neck: “Do this, do that, phone these, phone those, repair this, drown that, poison the other.” We start to sniff a blend—peculiar to Berryman, like a special tobacco—of the humbled and the immodest. It drifts about, in aromatic puns: “my work is growing by creeps & grounds.” Though the outer world of politics and civil strife may occasionally intrude, it proves no match for the smoke-filled rooms inside the poet’s head. When nuclear tests are carried out at Bikini Atoll, in 1954, they register only briefly, in a letter to Bellow. “This thermonuclear business wd tip me up all over again if I were in shape to attend to it,” Berryman writes, before moving on to a harrowing digest of his diarrhea.

Above all, this is a book-riddled book. No one but Berryman, it’s fair to say, would write from a hospital in Minneapolis, having been admitted in a state of alcoholic and nervous prostration, to a bookstore in Oxford, asking, “Can you let me know what Elizabethan Bibles you have in stock?” The recklessness with which he abuses his body is paired with an indefatigable and nurselike care for textual minutiae. (“Very very tentatively I suggest that the comma might come out.”) Only on the page can he trust his powers of control, although even those desert him at a deliciously inappropriate moment. Writing to William Shawn at The New Yorker, in 1951, and proposing “a Profile on William Shakespeare,” Berryman begins, “Dear Mr Shahn.” Of all the editors of all the magazines in all the world, he misspells him.

No such Profile appeared; nor, to one’s infinite regret, did the edition of “King Lear” on which Berryman toiled for years. What we do have is his fine essay of 1953, “Shakespeare at Thirty,” which begins, “Suppose with me a time, a place, a man who was waked, risen, washed, dressed, fed, on a day in latter April long ago—about April 22, say, of 1594, a Monday.” Few scholars would have the bravado, or the imaginative dexterity, for such supposings, and it’s a thrill to see a living poet treat a dead one not as a monument but as a partner in crime. “Oh my god! Shakespeare. That multiform & encyclopedic bastard,” Berryman says in a letter of 1952, as if the two of them had just locked horns in a tavern.

Such plunges into the past, with its promise of adventure and refuge, came naturally to Berryman, nowhere more so than in “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet,” which was published in the Partisan Review in 1953 and, three years later, as a book. This was the poem with which he broke through—discovering not just a receptive audience but a voice that, in its heightened lyrical pressure, sounded like his and nobody else’s. The irony is that he did so by assuming the role of a woman: Anne Bradstreet, herself a poet, who emigrated from England to America, in 1630. It is her tough, pious, and hardscrabble history that Berryman chronicles: “Food endless, people few, all to be done. / As pippins roast, the question of the wolves / turns & turns.” In a celebrated scene, the heroine gives birth. Even if you dispute the male ability (or the right) to articulate such an experience, it’s hard not to be swayed by the fervor of dramatic effort:

I can can no longer and it passes the wretched trap whelming and I am me

drencht & powerful, I did it with my body! One proud tug greens Heaven. Marvellous, unforbidding Majesty. Swell, imperious bells. I fly.

What the poem cost its creator, over more than four years, is made plain in the letters, which ring with an exhausted ecstasy. “I feel like weeping all the time,” he tells one friend. “I regard every word in the poem as either a murderer or a lover.” As for Anne, who perished in 1672, “I certainly at some point fell in love with her.” Berryman adds, as if to prove his devotion, “I used three shirts at a time, in relays. I wish I were dead.”

Is this how we like poetry to be brought forth, even now? Though we may never touch the stuff, reading no verse from one year to the next, do we still expect it to be delivered in romantic agony, with attendant birth pangs? (So much for Wallace Stevens, who composed much of his work while gainfully employed, on a handsome salary, as an insurance executive.) Berryman viewed the notion of his being a confessional poet “with rage and contempt,” and rightly so; the label is an insult to his craftsmanship. Nobody pining for mere self-expression, or craving a therapeutic blurt, could lavish on a paramour, as Berryman did, lines as elaborately wrought as these:

Loves are the summer’s. Summer like a bee Sucks out our best, thigh-brushes, and is gone.

