Minimum Deliverables

What do I demand from crime fiction—okay, from any kind of fiction?

I'd say I finish reading about 60 percent of the books I begin in any given year.  Of the forty percent I don't finish, there are those I simply put down, those I put down with some resentment that my time has been stolen from me under false pretenses, and those that I throw against the nearest wall.

The ones I just quit reading are those that simply don't hold my interest.  A whodunnit is in trouble if the reader doesn't care whodunnit.  A thriller is in trouble when the reader doesn't care how the protagonist will get out of the fix.  Any crime novel is in serious trouble when the reader wishes the killer would rub out most of the surviving characters.

The ones I actively resent and the ones that get hurled against the wall commit (to my way of thinking) cardinal sins.

So what's a cardinal sin?  It's failing to meet the minimum deliverables of fiction, according to my personal scale.

Here's what I want.  An interesting story about convincing characters that's well told and deals with issues that engage me.  It wouldn't hurt if it also made me laugh or gave me goosebumps or brought tears to my eyes or dazzled me with language, but those are extras.  They're great, but they're not deal-breakers.

The highest compliment a reader can pay to a writer is to turn the page.  I'll keep doing that with a modestly interesting book about consistent characters, the kind of people I might chat with on a plane.  I probably won't remember it a week later and I won't recommend it, but I'll finish it.

Take that same book—modestly interesting plot, okay writing, issues that are just above “meh” on my issues scale, but give it fascinating, fully-rounded, compelling characters, and I'll read it avidly, despite its other shortcomings.  I'll remember it.  I'll go back to it, trying to learn something.

By the same measure, create an amazingly structured mystery or thriller with a lightning pace, unforeseeable reversals, and a shattering climax, and people it with inconsistent, paper-thin dullards, and I'm going to be back at the library after fifty pages.

As I suppose it's clear (at least, to those of you who are still reading this) out of all my minimum deliverables, there's actually only one that's absolutely essential, and that's character.

Books for me are people, plain and simple.  Everything else is garnish.  Great characters will carry me through a boring story, but the greatest story on earth won't hold me unless I want to be with those people.  And they can't betray who they are for the purposes of plot.  If they're real people, they have to behave like real people.  The minute they don't, I'm out of there.

They don't have to be realistic characters in the conventional sense.  They can be elves or hobbits or even a teddy bear (in one memorable book) but I have to believe that they breathe, think, and care, and once I know what they care about, they'd better not violate it.  I do have to confess that I have problems with narrators that are cats and giggling serial killers who regard murder as the setup for a punch line, but even one of those--sufficiently well done--will hold me for a few hundred pages.  I'd have to open that kind of a book by accident, but once I did I'd stay with it if the characters were there.

What about you?  What are your minimum deliverables?  What have I left out?  What's on my list that isn't necessary to you?

Tim -- Sundays

"Greece, It's a Wonderful Country" By Steele Curry

Skiathos

How does one begin to introduce a true Renaissance man of the world?  And no, that’s not a pun intended to capitalize on Steele Curry having announced his retirement as Co-Chairman of the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention’s national board of directors this month at Cleveland’s Renaissance Hotel.  Well, maybe just a little one.   

Born in Winnipeg, Canada, Steele received his B.A. from Stanford University and M.B.A from Harvard, and went on to establish several highly successful businesses.  Throughout his career Steele always found time to give back to his community, including active participation in mentoring programs intended to help young people make the most of their lives.

Today Steele’s community is the world—a place he knows well, having travelled extensively to most parts of it—and his focus now is on his Citizen of the World Guides, available for free in a dozen and a half languages, offering young men and women recommendations on how to make the most of their lives and careers, regardless of their background or lack of experience.  His website, www.COTWguides.com, was set up to make COTW Guides available in the fastest, most direct way possible to all who might benefit from them.

Somehow Steele also finds time to read ninety books a year, mostly mysteries, and to add to his collection of 7,000 first edition mysteries and 4,500 other first edition volumes. 

