Dark, Dark Tales

Posted on March 21, 2024 by jfkaufmann

What’s wrong with three famous H. K. Andersen’s fairy tales?

A couple of years ago, I wrote a post about a collection of fairy tales I got when I was five, my very first books.

I loved them—particularly some—for their incredible illustrations, which even now, decades later, take my breath away. But story-wise, it was an odd mélange: well-known fairy tales along with obscure ones, simplified children’s classics such as Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan, Aesop’s and Lafontaine’s fables. Among them were also Hans Kristian Andersen’s literary fairytales, adapted for this collection’s targeted audience–quite young readers, not older than four or five.

I would come back to some stories over and over again, and avoided some others, depending on how they ended. My young mind divided the entire collection into three groups — those with happy endings, those with sad endings, and the fables, which I didn’t care about at all.

The Little Mermaid from my picture books. This is the final image of her. Fortunately, the illustrator had more common sense than Andersen and didn’t depict her death scene

Andersen’s tales included in this collection — The Little Mermaid, The Steadfast Soldier and The Little Match Girl — have always been problematic for me. To say that these stories have sad endings would be an understatement. They are depressing, devastating, and heartbreaking: the little mermaid dies, the little match girl freezes to death, and the tin soldier jumps into a fire with his paper doll ballerina.

Not all of Andersen’s fairy tales and stories are so grim. I’ve always loved The Snow Queen, Nightingale, The Princess and the Pea, and many more. But, without exaggeration, I can also state that The Little Mermaid, The Little Match Girl and The Steadfast Soldier scarred me for life.

What do parents tell their kids when they ask why the little mermaid, the soldier and the match girl had to die?

I don’t believe children should be shielded from every unpleasantry of life, including death, but they surely are not going to understand the existential challenges through these tales. I’m almost grateful for Disney’s sanitized interpretation, The Little Mermaid (1989); given the targeted audience, it’s incomparably more sensible. 

In Andersen’s story, the Little Mermaid falls in love with a prince whom she saved. As it happens in life, he falls in love with another girl, convinced it was her who saved him. In exchange for her enchanting voice, a sea witch grants Little Mermaid legs and ability to dance, but every step she takes feels like knife stabbing and her feet bleed. That’s not all: the Little Mermaid also wants a human soul, so that she can go to heaven when she dies. To accomplish it, she only needs a true love kiss from the prince.

We all know that this is not going to happen. To reverse the magic, she needs to stab the prince with the knife her sisters sacrificed their hair for, and drip the prince’s blood on her legs to get her tail back, which she can’t do, so she jumps into the ocean, becomes a foam, or something else, with the promise of reaching heaven after 300 years, providing she’s been good. Foam or not, she de facto committed suicide, yet this unforgivable sin in Andersen’s times didn’t bother him a bit.

What the frick! Sacrifice, unrequited affection, prohibited love, punishment for having earthly desires, pain (excruciating, of course), blood, purgatory, uncertain promises of heaven… are these the values this story tries to teach kids? It sounds more like a sermon from a pulpit delivered by an overly zealous priest than a fairytale by a renowned children’s author. Not to split hairs, but there is also ground for some serious criminal allegations: premeditated although not executed murder of an innocent man, possession of a weapon for dangerous purpose (the Mermaid); conspiracy to commit murder and accessories to murder (the sisters and the witch). If you have a legal background, tell me which potential charges I’ve missed to mention.

If The Little Mermaid is heartbreaking, even in its absurdity, The Steadfast Soldier is utterly depressing and even more unhinged. A series of unfortunate events befall on the soldier: he was made with one leg due to the shortage of tin, he falls in love with a paper ballerina (standing on one leg) but believes he’s not worthy of her love, he falls out of the window, his searchers almost find him only to miss him at the last moment, he was put in paper boat and pushed into a sewer, then swallowed by a fish, made it back home only to be thrown in the fire for no apparent reason. Carried by a gush of wind, the ballerina follows him. Once again, children are not spared from obvious religious preaching: the story features the recurrent motifs of inevitable suffering for being different and punishment for very human longing. All our efforts to change our circumstances are in vain. The steadfast, one legged soldier did everything to fight his misfortune, yet he was defeated anyway. We shouldn’t be surprised by this outcome. After all, this world is vallis lacrimarum, valley of tears.

I won’t even go to The Little Match Girl; I’m still traumatized. Dead mother, dead grandmother, a Christmas Eve—the time of giving, sharing, loving yet everyone just passes by the little orphan–cold, snowy streets, the girl’s bare feet as a metaphor for her utter misery; vision or hallucinations she experiences as she lights the matches before she freezes to death. Some Christmas story!

What was its intent? I don’t know; I don’t see it. What’s the message? That there is no place in this world for the unfortunate and unprivileged, like in The Steadfast Soldier. That we shouldn’t try to change it (the Soldier at least tried), but keep lighting our metaphorical matches until we’re out of them? Or perhaps Andersen wanted to encourage children to look around and notice those who lived on the fringe of society? Well, if that was his intention, it sounds as effective as eating everything that is on your plate to help hungry children in the Third World.

People often say that the folktales Brothers Grim collected and originally published are harsh and disturbing. They are, but they didn’t start as children’s stories. They were for adults and their purpose was adult entertainment–after the kids went to bed. Soon after publishing them, disappointed by the sales, the brothers toned them down and republished as children’s books.

The meanings of the authentic folk tales (not watered down retellings) are deeply imbedded in our collective consciousness. Their roots are deep in our past and they’re part of oral tradition. Our subconscious–or our archaic, primal mind, if you wish–understands them even if our rational mind can’t always grasp their meanings. Their goal isn’t (wasn’t) just to entertain children, but to educate them about life. Those intuitive lessons stay with us forever. The scary stuff in fairy tales, many agree, is helping children deal with fears and grow emotionally. It’s not unlike the effect of scary staff in movies or books – the fact that we are allowed to experience fear, discomfort, even dread in a safe and secure environment, without any harm or consequences, is menially healthy and emotionally beneficial. It’s hard to argue with that.