You have to reach back to Donne to find so commanding an exercise in the clever-sensual. It comes from “Berryman’s Sonnets,” a sequence of a hundred and fifteen poems, published in 1967. Most of them had been written long before, in 1947, in heat and haste, during an affair with a woman named Chris Haynes. And, in this huge new hoard of letters, how many are addressed to Haynes? Precisely one. Gossip hunters will slouch off in frustration, and good luck to them; on the other hand, anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. “I have to make my pleasure out of sound,” he says. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse.

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chrisgoesrock · 6 years

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Mellow Candle - Swaddling Songs UK Album 1972 Advertise Poster

Mellow Candle were a progressive folk rock band. Principally Irish, the members were also unusually young, Clodagh Simonds being only 15 and Alison Bools (later O'Donnell) and Maria White 16, and still at school, at the time of their first single, "Feelin' High", released in 1968 on Simon Napier-Bell's SNB Records.

By 1972, the lineup had expanded to include Dave Williams on guitar, Frank Boylan on bass, and William Murray on drums. With this lineup in place, the band released their only album, Swaddling Songs (Deram Records), which was commercially unsuccessful at the time. Over the years, however, the lone album by the band has received considerable critical acclaim and original vinyl copies are now very valuable. Boylan was later replaced by Steve Borrill (ex-Spirogyra), but shortly afterwards the band split up. After the band's dissolution, Simonds worked with Thin Lizzy, Jade Warrior, and Mike Oldfield. Boylan played with Gary Moore, while Murray contributed to albums by Kevin Ayers, Amazing Blondel, Mike Oldfield, and Paul Kossoff.

In 1991, "Silver Song" was covered by All About Eve as a B-Side to some versions of their single Farewell Mr. Sorrow.

1996 saw the release of The Virgin Prophet, a collection of previously unreleased material by the band, including early versions of many of the songs later released on Swaddling Songs. Some of these sessions featured Richard Coughlan of Caravan on drums, although his sessions do not feature on "Virgin Prophet".

In 1996, Simonds recorded Six Elementary Songs, released in 1997 on the Tokyo-based Evangel Records.

In 1999, Simonds recorded a version of Syd Barrett's setting of the James Joyce poem "Golden Hair" for Russell Mills album "Pearl and Umbra". 2006-7 saw the participation of Simonds in a musical project called Fovea Hex, alongside Brian Eno, Roger Eno, film composer Carter Burwell, Andrew McKenzie of the Hafler Trio, Steven Wilson, Colin Potter (of Nurse With Wound), Robert Fripp, Percy Jones, and others. The project has been favourably reviewed by Pitchfork Media. Also in 2006, Simonds performed a version of "Idumaea" for Current 93's album Black Ships Ate The Sky, and a version of "Cockles and Mussels" for Matmos's ep "For Alan Turing".

In 2006, O'Donnell was reunited with Dave Williams and Frank Boylan on the album Mise Agus Ise. She followed this with the 2008 EP The Fabric of Folk on Static Caravan (a collaboration with English folk/rock band The Owl Service), and her debut solo album, Hey Hey Hippy Witch, released at the end of 2009 on Floating World.

Despite the fact that after thirty years "Swaddling Songs" is less of a challenge to listen to than it would have been in 1972, it still stands as a most brilliant documentation of the childhood lives of Clodagh Simonds and Allison Williams.

Having grown up in the strict Holy Child Convent School in Dublin, the two women were forbidden to listen to rock music, but listened covertly to Radio Luxembourg each night. Only when Simonds began writing a succession of hymnal pop tunes on her parents' piano did the two lives begin to converge.

After several false starts, Mellow Candle began to record "Swaddling Songs" in 1971 after moving to London, when Simonds was only eighteen. Though apparently not many songs had been written by Simonds herself, the results were amazing even after thirty years.

"Heaven Heath" and "Messenger Birds", both written by Allison Williams (née O'Donnell) Simonds' longtime schoolmate, added a contrasting touch to the album. Retaining the hymnal flavour of Simonds' songs, they are nontheless much odder in their melodies and rhythma, especially "Heaven Heath"'s brilliant harpsichord line, but retain the accessible melodies and amazingly beautiful vocals. "Messenger Birds" sets the mystical tone of the album - remiscent in places of Kate Bush's work on "The Ninth Wave" in its tale of travelling across the sea.