But what makes Steele most endearing to me is the great wisdom he shows in spending three months each summer with his family on a Greek island.  Specifically, the northwest Aegean island of Skiathos, the western most island in the Northern Sporades group.  It is a literal heaven on earth approximately 150 miles north of my home island in the Cyclades. On his island, Steele manages to read 35 books each summer, while I struggle to write just one.  Then again, there are more distractions on Mykonos:).

When I read an article Steele had written for his website, I begged him to let me reproduce it here. Being the kind soul that he is, he agreed.  So here is Steele Curry’s “Greece, It’s a Wonderful Country.”   

There are two Greeces.  First, there is the one you see portrayed in the worldwide media showing photos of violent protests and running endless articles about the country’s financial ruin.  And second, there is the Greece as it actually is when you spend time in the country, as I have been doing for 40 years.  Far too many people outside of Greece are only aware of the first one which is both misleading and unfortunate, especially as the protests have mainly occurred in the center of Athens and rarely in the rest of the country.

Yes, Greece has suffered for decades from self-serving, wasteful and corrupt politicians and government officials.  In hindsight, joining the Euro zone enabled the Greek government to go on a binge of borrowings, primarily from the banks of its fellow Euro members (who should have known better), and to create a false sense of entitlement that its citizens should receive numerous social benefits and early pensions that were unaffordable.  To get elected, successive parties in power offered their supporters new civil service jobs and condoned a total lack of accountability for both government departments and state-owned companies, most of which operated at a huge deficit.

This path proved to be completely unsustainable.  It was inevitable that the Greek government, Greece’s citizens and the country’s debtors would all face a day of reckoning.  Today, Greece has reached the point where it has no choice but to face reality and take the necessary measures to get its house in order.  While this is going to be a sobering, painful process for everyone involved, the end result will restore Greece to being a viable, responsibly functioning country where the faith and trust of its citizens in their government is restored.  How long this will take, especially given the inevitable resistance on the part of vested special interest groups, no one knows.  But, as the saying goes, when you have to swallow a frog, the best way to do it is quickly.

 

Now, let me describe the other Greece – the one I have experienced every summer for 40 years on my annual holidays there, first for only two weeks and then gradually longer until now for over three months.  My wife and I fly from our home city of Calgary, Canada to Athens and then fly on Olympic from Athens to the island of Skiathos in the Aegean Sea.  As soon as I step off the plane and put my feet on the ground there, something special in the air seems to carry away all my cares and concerns, and I start to totally unwind and relax.  It helps that we are always warmly greeted at the airport by a close Greek friend who lives on the island.

On Skiathos, we stay at our family’s villa, originally built on the island by my mother 40 years ago.  It is located just outside of the village of Skiathos.  The island’s permanent population is about 8,000 but during the summer tourist season it rises to a peak of some 35,000.  To say that the island is unbelievably beautiful is an understatement.  Over 60 beaches ring the island and it has a great deal of greenery and vegetation.  On our land, we have lots of olive, pine and eucalyptus trees as well as some almond, apricot, fig, lemon and pear trees.

Even more impressive than its natural beauty are the people of Skiathos.  They have a terrific sense of humor and are warm, friendly, generous and eager to be helpful. Everywhere you go on the island, the Greeks there do a great job of making you have a wonderful experience being in Skiathos.  At the beaches, restaurants, shops, bakeries, pharmacies, the health clinic, the car rentals, water skiing, going sailing, you are welcomed and looked after in the best possible manner.

The weather on the island is consistently gorgeous with sunny, clear bIue skies day after day.  While the temperature can get quite hot from time to time, there is always a gentle breeze off the sea.  Something about the air’s atmosphere in Skiathos gives the sky and sea a uniquely stunning blue color.