Years ago I read an interesting book that talks about these connections: The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales (1976) by Bruno Bettelheim. Relying on the Freudian tradition in psychoanalysis, Bettelheim claims that fairy tales help children solve certain but very concrete existential problems such as separation anxiety, oedipal conflict, fears, and sibling rivalries, serving even as rudimentary sexual education, like The Frog Prince. The book later raised some controversies, including plagiarism, but it made lots of sense to me regardless of who the original authors of those theories were.

None of this I’ve been able to find in those three Andersen’s stories. (Oddly enough, it was The Little Mermaid that established his international reputation.) No ties to our subconscious mind or existential conflicts, only religious preaching about suffering, sacrifice, acceptance of the status quo, and punishments without crime. Something is terribly amiss in some of his work, starting with psychological, rational, and logical foundations.

Having these three fairy tales in mind, it would be interesting to know what kind of inner struggles drove Andersen to delve into the darkest, most depressive and utterly hopeless corners of human soul, mold what he found there, and then present that bleakness to children. He was, according to his biographers, a conflicted and complicated soul, but still.

Aside from the religious bull, another obvious common denominator in these three stories are legs and feet. Makes me wonder what an experienced psychoanalyst would make out of it.

Anyone here with a background in psychology?

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The Story Behind Gerbeaud Slices

Posted on February 26, 2024 by jfkaufmann

In Central Europe, the word Gerbeaud doesn’t need any additional explanation. It could refer to the cake, Gerbeaud Slices, or to Gerbeaud Cukrászda, the equally famous “kaffehaus” in Budapest. Cukrászda is loosely translated as “confectionary” but it describes a very European type of establishment where people go to have a cup of coffee or tea, and a slice of a fine cake. A coffee house/sweet house. There is a recognisable word, “cukor” (sugar), in the root of the word cukrászda (Zucker, zucchero, záchari, zahăr, šećer .. in other languages, all of them derived from the Turkish words şeker).

Gerbeaud cake I made last week: thin layers of dough, apricot glaze and walnuts, covered with shiny chocolate icing.

Gerbeaud cake (Zserbó in Hungarian) is one of my favourite deserts. I make it every now and then. It’s not complicated but it does take some time. It’s a very fine cake, although unusual since the dough is made with yeast, not a common feature in lush, luxurious deserts. The dough stays thin, however, thanks to a high proportion of sugar, which prevents it from rising. The other main ingredients include ground walnuts, apricot glaze and chocolate topping.

Like most famous European cakes, Gerbeaud has its own story. It was named after Emil Gerbeaud, a Swiss confectioner who in 1884 took over the business from the original owner of the café, Henrik Kugler, inventing the cake and renaming the café. Emil Gerbeaud raised the already high standards in cake making, and made the café more opulent. Apparently, the current Gerbeaud Cukrászda sports some of the marble-topped tables that Emil had delivered from Paris in 1900.

Gerbeaud Cukrászda in Budapest

The recipe itself hasn’t changed a lot since then, but the café had more turbulent history. At one point during the WWI it was turned to a stable. After the 1948 nationalization, the family emigrated to Brazil. Gerbeaud Cukrászda was renamed after the square where was (still is) located until then current owner revived it in 1984 by selling the name for two million dollars — and Gerbeaud Cukrászda was reborn.

The café (the address is Vörösmarty Square 7, in downtown Budapest, if some happy occasion ever takes you there) offers many fabulous cakes and deserts, including two of the shiniest stars when it comes to Hungarian art of patisserie: Gerbeaud Slices and Esterhazy Torte.

I use the recipe from the book I call my cake Bible — Kaffehaus by Rick Rodgers, which brings to life the best of the best: the Central European pastry tradition. I’ll leave the story of Esterhazy Torte for another time (it’s on the cover of the book!). It appears that the recipes from this particular book are under copyright, so I found a similar one for Gerbeaud Slices, if it ever strikes your fancy. I would just mention that I make one extra step with apricot jam – I bring it to boil, add some rum aroma to it, then I push it through a mesh to get rid of the stringy bits and pieces of apricots. In other words, I turn apricot jam into a smooth and spreadable apricot glaze. The other modification is the chocolate icing. I make it with 4 ounces of dark chocolate, 1/3 cup sugar, 1/4 cup water and a blob of unsalted butter (1 TBSP). To make it shiny, I cook chocolate, water and sugar until they reach 220 F (3-4 minutes), remove it from heat and add butter, stirring until it melts, then pour it, warm and still liquid, over the cake.

Why did I decide to write this “sweet story”? Every now and then my posts (which are not food related) attract the occasional food blogger, and that was the inspiration for this piece — I just want to see how it’s going to fare. The other reason is that I am a relatively skilled amateur pâtissier, so I was thinking it would be nice to share my creations and experiences. I’m not always inspired to talk about books, reading and writing. If I try hard, I can make a connection, however: Gerbeaud Slices are mentioned in one of my books. But it’s not necessary: every fine cake has a story behind it and perhaps it’s worth telling it.

Lastly, it doesn’t happen often that my cake looks better than the photo in the book, like my most recent Gerbeaud Slices.

What is the best cake/desert you’ve ever tasted?

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The Physics of Chemistry

Posted on February 18, 2024 by jfkaufmann

A couple of days ago, I was compiling a booklist of epic love/romance stories for the library website. Poking around the Internet for examples beyond Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy inspired some associative thinking about memorable literary couples and amazing chemistry in other genres.

The chemistry between two characters isn’t easy to define, but we know when it’s missing. Many describe it as a spark, the interaction between two or more people that makes them feel alive on the page. I see it as awareness–physical, mental, emotional, from the beginning to the end of the book; everything else is generated from there.