"Sheep Season" with its long instrumental outro and "Silver Song" (once covered by My Bloody Valentine) show the typical Simonds style of haunting and atmospheric pop tunes, not at all folky in instrumentation or sound. "Dan The Wing" was an amazing drama about evil, beating Laura Nyro's "Eli And The Thirteenth Confession" or Kate Bush's "The Dreaming" for explicit imagery of the Devil. "Break Your Token" was an upbeat, festive rocker, whilst the amazing overlaying of a guitar solo and beautiful vocals on "Lonely Man" was worth the price of admission alone. The closer "Boulders On My Grave" continued in that vein with Clodagh and Allison repeatedly chanting "Do do do do", "La la la la" and "Na na na na" in perfect harmony.

The album's centrepiece, though, was the amazing, chilling, piano-only "Reverend Sisters", in which the women's beautiful voices matched Simonds' amazing piano line and lyrics describing brilliantly the women's strict religious upbringing and its effects on them - almost a taste of Tori Amos twenty years before the fact. "Reverend Sisters" was remarkably honest yet not a preachy attack on religion - it was a matter-of-fact tale that will always amaze those fortunate enough to hear it.

"Buy Or Beware" and "Vile Excesses" rounded of the album excellently. Because of the (for its time) very difficult lyrical imagery, "Swaddling Songs" never charted and would not have been warmly received by critics. Mellow Candle soon disbanded and Simonds spent most of the 1970s working as a session singer.

Nonetheless, the beautiful, almost medieval-like vocal harmonies in "Swaddling Songs" were and unlike anything else in rock. Though the album has been seen as a folk album, "Swaddling Songs" in fact lacked any normal "folk" characteristics and was basically pure pop in charcter. Yet, the medieval and intensely mystical atmosphere of the record makes it a true sonic marvel of beauty and simple melodies. Thus, original LP copies of "Swaddling Songs" have become a valuable rarity that stands as testimony to the music's worthiness.

01."Heaven Heath" (Alison Williams) – 3:00 02."Sheep Season" (Clodagh Simonds, A. Williams, David Williams) – 5:01 03."Silversong" (Simonds) – 4:26 04."The Poet and the Witch" (Simonds) – 2:51 05."Messenger Birds" (A. Williams) – 3:38 06."Dan the Wing" (Simonds) – 2:45 07."Reverend Sisters" (Simonds) – 4:21 08."Break Your Token" (Simonds) – 2:27 09."Buy or Beware" (D. Williams) – 3:04 10."Vile Excesses" (D. Williams, William Murray) – 3:14 11."Lonely Man" (Simonds) – 4:30 12."Boulders on My Grave" (Simonds) – 3:40

#Mellow Candle #Swaddling Songs #Advertise #Poster #Album #Artwork #Deram #Biography

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garagesaleofficial · 6 years

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“The heart, however grown savage, still beats for two.” — Joseph Brodsky, from “A Part of Speech” from Collected Poems in English, 1972-1999 (Farrar, Straus, & Giroux, 2000)

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babakziai · 7 years

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Here’s your mom, here’s your dad. Welcome to being their flesh and blood. Why do you look so sad? Here’s your food, here’s your drink. Also some thoughts, if you care to think. Welcome to everything. Here’s your practically clean slate. Welcome to it, though it’s kind of late. Welcome at any rate. ____ Here’s your paycheck, here’s your rent. Money is nature’s fifth element. Welcome to every cent. Here’s your swarm and your huge beehive. Welcome to the place with its roughly five billion like you alive. Welcome to the phone book that stars your name. Digits are democracy’s secret aim. Welcome to your claim to fame. ____ Here’s your marriage, and here’s divorce. Now that’s the order you can’t reverse. Welcome to it; up yours, Here’s your blade, here’s your wrist. Welcome to playing your own terrorist; call it your Middle East. Here’s your mirror, your dental gleam. Here’s an octopus in your dream. Why do you try to scream? ____ Here’s your corncob, your TV set. Your candidate suffering an upset. Welcome to what he said. Here’s your porch, see the cars pass by. Here’s your shitting dog’s guilty eye. Welcome to its alibi. Here are your cicadas, then a chickadee, the bulb’s dry tear in your lemon tea. Welcome to infinity. ____ Here are your pills on the plastic tray, your disappointing, crisp X-ray. You are welcome to pray. Here’s your cemetery, a well-kept glen. Welcome to a voice that says “Amen.” The end of the rope, old man. Here’s your will, and here’s a few takers. Here’s an empty pew. Here’s life after you. ____ And here are your stars which appear still keen on shining as though you had never been. They might have a point, old bean. Here’s your afterlife, with no trace of you, especially of your face. Welcome, and call it space. Welcome to where one cannot breathe. This way, space resembles what’s underneath, and Saturn holds the wreath. Joseph Brodsky, “Song of Welcome” from Collected Poems in English, 1972-1999. Copyright © 2000 by Joseph Brodsky. Reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency, Inc.. Source: Collected Poems in English, 1972-1999(Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2000) Joseph Brodsky BiographyMore poems by this author Poem of the Day: Song of Welcome Poem of the Day: Song of Welcome Poem of The Day {$excerpt:n} Source: Poem of The Day