I start each day spending some quiet time sitting on our terrace marveling at the incomparably beautiful vista of the Aegean Sea.  Just looking out at the sun rippling off the shimmering surface of the blue water is hugely calming for me.  Then, I have my breakfast with Greek yogurt and apricot preserves (supplied to me by a Greek neighbor) and read the International Herald Tribune on our terrace. Around noon, we go into the village to pick up the newspaper, supplies and freshly baked bread and cheese pies.  Every afternoon, we spend time in the sun, often at one or another of the island’s gorgeous beaches.  In the evening, we have dinner under the stars either at one of the island’s many excellent restaurants and tavernas or at our villa.  We know we are tremendously fortunate to enjoy such marvelous summer holidays in Skiathos.

Despite all its current tribulations and serious challenges, Greece is blessed to be a country of great natural beauty and wonderful people.  Yes, Greece is undergoing a period of painful readjustments but the end result will be beneficial for its citizens, regardless of whether it retains the Euro.  While all this is going on, those visiting Greece as a tourist will continue to have an outstanding experience.  Don’t wait to do so.

Thank you, Steele.  See you next summer on Skiathos, filos.

Jeff—Saturday

File under Francophile

At the end of last week's blog I was in Nantes, having picked up a nice prize for Code 1879. I was then asked to go on tour of the regions where I had won the vote (each region voted for their favourite, and the national result was based on those votes).

First of all, I had a day free in Nantes. I had managed to bring the rain with me from the UK, but even so the city looked resplendent. I managed to walk around, dodging showers, ordering coffee in  halting French and soaking up as much of the city as I could. The old part with its warren streets, and bars and restaurants were especially pleasant, and the exhibition marking Nantes ignoble role in the global slave trade, down by the river, was both moving and wonderfully presented. I decided I could happily in Nantes.

The next day, the rain and I decamped to La Roche-Sur-Yon in the Vendee. Without being too harsh, I'm not sure La Roche is the liveliest town at the best of times, but a wet Monday in October might not have been the best time to visit. I shared a very pleasant lunch with Sylvie, from the organisers of the prize, Cezam, even though her English was as bad as my French. Then I met the readers, answered some very searching questions, before being taken to a very, um, interesting restaurant. It was Scottish. I'm not even sure there are any Scottish restaurants in Scotland. There was Scotch Eggs on the menu (a hard boiled egg, encased  in sausage meat, covered in breadcrumbs and deep friend) and flambéed Grouse, as well as more than a choice of 50 different scotches to try. All they needed for authenticity was a Deep Fried Mars Bar for dessert.

The next day was Brittany, where it rained, just like it always does. I was driven to Brest, or rather a library nearby in Plagoustel-Daoulas. The readers there had no idea who had won, so I skulked behind some shelves until the big moment came. I was given a Breton smock as a gift, which might have fit a man twice my size, but after two entrecotes, three portions of frites, two omelettes, three hotel breakfasts, a lot of wine and a few beers, after only three days in France there was a chance it might be too snug by the end of the week.

The audience in P-D manages to contain its excitement when my win is announced

I was then driven to Vannes by the delightful Jeanne, who did that classic thing of telling me she couldn't speak good English before spending two days discussing books, politics, cuisine and all manners of things like she'd live in Blighty half her life, while I stumbled around with my 'Ou est la Discotheque?' French. My meeting in Vannes was the first time, and perhaps the last, I've ever addressed an audience in front of a sculpture of the Virgin Mary. Vannes is a beautiful old town. I decided I could quite happily live there

The next day I took the TGV to Paris. Any person who doesn't get a thrill about arriving in Paris is either a) dead or b) Nicolas Sarkozy. Even in the inevitable rain it looked as ravishing. I was whisked off to the business district to meet the readers, which was as pleasant as ever, before I had a day to myself to pound the pavement, sneak in the odd cafe noir, yet another steak frites before meeting a Parisian friend for a few drinks. As I made my weary way home, I turned a corner and was met by this sight, enough to rouse the heart of the weariest soul. I decided I could etc

The next and last stop was La Rochelle. This lovely little town has a special resonance for we Brits. The textbooks we learned French from at school was named after it, and the towers at the gates of its harbour are on the cover.