Photo by Alex Kondratiev on Unsplash

I don’t think it’s difficult to create chemistry, particularly in romance fiction. There are countless books with believable, sizzling, subtle, subconscious bonds and ties between the protagonists, and just as many ways to evoke it. The chemistry in movies–or lack thereof–is a more fascinating subject since it is often hit-or-miss. The story could be great, the dialogue well-written, the actors skilled in their trade, but the movie still might not work on the chemistry level. It seems to me that it’s coming from the actors themselves. More puzzling still is the fact that the same actors sometimes can bring it up on the screen, other times not.

There are literary couples who would be expected on such a list: the already mentioned Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy, unavoidable Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester and, of course, Catherine and Heahtcliff (it’s rather a dark chemistry between the latest two; as much as I love the novel, it’s hardly a love story. It rather an anti-love story, in fact: love shouldn’t be obsessive, destructive and utterly selfish as their was).

I checked many similar online lists, and on all of them I found Anna Karenina, so I yielded and put it in my list, even though it is not a love story and even less a romance. The chemistry in it is irrelevant, which is how it should be since the novel focuses on the moral aspects and catastrophic consequences of the socially ostracized relationship between Anna and Vronsky, not their love story itself.

Here are some other highlights: one of my most beloved novels, Dracula by Bram Stoker (which has one of the greatest and truly immortal quote, “I’ve crossed oceans of time to find you.” Gary Oldman once said that it was worth playing the role just to say that line).

Some historical romances I’ve read more than once, like The Bridgertons novels by Julia Quinn, and the my tree top Maiden Line books by Elizabeth Hoyt: Wicked Intentions, The Duke of Midnight ( a sort of the eighteenth century London Batman story 🦇), and The Duke of Sin, featuring the most colorful, controversial and irresistible male lead in contemporary written historical fiction–the intelligent, cunning, scheming and lovable Valentine Napier, the Duke of Montgomery.

Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx. I only read the book, never saw the movie. I remember reading it one afternoon during my break, and being unable to utter a word for the rest of the day. Even today, after so many years, when I think about it, gaping sadness washes over me.

The Scottish Prisoner by Diana Gabaldon: the infinitive, eternal, hopeless love between Lord John and Jamie Frasier, the man who can’t return John’s feelings, and yet he couldn’t ignore them, always takes my breath away. Lord John’s unflinching loyalty and love despite of the impossibility of its realization, his determination to help anyone close to Jamie no matter the risk; Jamie’s gradual acceptance of John’s nature, his growing respect and understanding– this is one of the greatest, selfless and purest one-side love stories written in contemporary popular fiction.

A great example of friendship chemistry is the Temeraire series by Naomi Novik: a stunning, emotional and believable story of Captain William Lawrence and his dragon.

Here is my No. 1 mystery fiction duo — Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings – no need to elaborate on this easygoing, genuine and enduring friendships based on not similarities but differences. I read all the Hercule Poirot novels more than once or twice, and I can’t count how many times I watched the BBC series, Poirot, with David Suchet (except the last Poirot book and the last episode, which I never ever will read or watch). Capt. Hastings doesn’t feature in all of them, but the stories I love the most are those with him in them beside Poirot. The friendship chemistry between them is absolutely adorable. It must be chemistry—nothing else written by A. Christie has the same appeal to me.

And finally, there is another type of chemistry, perhaps the most important of all — the one between the book and the readers. Not unlike chemistry, it’s undeniable yet slippery to explain, but if I was pressed to try, I would say it’s good storytelling (and it includes the ability to create chemistry between characters). It is not an universal experience, however, but a very intimate perception. This is, for example, the reason why I love Twilight and New Moon. To me, Stephanie Meyers is a great storyteller (and many other readers will disagree). In any case, it’s topic too broad to tackle it in a blog post.

What is chemistry to you? What are your favourite couples? Any universally loved couple that you don’t care about? What about friendship chemistry?

Let me know what you think. I love reading comments. They often reveal such interesting views and opinions.

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Am I the only one who doesn’t like it?

Posted on February 7, 2024 by jfkaufmann

A few thoughts about the latest trend in romance book covers

In the last several years, there has been a significant change in romance book covers, for both contemporary and historical romances, towards cartoon depictions of the main protagonists. I work as a cataloguer and have the privilege to see new books before the public. It would be hard not to notice the shift, probably the biggest one since I started working for the library.

I have mixed feelings about this new trend. It gives authors the ability to present their protagonists the way they think they should be presented; I get that. At the same time, they mess with the reader’s imagination. Once you are visually nudged in a certain direction, it’s not easy to ignore it and conjure someone’s physical appearance in your mind. It has happened countless time in movies, isn’t that? In some instances it does work (I love to imagine Count Dracula as Gary Oldman presented him, or King Aragorn as Vigo Mortensen); some other times — I would say more often — the overlaying is less successful.

Unsuccessful…

I prefer not to see any face on the cover. I don’t mind human figures from the back, or from the neck down, but not the faces. I can count on one hand the fortunate examples, and rarely in romance fiction. It’s also possible that most readers don’t care — after all, it was said that at the height of his career, the famous model, Fabio, was featured on sixteen covers per day. You couldn’t avoid him if you wanted to read a romance book.

Among all the genres, romance novels sported some of the most horrendous covers: ripped bodices, clinch covers, images that would be today perceived as sexist, and with a good reason, not to mention the visual horror of blended images, usually with two heads floating in the clouds or in front of the mountains; “winter” covers with she and he dressed in the 1980s knitted sweaters and caps with ear flops… The era of shirtless (and faceless male torsos (The Six Pack Special!) did bring in some memorable covers, though (Jacy Burton’s Play-by-Play series, for example). Such covers are still among my favourites: female and male upper bodies, or just male torso, hot but not vulgar.

Perhaps, this new trend is trying to outrun the many stigmas tied to romance fiction: being trashy, being shallow, being cheap. New covers bring new vibes — of subtle romantic tension (even for the steamy novels), and of visual cues about the characters and plot.