http://babakziai.org/poem-of-the-day-song-of-welcome/

#Poetry #Babak Ziai

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haitilegends · 7 years

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JOYEUX ANNIVERSAIRE! À FRANCK ÉTIENNE NOUS TE SOUHAITONS TOUS TRÈS SINCÈREMENT UN JOYEUX ANNIVERSAIRE ET QUE CETTE ANNÉE, DE PLUS, QUI TE VOIT CÉLÉBRER TON HEUREUX JOUR DE NAISSANCE, TE COMBLE DE BEAUCOUP DE BONHEUR ! HAITI☆LEGENDS #Biographie: Frankétienne - Île en île http://ile-en-ile.org/franketienne/ Texte – Jean Jonassaint "Enseignant, chanteur, comédien, dramaturge, écrivain et peintre, Frankétienne (alias Franketienne ou Franketyèn), de son vrai nom Franck Étienne, est né le 12 avril 1936 dans une section rurale de l’Artibonite (à Ravine Sèche) suite, dit-il, au « viol d’une paysanne haïtienne de treize ans par un vieil industriel américain ». Cette scène primitive, qui est d’abord récit pour l’enfant presque blanc élevé sans connaître son père dans un milieu populaire noir, deviendra le motif principal d’un de ses livres les plus achevés, H’Éros-Chimères (Prix Carbet 2002), un énorme « roman familial » de 350 pages de format 8,5 x 11 pouces. Complètement éclaté dans sa forme – où images (peintures, copy art), jeux de caractères (typo-#poésie) et calligraphies se combinent pour faire de chaque page un objet d’art que Frankétienne nomme « spirale » comme la plupart de ses textes non dramatiques depuis Ultravocal (1972) –, cette œuvre limite est aussi le récit des déchirures d’une société minée par une gangrène populiste autoritaire et obscurantiste qui a conduit, en l’année de son bicentenaire, le pays haïtien au fond d’un gouffre que préfiguraient déjà, jusqu’à un certain point, L’oiseau schizophone (1993) et la série picturale des « Têtes » (1999-2000). Accroché obstinément à son bout d’île qu’il a refusé de quitter même pour un court séjour durant les années Duvalier, et qu’il refuse encore de quitter trop longtemps, malgré les sollicitations nombreuses et la furie des exodes, publiant régulièrement (depuis quarante ans) dans les deux langues des traditions littéraires haïtiennes, jouissant d’une large audience nationale, plus qu’aucun autre, Frankétienne est écrivain haïtien. Créateur nocturne (écrivant et peignant la nuit) : sismographe de la trop longue nuit duvaliérienne, et de l’interminable décente aux enfers lavalassiens, chacune de ses grandes œuvres est profondément ancrée dans l’histoire contemporaine haïtienne. Chacune témoignant, malgré l’homme ou l’écrivain qui se veut avant tout créateur, d’un moment de la « conscience nationale ». Ultravocal (1972) : le vertige de l’errance sans fin ni finalité, le pays habité par « le mal majeur » forçant ses enfants à l’exode massif sans espoir ni désir de retour. Qu’on se rappelle cette scène tragique de Mûr à crever (1968) : chassés des Bahamas, quatre Haïtiens, sur le bateau du retour, se jettent à l’eau, se livrant aux requins de la mer caraïbe plutôt que de revoir l’enfer duvaliériste. Mais Ultravocal, c’est d’abord l’aventure du langage, un travail inouï sur la langue française qui fait de ce livre, de 415 pages, un monument de littérature d’expression française dont la réédition en 2004 (par Hoëbeke à Paris) est acclamée par la presse française toute tendance confondue, du Monde au Figaro en passant par Lire et L’Humanité. Tourmenté comme il l’est, Frankétienne ne pouvait se dérober à l’urgence d’une aventure au cœur de la langue haïtienne, sa maternelle. En 1975, il publie le premier roman haïtien, au sens fort du terme : Dézafi (réédité en France par Vents d’ailleurs en 2002). Plus qu’une révélation : au-delà des mots, Frankétienne, caisse de résonance des maux de la Nation, visionnaire (il se dit plutôt « miraculé », faisant allusion à sa traversée sans prison ni tortures de la dictature duvaliériste, expression qui lui inspire également en 2004 le" LIRE LA SUITE: http://ile-en-ile.org/franketienne/ Frankétienne, Frankétienne Frankétienne, photo © Marie-Andrée Étienne Port-au-Prince, 2012 photo © Marie-Andrée Étienne Port-au-Prince, 2012 -------------------------------------------------- English #Biography: Frankétienne by Kaiama Glover #Frankétienne (1936-), Haitian writer, painter, actor, singer, mathematician, activist, and intellectual, was born Franck Étienne on 12 April, 1936 in the Artibonite region of Haiti. Abandoned by his father, an American industrialist, he was raised by his mother in the Bel Air neighborhood of Port-au-Prince, where she worked as a street merchant to support her eight children, managing to send Franck, her eldest, to school. As a young poet in the early 1960s, he frequented a regular literary salon hosted by novelist *Marie Vieux Chauvet for a group of politically minded poets known as the Haïti Littéraire (Literary Haiti) group. Though not an official member of the collective, he was deeply influenced by members Davertige, Serge Legagneur, Roland Morrisseau, Anthony Phelps, and René Philoctète, all of whom ultimately were driven into exile from President-for Life François Duvalier’s Haiti. Married to Marie-Andrée Étienne, mother of his son Rudolphe, Frankétienne is widely known as the author of Dezafi (1975), the first novel ever written in Haitian Creole, as well as for his decision to remain in Haiti throughout the dangerous period of François and Jean-Claude Duvalier’s dictatorial regimes. Over the course of half a century, Frankétienne penned over fifty plays, poetry collections, and works of prose fiction in both French and Haitian Creole, beginning with the publication of his first poems in the 1960s. His paintings number in the hundreds. Considered one of the most important figures in twentieth and twenty-first century Haitian literature and the arts, Frankétienne long enjoyed immense popularity in Haiti and among members of the Haitian diaspora. Although necessarily a member of the intellectual elite, he sought throughout his career ways to reduce the distance between himself and members of the popular and peasant classes in Haiti, creating andparticipating in projects for the development of the community as well as dedicating himself to the more solitary task of creative writing. Well aware of the extent to which illiteracy prevents many Haitians from participating in the literary sphere, Frankétienne always made it a point to write plays in Creole meant for Haiti’s stages and to produce audio recordings that might reach a broader public. Notwithstanding this prolificness and renown among Haitians in Haiti and abroad, however, Frankétienne’s work remained for several decades engulfed in near total silence outside of his island. ~ Kaiama Glover READ MORE: https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&source=web&rct=j&url=http://dubois.fas.harvard.edu/sites/all/files/Francketienne%2520%2520DU%2520Bois%2520online.pdf&ved=0ahUKEwittJWPw5_TAhXBNSYKHRMeB1wQFgjLATAg&usg=AFQjCNGbL8QzDV_B9DcH-_ddAQ8oVatGBA&sig2=Sm85n_1NpYpgWYYAxwDoFA ------------------- *VIDEO: Watch "Franck Etienne "ose sa cause et sa symbiose"" on YouTube https://youtu.be/wi7bKCcHbQQ Watch "VIP DU MOIS de Mars: Franckétienne d'Haïti" on YouTube https://youtu.be/cLKinWHGCf0 #HAITI☆#LEGENDS #FranckÉtienne #Haitianwriter, #painter, #actor, #singer, #mathematician, #activist, #intellectual, #Enseignant, #chanteur, #comédien, #dramaturge, #écrivain #peintre,

#April 12 #Happy Birthday #Frankétienne #Iamgabrisan #haiti legends #haitilegends

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