I remember that cover vividly; far more than any of the words within. There was just time for me to eat a piece of boeuf so rare a good vet could have had it back on it's feet, before I gave my last talk of the week. I would like to say I spent my last night in France walking cobbled streets, a small aperitif followed by a nourishing meal, but I'd by lying. By this time even my stomach was beginning to rebel against French cuisine, so that evening I dined dans mon chambre.

The next morning it was train to Paris and the Eurostar back to London, and a chance to reacquaint myself with my family. It had been an overwhelming week. Tiring but enormous fun. I can't wait to go back. To Catherine G, Catherine B, Catherine C, Cecile, Jeanne, Philippe and Sylvie, I offer my heartfelt thanks. My endless gratitude also to all the interpreters who turned my base words into homespun gold (I think): Ludivine, Yanne, Perrine and Jinane.

Je rapasserai.

Salut

Dan - Friday

The Silly Season

In my hometown of Knysna on the Indian Ocean coast, 500 kms east of Cape Town, we refer to the month around Christmas as “the silly season”.  That’s because the town is inundated with visitors, mainly from the Johannesburg area, but also from other parts of the country.  It is, of course, the summer vacation for school kids and university students.  That means that many families take their annual holiday at the coast.

View of Knysna lagoon

For Knysna residents, it is a time of plenty.  Shops and restaurants and other tourist-related enterprises make most of their annual income at this time.  So the influx is crucial to the local economy.  It is also a time of aggravation.  Unlike other times of the year, wandering into the village whenever convenient to shop or have a cup of coffee no longer works.  There are queues of people everywhere, and one can only get into the restaurant of choice with a reservation.  Locals often stock up on supplies in advance to avoid the mayhem.  There are even frustrating traffic jams that often snake along the lagoon road for several kilometres.

Knysna lagoon

Knysna waterfront

Minneapolis is my other home town, and I’ve been in town most of the time since early April.  It is also the silly season here.  And everywhere else in the United States.  It is election time!

For those of us who were brought up outside the USA, no matter how much we like and admire it, the election process seems weird – to put it mildly.  Nowhere else, as far as I know, does election season begin as soon as the new politicians are sworn in – with perhaps the exception of Senators. 

For the members of the House, election time is less than two years away.  So it is immediately time to start raising cash to fund the next TV campaign, to hire marketing geniuses, and staff.  

And it is no different for first-term presidents.  The next election is less than three years away, with the other party starting almost immediately to find a candidate. 

Ever since I have been in this country, I have been puzzled by its attitude towards Cuba.  It seems that this little country wields a hugely disproportionate influence on politics in Washington.  The USA’s attitudes have changed with respect to many other countries that are far more extreme that Cuba – and more important.  Yet Cuba raises hackles, rhetoric, and tempers.

It is only recently that I figured out why this is.  At least that is my story.  Florida is a swing state.  It has many voters of Cuban heritage, who generally – like many expats – have a strong dislike of their former homeland.  No President, particularly a first-termer, can afford to alienate the Cuban-Floridian voters too much.  So nothing changes.  Nobody is willing to do the commonsense thing and normalize relations.

Page 1 of the US Constitution

I have an admission to make.  Although I am an admirer of the Constitution, I do not believe God etched it on a tablet and left it for the Framers to find.  I think the almost religious reverence with which many Americans treat the Constitution has got in the way of progress.  And democracy. 

Of course, you know I am going to mention the Electoral College.  Many non-Americans look with puzzlement at an electoral system in which the President can be elected with fewer popular votes than his or her opponent - in a country that advertizes itself as the most democratic on the planet.  I’ve read a lot about the genesis and evolution (if I am allowed to use that word) of the Electoral College, and my take is that it came about because the Framers didn’t really trust voters to elect the best President.  So they gave states the opportunity to appoint (and sometime elect) those who would eventually decide who would be president.  They hoped (at least I think they hoped) that states would appoint men of substance, education, and wisdom, who would know better than the average Joe on the farm which candidate would do the best job in Washington.  