… and successful (IMHO)

The fashionable illustrated (cartoon) covers are also visually appealing thanks to the injection of bright, almost neon colours – green, fuchsia, orange, red, yellow. They often imply a humorous tone, although the cover and the story sometimes don’t match in that sense (if they did, 2/3 of romance novels published these days would be rom-coms.) Some covers are definitely better executed than the others. They also could be too much revealing, and sometimes misleading. For example, if you are not partial to romance stories with a specific type of characters (like doctors), you’ll see the clues on the cover. If you hadn’t known, you might have read the book, and liked it. If you don’t care about romance novels with pets in them (I love them), the cover will warn you.

Still, my biggest issue is the representation of the physical look of the primary characters. I don’t think authors should force their visions upon us but rather let us form our own. My characters are firmly set in my imagination to the smallest detail. My Elizabeth Chatwin, for example, resembles Hedy Lamarr, a great silent movie era star, whose photos I studied when I was writing the book. Many readers wouldn’t even know who Hedy Lamarr was, but they’re free to imagine Elizabeth however they want.

This current cover hype has spread not only onto mysteries, but also on general fiction. I like them there more than in romance novels. They could be quite beautiful. Nonetheless, it’s a new fashion, another dictate of the publishing industry (I always cringe a bit when I put the words together. Publishing, writing and art should never be an industry), and many known and unknown authors are willing to jump on that particular bandwagon. Take the above-mentioned Jaci Burton as a case point: her latest book which I’m reading now, Housebroke, has him and her on the cover presented in that cartoonish manner, along with four of the five dogs appearing in the book. He doesn’t look older than eighteen, nor did she, even though the main character is about thirty in the book, and she isn’t a late teenager either. It looks infantile, silly. The story itself feels bland, without juice, it’s overly simplified and templated, without depth and without much chemistry between Linc and Hazel–a far cry from some of her earlier novels from Play-by-Play series. (The five dogs are the most interesting part of the novel.) And we all know she could do much better. In other words, not only that she tried to plant particular images in our heads, but those images don’t corresponding with the characters in the story, except when it comes to hair color.

The bottom line is always the same — what matters is what is between the covers. I’m frustrated not with the covers, or old and new trends, but with my inability (and not only mine, as I hear) to find a decent romance (or other genre) read, even by the well-known and beloved authors. Not only covers have changed, apparently.

One fact remains: the best books I’ve ever read didn’t have anything on the cover except the title and the author’s name.

Any thoughts on covers you want to share?

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January Blues

Posted on January 29, 2024 by jfkaufmann

I don’t like January, that time after holidays when life tries to get back to a normal routine but somehow fails. At work, this is the beginning of a new fiscal year; in other words, work soars up after the December slowdown – the gear shift, although expected, still seems sudden and sharp.

That’s not a big deal for me. I ‘m happiest when I’m busy at work, although this year, due to some unexpected absences, I notice the heat more than before.

Like many others, I feel deflated after all the holiday hoopla. My family keeps Christmas on a very moderate level, focusing on its non-commercial aspects, but still. We also celebrate two Christmases, which doesn’t translate to two X-mas shopping and gift exchange by any means, but still involves some preparations, cooking, and going to the Orthodox Church on January 6th – the pinnacle of the holiday season for me.

January Moods

January 7th is the end of Christmas season and then, every year, I know I have to face what I call my January blues. The first month of the year seems the longest as well. At work, there is no a long weekend until mid-February. Days are still short, barely noticeably longer than in December.

As a cherry on top, we had a couple of weeks of a brutal cold spell here – the temperature dropped below -35 C, which felt like -45 C with wind chill — an experience you feel you want to share you grandchildren one day.

And then, I heard some bad news. They’re not about my family nor me, thanks God — my painful and annoying issues with arthritis are ever present but stable — but still close enough to deeply affect me: a friend with some unclear CT scan results, another friend whose son went under serious medical treatment, a sudden, unnecessary and senseless death of my sister’s close friend, not the perfect post therapy outcome one of my girl-friends faced after an excruciating year of evasive therapies… At the same time, my sister is in Ottawa, my friends in Herzegovina, Croatia and New Zealand – not nearly close enough for any kind of direct and effective support.

On a bright note, my first read of 2024 was a wonderful, fresh, unusual romance novel, People We Meet on Vacation by Emily Henry. I really, really liked it.

It’s a slow read, something I don’t mind at all. It was just what I needed between the end of December and the beginning of January, when you don’t know what day or date it is. Although it follows the basic three-act structure of any other novel of any genre, the construction of it is subtle — not concrete blocks but a bamboo frame, so to speak. Lovely and intelligent writing as well, unhurried and measured built of the tension, believable, realistic, yet deeply moving and satisfying. So skilfully threaded I expected now and then for the story to end sad and heartbreaking. (Thankfully, the cover was reassuring). It captures the very essence of the best-friends-to-lovers experience, and you know it even if you have never fallen in love with your best friend. This is one of my most beloved subgenre of romance. In real life, this kind of love is not that uncommon, and I truly believe that such relationships have all the potentials to be the most stable and successful.

The other reason is pure personal. I wrote a novella with the same theme – a budding, confusing, irresistible love between two best friends. It was reassuring and confirming to see that someone who is a best-selling author on one side, and I on the other, have touched the same cornerstones of such a relationship. With no intent to compare myself with Emily Henry, I couldn’t help to see some kind of validation of my own work. Her novel, much longer and detailed, rose the same emotional tide I’d felt when I was writing my more condensed and time-contained novella, Best friends and Other Lovers. It told me, well, I did it right.

I hope your January is brighter than mine. After a four-month hiatus, I made a painting today, pouring onto the canvas my tangled and conflicting perception of January. It’s almost the end of it, so I try to look ahead.

How do you feel about January? Is it a common experience, or is it just me?

What was your last read of 2023, or the first read of 2024? How did you like it?

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2023 in books: “Meh.”

Posted on December 18, 2023 by jfkaufmann

This parting year was a bland reading experience. I couldn’t pick out more than a few books that made a lasting impression on me. I re-read a lot, though, which gave me some balance.

I kicked off my 2023 reading by listening to audiobooks, having been unable to read for weeks. I went through quite a few Louise Penny’s novels, despite the irritating voice of one of the narrators. Later, I switched to paper/e-book format, until she started repeating herself, slowly but surely choking out the life of her characters and having increasingly sillier plots.

I continued with a couple of non-fiction publications but I could only emphasize two: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari, which I missed reading when it was published, a few years ago, and the more recent Irreversible Damage by Abigail Shrier, the finest example of investigative writing, an eye opener that won’t open any eyes.

After overdosing on Louise Penny, I needed a palette cleanser, and for something like that, nothing works better for me than a well-written romance. Someone at work recommended Lucy Score and Kristan Higgins. The former can go to the “meh” category: too long, too detailed, and occasionally shallow and silly. I enjoyed K. Higgins much more: lovely writing, interesting characters, and believable storylines. Her stories are funny and light, but not without depth — she doesn’t hesitate to tackle some real-life issues. Still, not something I would read again, but then most romances are for single use anyway.

The following months, right to the end of the year, were just a search for a next decent read and return – for the lack of success – to my old book friends, mostly in my native language.

The latest book I read, just days ago, was a 30-year-old mystery novel, Borkmann’s Point by Hakan Nesser, one of those books that can trigger my frustrated inner reviewer. It won a prestigious Swedish award, although I can’t see why. The main character, Inspector Van Veeteren, wants to be no less than Hercule Poirot, relying on his intuition rather than the evidence (which he is not looking for at all). I half expected him to praise his “little grey cells”. An annoying character at his finest: cocky, unreasonably self-confident, unconvincing. He spent most of time musing about things irrelevant to the story. He constantly chews on a toothpick, reusing the same ones for quite a bit, keeping it in his pocket. Unless he sucks on an olive pit. The other character sucks on a pen. The rest smoke cigarettes — in short almost everybody has something in their mouth almost all the time. Makes you wonder.

Nesser didn’t bother to explain how Van Veeteren solved the case, he just solved it; we should be content with that. The translator was lost in translation. There were way too many exclamation marks in the book, together with unnecessary and unprovoked emotional outbursts. The reading was stiff and bumpy, heavily peppered with, I guess, Swedish idioms converted into English word by word. At moments, it sounded like YouTube closed captions – it didn’t make much sense.

And that’s not all. Several female characters’ names start with the B: Brigitte (Bitte), Beatte, Beatrice, together with a few of males (Bausen, Bart). There is a Moerk and a Moen, a Meuhlich and a Munster (sometimes spelled with an “ü”, sometimes not), a Maurice and a Meuritz, a Mooser and Melnik… (“‘Apart from Moen,’ said Beate Moerk” is the actual sentence in the book).

The last straw for me was the wife of one of the detectives giving her small children “a tiny bit” of sleeping pills so that she and her husband could have some private moments. The book was written three decades ago, but drugging children was not acceptable even then. Come on! Later, the husband, one step away from adultery a few days before, contemplates if she has more of these pills for kids, for their next adult time.

Everything that could go wrong in this book went wrong. Nonetheless, it had caught the attention of an agent (how? why?), it had had an editor (who missed a heard of elephants in the room), it was publicized and marketed, it won an award (Best Novel in 1994). The Times London, Toronto Star, Library Journal and Esquire, among others, wrote flattering reviews, filled with oohs and aahs about the plot, the Inspector, the pace, the fabulous twists and turns… name it, and it’s there. It has a 4.2 average rating on Amazon, so the readers liked it, too, and only a few of the reviewers caught the many flows of this mishmash of unimaginative writing, terrible translation, flat characters and thin plot. Without deserving it, at least not with this book, Nesser became a big name in mystery fiction. I don’t know if he later justified his high standing, perhaps he was, but I don’t have desire to find it out. I love Scandinavian noir, but it seems to me that, back then when it was at its peak, it was enough to be from that part of the world to become popular. I read and loved many of them: Arnaldur, Henning Mankell, Assa Larsson, Stieg Larson… I also tried to read and didn’t like quite a few, like Jo Nesbo and Helene Tursten, and now Hakan Nesser.

This wasn’t a good year for writing either. I can’t sit for long, which limits my time spent on the computer. Still, I managed a couple of blog posts, worked a tad on my next novel, and was featured twice in my former magazine, which always gives me incredible joy.

Before I leave, I just want to mention that my WP refuses to re-activate notifications for the blogs I follow. I have to remember to check JetPack to see what’s new, which sometimes I forget, and that’s the reason why I am often late or absent with my likes and comments.

I wish you a very Merry Christmas (to those who observe it). To everyone, have a happy new year, filled with health, joy, inspiration for writing and a plethora of good books for reading!

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Who Is Your Dostoevsky?

Posted on November 26, 2023 by jfkaufmann

What do you not like that most people seem to like?

I stumbled upon a YouTube clip in which someone asked Emma Thompson this question and stayed long enough to hear her answer – cupcakes.

For me, when we talk about food, it’s basil. I can’t stand it. (It doesn’t apply to Thai basil, which I love. The subtle variation in flavor between Thai basil and regular basil is a world of difference for me).

Drink: milk. I know I’m not that unique there, but my aversion to milk is strong. Having said that, I love all things dairy. Go figure.

Snow at Zojoji Temple by Kawase Hasui

Music: it’s Chopin, except for a couple of nocturnes. Oddly, one of them is among my top ten pieces of classical music: Nocturne in E-flat major, Op. 9 No. 2, Op. My favourite composers are Bach and Mozart; I love Baroque and Classical periods. I don’t have patience for romanticism in music (or in art), and besides, solo piano music isn’t my cup of tea.

Art: I don’t get the Mona Lisa. I learned to appreciate it as one of the most important masterpieces in art history, and I understand all the reasons for it, but she doesn’t speak to me. I’ve never seen the original painting, so I have to add a disclaimer here. Maybe when seen in the Louvre, she is what everyone says she is. All I can see, however, are unappealing yellowish-greenish colors, the fact that she doesn’t have eyebrows but has thin hair, and her smile seems to me just an ordinary half-smile. I don’t see anything mysterious in it.