Of course, the Framers did not actually say anything about how states should determine who would be members of the electoral college.  This meant that states evolved how this occurred.  Today the idea of winner takes all is common, and to me is a cause of all sorts of political problems.  Have you noticed how many times the candidates for the presidency have visited the three most populous states – California, New York, and Texas?  Hardly ever, because those states are already sewn up.  All the attention is focused on the swing states.

Here is a little quiz before I move on to my next point.  If the Electoral College vote is tied, which has happened, do you know what the next step is in the election process?  A hint!  It is even less democratic than the Electoral College process.

Okay, okay.  I know you are groaning about this foreigner whinging about the system.  But I have a few more observations, so bear with me.

I appreciate and understand the appeal of the checks and balances built into the US Constitution.  And acknowledge the benefits that accrue.  On the other hand, a system that is in balance doesn’t move.  So when change is needed, the system makes that very difficult indeed.  I think the USA today is in need of real change – and I have met few people who disagree with that no matter their political leanings.  But I fear the system will prevent that from happening.

The length of the election process detracts from the reason why we elect people.  If politicians are constantly preparing for re-election, their attention is distracted from legislation and governance.  Although I know it will never happen in the USA, there are real benefits to the parliamentary system.  Elections are short – usually 6 to 8 weeks – so we wouldn’t have to put up with listening to interminable, regurgitated rubbish from the candidates on every TV channel, punctuated with attack ads.  And it is more flexible and able to react to changing circumstances more readily.

Finally – “at last!”, I hear you say – campaigns have morphed from an opportunity for voters to listen to half-way decent discussions of issues into events that have to compete with reality shows like Survivor. With the exception of public television, TV channels focus on contention, not substance, so they can keep viewership high and advertizing revenues up.  They make up statistics and scenarios that are meaningless, but which are given great import (you must take a look at this cartoon to put this in perspective - http://xkcd.com/1122).  Perhaps the next presidential contest will include mud-wrestling or a single gladiatorial contest to determine the winner.  That should increase the size of the viewing audience.

Michelle Obama vs Mitt Romney 2016?

Fighting for the Presidency 2020

CNN Stadium, Washington D.C. 2020

As a lover of the USA and one of its citizens, I am immensely saddened by what I see as a slow slide into mediocrity, by an increasing acceptance of legislation that undermines our freedoms, and an inertia in Washington to make the tough decisions that are necessary to restore the world’s confidence in the country.  Sad, sad, sad.

Someone once said that a cynic is someone who sees the world as it is, not as it should be.  So call me a cynic!

Stan - Thursday

Busy, Busy

Today I am relying on an old, previous post due to a hectic schedule. Unfortunately this is likely to occur for what remains of October. I am also having a hard time getting my laptop and blogger to play nicely, the two seem incompatible.  So I now not only need a new phone but a new laptop as well. Anyway, a piece regarding the last execution conducted in sweet Iceland.

Agnes and Friðrik, previously posted some time ago:

 

The last executions conducted in Iceland took place in 1830 although capital punishment was not removed from our criminal code until 1928. Trailing the line of hapless souls deemed to make the world a better place by losing their lives were a woman of 33 named Agnes and a young man of 18 named Friðrik. A third accomplice, a 16 year old girl named Sigríður had also been sentenced to death but was pardoned by the Danish king and made to serve life under hard labour in a prison camp in Denmark as she was perceived as being “simple”.

The crime was murder, double at that. Friðrik killed a farmer named Natan who employed both Agnes and Sigríður, for the purpose of robbing him, as well as ending the life of a man visiting Natan. Friðrik then set the farmhouse on fire to make the deaths look like an accident, but multiple stab wounds on the charred bodies were his undoing. Agnes and Sigríður aided in the murders by hiding Friðrik in a barn until nightfall and Agnes also conspired in the whole scenario. It is considered highly likely that she planted the idea in Friðrik’s mind and egged him on, thus being the instigator of the murders. She had been Natan’s lover until his attention shifted to the younger Sigríður – whom Friðrik loved. A complicated love circumstance, involving sad people from the lower echelons of life at the time.