The art I love never ceases to amaze me even when I see it on a post stamp. The thrill never gets old no matter how many times I’ve seen a particular art piece: in person, in a book, on the screen—from the cave paintings of Altamira to the granite Egyptian statues and the head of Queen Nefertiti, otherworldly beautiful yet so alive… to Medieval manuscripts, Botticelli, Titian, Da Vinci’s other female portraits…El Greco, Velasquez… I can weep every time I see a photo of Brunelleschi’s dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, or Hagia Sophia. Every time I look at Japanese woodblock prints like The Great Wave off Kanagawa or Snow at Zojoji Temple, I feel the same rush of excitement, the same fulfillment only pure beauty can elicit. Mona Liza leaves me flat.

I’m skipping popular fiction – this area is waste and impossible to narrow down to the genres and authors universally loved. But in the art of writing it is Fyodor Dostoevsky.   


The image that needs no caption

It always puzzled me because I truly love Russian literature (even Romanticism!) and I liked—occasionally I still do—diving into the dark sides of human nature. I strived to read Dostoevsky’s novels and stories in high school and during my university years. It didn’t go well; I haven’t managed to finish anything. I thought, well, maybe I was too young for such deep philosophical/psychological literature, but my last attempt a few months ago when I tried to listen to Brothers Karamazov (in Serbian, to make it easier) failed again. After several hours, the familiar “Dostoevsky symptoms” started rapidly developing: I was annoyed out of my mind, bored, and angry for torturing myself.

I wouldn’t go so far as to agree with one of my friends, a well-educated and well-read columnist, who said that Dostoevsky was overrated. I believe that he is a literary giant, of course he is, I just don’t understand him.

This made me think, for the umpteenth time, about why we like or dislike things and what connects us with a particular person, piece of art, historical period (I’m especially drawn to European Middle Age, then, after a jump of several centuries, to the time of Enlightenment), and geographical area (for no apparent reason, I like Japanese Edo Period, and Japanese culture in general). I love David Lynch’s Dune (1984), for example, and among my favourite novels of all time is Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose (the fact I keep repeating here on my website, as you know). From talking to others, receptions, reviews, etc., I know that most people don’t share my passion.

Not that I’m any closer to the answers. First of all, these are not important questions although, I believe, they occasionally do cross everyone’s mind, and secondly, the reasons for liking or disliking this or that are so numerous and personal that it would be impossible to find universal answers.

Nonetheless, do you have uncommon likes and dislikes? Who is your personal Dostoevsky?

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Secret Sorrows and a Few Joys of Linguistic Duality

Posted on November 12, 2023 by jfkaufmann

To exist in two languages, in my case my native tongue and English, implies having two identities.

Learning a foreign language as an adult is a tough mission. Even describing the process of learning a foreign language is not easy. All I could remember from those early immigrant days was a cacophony of sounds and the feeling of being isolated, vulnerable and insecure. At some point — and it didn’t take me long mostly because I didn’t have a choice but to dive into it — the fog started to lift, and the words began to connect with their meanings.

Photo by Babs Gorniak on Unsplash

After that first crucial step, when enough of the new language is adopted for basic communication, many realize that they need more. Not everybody, of course. Some people, often elderly, stay there: they have their children and younger friends to help them when it’s necessary; for all other aspects of their lives, they have their support system in their language: doctors, lawyers, grocers, travel agents, newspapers, TV, church…

The younger, more educated population, people eloquent in their mother tongue, those who don’t want to stay pizza delivery drivers or security guards forever – they all know that they have to, somehow, narrow the gap between two languages.

That crack gets smaller with reading, watching TV, conversing, and, not less importantly, with mental readiness to accept new things, but it never disappears altogether. And there, in that thin crevice between two languages, our other identity is conceived.

When we learn our native tongue, we absorb with it the specific mentality and cultural climate related to it. Language shapes us in many ways; it makes us what we are. When we learn a foreign language, something similar happens, only in a milder form. Along with it, we soak in its civilizational background, forming spontaneously a new, parallel identity. The difference is in the fact that this second entity can never be completely integral because it doesn’t develop naturally, but rather, relatively speaking, under pressure.

Very rarely (almost never) do our children here learn to speak the language of their parents fluently. Even when they believe they know it, it’s on a superficial level and sounds broken, and not only because our language is grammatically much more complicated than English. After all, you can learn grammar, like any other logical concept. Language is not just a “structural system of communication that consists of grammar and vocabulary” but in equal measure the civilizational armature that supports it. That’s the reason why our language is so difficult for our kids to master – there is no identity it can latch on. It is not their mother tongue, it is not their, poetically speaking, “spiritual homeland”. They already have both.

For adult learners of a foreign language, the old and new could complement each other, coexist amicably, or they can clash — all this is mostly a matter of choice. What they cannot do is completely overlap.

I don’t think that many people consciously think about this ambivalence. I didn’t either until I started writing in English, years after I came here. My first significant achievement was no less than a 500-page book, and with it the realization that, when it comes to fiction, I could write it only in English. My novels and stories are a product of my adopted identity. They may be good or maybe not, it doesn’t matter; I like them. I don’t have high expectations of myself. I don’t want to be a “serious”, literary writer, or a bestselling author. I just want to do what I love doing.


Photo by Liam McGarry on Unsplash

If I ever attempted to do something that physically huge in my language (a 500-page book), I would face many obstacles: the expectations that I already mentioned, my education, my former literary taste (a steady diet of classics and literary fiction with almost guilty excursions into pop-fiction) and my much less complicated, guilt-free and more enjoyable present reading habits. What is pivotal, of course, is that I don’t have that kind of talent and abilities. I don’t have the creative capacity for literary fiction. I can read it, appreciate it (or not), but I wouldn’t be able to write it.

My imagination works on a different type of fuel — lighter, sunnier, less deep if you want. It’s entertaining in its essence, not artistic. (Same thing applies to my paintings – they’re decorations, visual joy, not art.) My English alter-ego is much better equipped to turn it into stories. English is like a shield behind which I found a refuge; it allows me to sail into my inner world without fear or prejudices, without hesitation. It gives me freedom I couldn’t dream I would have.

I write in my language as well, but this is limited to my “short forms”: my sentimental journeys into past, my memories about this and that. I write them mainly because they help me to glue my broken pieces (until the glue gets dry and things fall apart again). I wouldn’t be able to write them in English; their very source is in my original identity. I have to translate such pieces into English (which I’m doing right now with this post), balancing and peacekeeping my two linguistical/cultural selves.

Writing in my language offers me a different kind of freedom, though. I have all the words I need at my disposal, I don’t have to agonize over verb tenses and articles or whether I need commas or not. I can use colons, semi-colons, m-dashes… My language loves long, syntactically complex sentences, so I can write them a mile long (some of this spills into my English. My early editors often asked me to make two or three sentences out of one. Speaking of an editor, I don’t need her for my language. I used to be one, and I still am).

I had never thought that I would end up like this, with a “split personality”, or better, a double identity: two languages, two cultures, two ways of thinking, alternating constantly — and now more or less spontaneously — between them, always on crossroads, never on the road. The open road doesn’t exist anymore, not in my native identity, nor in my adopted one.

Sooner or later, we all accept the reality – we can never be whole again, not here, not in the old country. Yet again, this duality has its advantages. I see it as a lifelong entry pass to another life theatre, an opportunity to do something creative and fulfilling, to unlock my potentials, to discover the parts of myself I didn’t know I had, and I’m grateful for that.

Disclaimer: this is my personal experience, mingled with some well-known facts. I didn’t research it. This is a frequent conversational topic between me and some of my linguistically inclined friends existing in similar circumstances, and I believe they would understand what I was trying to say.

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Go Tell Diana that I’m gone

Posted on October 28, 2023 by jfkaufmann

Last month I had the pleasure and privilege to read JP McLean’s newest novel, still in manuscripts, Scorch Marks. My job was simple – to read it and catch small errors and inconsistencies before the book goes to a proofreader. I didn’t find many; the few that I did notice were more suggestions than actual errors.

In my comments to JP, I mentioned that the book felt like a conclusion of the series, which she later confirmed. It wouldn’t be difficult to find a thread and continue, but unlike some popular fiction writers, JP McLean knew where to end her story.

Photo by Didssph on Unsplash

Back in February, after my second cornea transplant, I was precluded from reading, watching TV, or even using my phone screen for a more than a few seconds for a couple of weeks. I had to stay in bed, laying flat, doing nothing. Once again, audiobooks saved me. I had downloaded several dozens of mysteries, romances, general fiction, non-fiction… a small, impromptu library on my phone so that I have options in case that I didn’t like some of them.

Indeed, I didn’t fancy quite a few books. I would start listening, stumble upon something I didn’t like, and move on to another book. It made me think how snobbish I (or readers in general) have become. A couple of decades ago, I would give many of those stories a decent chance. In my hurry to find a satisfying read, I probably missed some good ones. Unlimited access to all sorts of books has made me impatient and spoiled, no doubt about that. But that’s a topic for another time.

Anyhow, among the books that I listened to was one of the relatively newer Louise Penny’s titles, All Devils Are Here. I knew she wrote many books before that one, and quite a few after. I liked it, so I went back to the beginning of her Inspector Gamache series. I enjoyed them at first, particularly the settings and characters. The plots were, if not mind-blowing and nail beating, interesting enough. Then, after seven or eight books, the cracks started showing: the incredible number of deaths in a tiny village that wasn’t even on the map; the inhabitants, first deliciously but soon foolishly eccentric; people who exclusively eat “fresh” baguette (as if others normally eat stale baguette); dietary habits (rather than the extremely high murder rate) that should’ve attributed to the population slaughter due to coronary diseases. The plot gradually became either dull, predictable, or unrealistic, peppered with senseless deaths. Once interesting characters seemed like frozen in time, no depth or color or shape has been added for way too long. Honest and honorable Chief Inspector and his evil bosses. An alcoholic woman who always caries a duck around her neck, the other that always has chunks of bananas in her hair. It was kind of cute in the first book I read; by book twelve, and after eleven repetitions, that particular banana-remark made me want to scream.

IMHO, Louse Penny overused/abused her characters; through the years and over so many books, she managed to turn them into caricatures, into shadows and empty shells of their former self.

(I needed an immediate palate cleanser, and I found it in Kristan Higgins’ romance novels. I’ve read almost all of her books, except the newest ones. Loved them all.)

Another author that hackneyed her characters and story is Diana Gabaldon and her Outlander series. I wish she wrapped up her saga after the third installment. Yet, in order to continue through several more books, almost every main character was twisted and warped; almost everyone was raped at some point or become a killer, or a cheater, or a traitor. They separated, reunited, were tortured, escaped; they drowned, they were hanged… Eight years passed between book seven and eight, but then, when Go Tell the Bees That I’m Gone finally came out, it was nothing more than a retelling of the previous seven books. Claire and Jamie were among my favourite fictional couples ever in books one to three, I still liked them in books four and five, tolerated them in book seven. To say that I didn’t finish book eight would be an understatement – I barely made it though the first 100 pages before I returned to the library. Diana stopped caring for her characters the moment she made Jamie meet his daughter while urinating in the back alley. To me, it was like a slap. I carried on nonetheless, but gradually stopped caring, too — for him, for Claire, their daughter and grandkids, who kept jumping through time so you never know where they were going to be next time, for all their friends and foes, for Quakers and Benedict Arnold and above all, for the pages and pages and pages of American Revolutionary War seen through the D. Gabaldon’s prism.