There are countless executions of less deserving culprits than Agnes and Friðrik in our history. Despite this their plight has lived with us, because of the way the execution was conducted and later occurrences which further fueled interest in the story. I will attempt to briefly explain both.

At the time anyone sentenced to death was usually sent abroad to be executed and no one had been executed on Icelandic soil for 40 years. The Icelandic people were not fond of executions and preferred them conducted out of sight. But two things contributed to the process being carried out here in the case of Agnes and Friðrik. For one it was a lot cheaper not to have to send the pair by boat to Denmark or Norway and secondly, local authorities believed crime on the rise and they wanted to set an example. To make sure people would sit up and notice, every farmer in the area was obliged to show up or send a representative in his place. As a result one hundred and fifty people witnessed the act which is a very high number considering the sparsely populated area where the events occurred. An execution block was erected and this included a man-made mound that still exists, the added elevation ensuring everyone present had a good view. The execution block itself had to be imported from Denmark, as did the axe as neither was available within the country. Once everything was set up, Agnes and Friðrik were led up on to the mound and their heads unceremoniously chopped off by the brother of the murdered Natan. No one wanted to act as executioner and it even required a lot of persuasion to get the next of kin to brandish the axe.

To get the most out of the example being set, the heads of Agnes and Friðrik were then poised on stakes placed prominently for all to see. It is unclear how long they were to stand there as there was no tradition to go by. However, this never became an issue as the heads were stolen the very same night of the execution. The unconfirmed story goes that a warm-hearted woman from one of the few large estates in the district had one of her farmhands remove the heads when darkness had fallen and bury them secretly in a nearby graveyard. This last bit became part of what everyone believed true although the records of the time only mention: “The heads disappeared during the night”.

Now fast forward 102 years to 1932. A woman named Sesselja from Reykjavík begins to experience involuntary writing involving messages from Agnes, instructing her to find the bodies and the heads, dig them out and provide her and Friðrik a proper burial in hallowed ground. The locations of the caskets containing the bodies and the location of the heads were provided, as was a description of a piece of wood from the stake lodged in Agnes’ skull. According to the messages the heads were not in the graveyard at all as everyone believed. The writing stated that the farmhand had not wanted to carry the heads the full distance to the cemetery and that he had instead buried them near the stakes. For two years the woman was besieged with this weird note taking before finally overcoming her reluctance to make a fool of herself and going to the police. The church became involved and a team was sent north to search for the caskets and the heads which incredibly enough were exactly where the written notes described. In addition, Agnes’ skull was pierced through the crown with a 10 cm long piece of wood as the messages had mentioned. But through this strange channel, Anges and Friðrik ended up receiving their proper burial.

 One of the many sad facts of this story is the one regarding the fancy brooch found in the casket containing Agnes’ bones. This type of brooch was used at the time as a button in the traditional dressy female clothing, showing that Agnes dressed up for the occasion of her own execution. Makes me wonder what I or anyone else would do under the same circumstances. Not that today’s executed prisoners are allowed this last attempt at dignity.

Yrsa - Wednesday

not the rouge!

Sorry if I've been missing in action - my mother passed away and life's getting in the way right now. Here's my post from April 2011 

TUESDAY, APRIL 26, 2011

not the rouge

I never thought I'd write in defence of French riot police. However, something truly awful has happened to the CRS (Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité). Indeed, the ones we love to hate have just been denied by official decree that most cherished and antic pleasure, a single glass of wine (or cider or beer) with their meals. When you think about it, there are few delights in life more simple than a glass of wine with your meal. And the fact that the CRS used to enjoy theirs while on duty doesn't change the argument much.