The only character I still deeply love is Lord John Grey. He is one of my greatest fictional crushes. Yes, I know, I know, but still. He’s one of the reasons I don’t want to force myself through any more of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander books. I lost Jamie and Claire; I don’t want to lose Lord John. She was an inch from ruining him as well in book seven. It’s safer to go back to him by reading The Scottish Prisoner, The Hand of the Devil, The Brotherhood of Blade… than to risk another disappointment.

Louse Penny and Diana Galablon are not alone, of course. Passion for writing is one thing; financial prospects that come out of endless reuse and recycle of well-known and well-loved characters is another. To be honest, I don’t know what I would do in a similar situation, so I’m not deeply offended by their choice. It’s just a bit sad and a bit more annoying.

So, who did recognize this moment when the story was told, and that continuing it would be only for material gain? Naomi Novik comes immediately to mind, with her nine Temeraire novels. Elizabeth Holt and her Maiden Lane novels. The Bridgertons and other series of Julia Quinn, J. K. Rowling… the list is long and includes some authors I know, like above-mentioned JP Mclean (the Gift Legacy; A Dark Dreams novels) and Audrey Driscoll (the Herbert West series).

The jury is still out for A Song of Ice and Fire. This is a very interesting case – D&D, the obnoxious screenwriting duo of the HBO series, Game of Thrones, already butchered the story and mutilated the characters to no recognition (and this was deeply offensive. Unforgivable, in fact). Now George R. R. Martin seems to be bound to follow that impossible, illogical storyline and the characters’ somersaults if he even plans to finish the series. I could only imagine how he must feel about it. If I were him, I would ignore the mess these two created, and write a completely different closing chapter. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Do you thing that some fiction series are so long that they stop making any sense? What’s your “favourite” overused string of books?

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The Enchanting World of Comic Books

Posted on February 14, 2023 by jfkaufmann

When I was a teenager and later as a young woman, I loved reading comic books. There was a special time and place for it–summer holidays in my home city, where my “other family” lived: my father and stepmother, my married sister, my maternal grandmother and aunt… who would all make sure to spoil me a bit during these two months they had me for themselves.

Among the other lovely and relaxing things, to me it was a break from school and all the serious stuff we studied, including literature, which was often too advanced for our age. I loved literature, and I believed I had the mental and intellectual maturity to read, for example, War and Peace, or Germinal at the tender age of sixteen or seventeen. I was in the minority, however, and many of my schoolmates struggled with that heavy load. Personally, I wrestled with some other subjects, such as math and physics, and I still believe that neither literature nor mathematics curriculums were tailored to fit an average student, only those few who had natural affinities about them.

Long summers were the times when my father and my beloved grandmother would happily cook whatever I desired to eat (and I loved various food!), when my incredible stepmother, sister, and aunt would shower me with pretty clothes, shoes and other girly things, and when I could read what I wanted and as long as I wanted, often until the wee hours. Life was sweet and easy, and summer days seemed endless.

I devoured popular fiction, mysteries, biographies, non-fiction, old and new bestsellers, translated mostly from English.

And comics. The comic industry was amazingly vibrant and comic books were immensely popular; publishers had licenses for all the best known comics. There were humorous comics like Peanuts, Garfield, Hagar the Horrible, Denis the Menace, Lucky Luke (I still remember the names of his archenemies, the four Dalton brothers: John, Jack, William and Averell 🙃), and of course, Asterix (which I adored then and I still admire very much). I liked Rip Kirby (my grandmother’s favourite comic character) and Mandrake the Magician, action comics (Batman, Superman, Spiderman, Phantom, Tarzan, Flash Gordon, Conan the Barbarian, Prince Valiant, Modesty Blaise), the quite atypical Western comic featuring an anti-hero, Lieutenant Blueberry…

Ah! The list was long and magnificent!

Comics have never been considered “real literature.” Perhaps they’re not; I don’t know. However, they’re a noteworthy branch of the overall written world. The first recorded “stories” in human history were drawings and pictures, not words, after all. Perhaps the role and significance of comic books in our culture are still waiting to be evaluated, defined and explained.

Throughout history, comics have had their ups and downs; they’ve had their passionate supporters and equally fiery opponents, but they certainly haven’t been responsible for “an increase in juvenile delinquency, as well as potential influence on a child’s sexuality and morals”, as American physiatrist, Fredric Wertham claimed in 1954. They have stood the test of time. My grandmother loved Rip Kirby; a half of a century later, I loved him, too. The sophisticated, urban private eye with his signature glasses, a hat and a steady girlfriend didn’t lose his appeal. Many of the characters introduced in comic books have thrived in film art; some have become pop-culture icons.

Is there a better example for the enduring value of comics that the Batman movies? Just think about the actors who played in them–Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer (my favourite Batman), Christian Bale, George Clooney, Robert Pattinson… (The absence of Ben Affleck from this list is deliberate. I never liked him, especially not as Batman). Or directors who directed them. Not to mention the villains–Jack Nicholson, Uma Thurman, Danny DeVito, Heath Ledger, Joaquin Phoenix… One of the greatest living actors, Gary Oldman, had a role in the Dark Night trilogy, as Commissioner Gordon. He wanted to be in these moves, otherwise he wouldn’t be in them.

Arnold Schwarzenegger has forever immortalized Conan the Barbarian. In my mind, in the case of Conan, the comic and the movie character are a perfect overlap, and for once, I don’t mind blending them in my imagination.

And so on…

I’ve only mentioned here the classic comics, most of them from their golden age. The full story is much more complex, of course, and would take much more time and effort to research and write it. This is only a sweet memory of my carefree, long-past summer days that I wanted to share. A bits and pieces about me (mostly in brackets 😉), that’s all.

I wish I could still have all those volumes of comics from my youth to enjoy them every now and then. If nothing else, to feel young and untroubled again, if only for a moment. But they were lost, together with my old life, in a different time and a different place.

Please, share your thoughts and opinions. Do you like comic books? Did you read them or do you still read them? Who are your favourite characters? Who is your favourite movie Batman?

*All the images are from Wikipedia.com and they should quality as fair use.

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