This latest ban (after the burqa, the rouge!) is yet another sign of a rampant righteousness taking hold in French society. It's commonly said that a moderate amount of wine, beer or cider digested with a meal, especially by people who have a physical job doesn't affect their ability to perform. Riot police are no surgeons; they are muscles in boots and helmets. Their job is to look scary and to use urban guerrilla tactics in order to protect peaceful demonstrators from the occasional troublemakers. You come across them all the time in the streets of Paris on demonstration days: these are relatively young men, fit and fast. A glass of wine gulped down with a hachis Parmentier is not going to cloud their judgment (they obey orders anyway) or make their legs wobble. It won't make them more aggressive; if anything, it might actually make them a little more humane.

The CRS are futuristically clad manga-like characters, and coming into contact with them is a rite of passage for first time demonstrators in France. One of the first slogans you learn as a French adolescent is "CRS – SS", courtesy of the May '68 events. However, this ferocious association couldn't be further from the truth. Created in 1944 by Gaullist France, the French riot police mainly consisted of former resistance members, many of them communists. During a demonstration in Marseille in 1947 organised by the Communist party, the CRS refused to intervene. They were swiftly reorganised. Since then, their zeal at neutralising agitateurs has depended in large part on the personality of the prefects, interior minister, and the political character of the government. In 1968, apart from one unrelated accident, there were no casualties among students: a real achievement considering the level of tension that reigned in the capital and the whole country at the time.

What's certain is that the CRS do not do an easy job. They are the buffers of our democracy, and we need them during every spat and argument we have with the government so that things don't degenerate into chaos. And for this, I believe they deserve their daily glass of wine.


This ban sounds like another Sarkozy intitiative, the kind a teetotaller who loves nothing more than the chocolate mousse and raspberry yogurts he might serve up after an excitable meeting with anti-alcohol lobbyists.

Let's leave the last word to Charles Baudelaire who, in The Soul of Wine, wrote:

"For I feel a boundless joy when I flow
Down the throat of a man worn out by his labour
His warm breast is a pleasant tomb
Where I'm much happier than in my cold cellar …

I shall light up the eyes of your enraptured wife
And give back to your son his strength and his colour
I shall be for that frail athlete of life
The oil that hardens a wrestler's muscles."

And before I'm accused of inciting debauchery, let me say that, like all pleasures in life, this one should be enjoyed in moderation. Cheers.
Cara - Tuesday

Paraty’s Contribution To German Literature

Paraty isn’t only a charming little town within the Bahia da Ilha Grande:  http://tinyurl.com/9hcgu4y  

And the venue for Brazil’s most important literary festival:  http://tinyurl.com/8zvfzjc 

It also played a seminal role in the life one of the great German-language writers of the twentieth century.

Here’s the story:

This lady is Júlia da Silva Bruhns, the daughter of a Brazilian mother and a German father.

Back in the mid-nineteenth century, her father owned a number of sugarcane plantations on the Brazilian coast between Rio de Janeiro and the port of Santos.

Júlia was born in this house, in Paraty, and lived there until a year after her mother’s death.

And then, at the age of seven, she was shipped-off to live with her father’s brother in Lübeck.

She arrived speaking only Portuguese.

The rest of the family spoke only German.

In the Germanic fashion of the time, they decided to solve the communication problem by sending her to a boarding school where she stayed for the next seven years.

Harsh treatment, as far as I'm concerned, for a little Brazilian girl.

In 1869, she married Thomas Heinrich Mann, a senator and grain merchant.

She was seventeen; he was twenty-nine.

Their second son, born in 1875, was christened Paul Thomas Mann.

She always called him Paulo.

But the world knew him as the Nobel Prize laureate, Thomas Mann.

His mother was the inspiration for Gerda Arnoldson and Toni Buddenbrook in Buddenbrooks, for the wife of Senator Rodde in Doktor Faustus, for Consuelo in Tonio Kröger, and for the mother of the protagonist, Gustav von Aschenbach, in Death in Venice.

In her age, she wrote a book (never translated as far as I know) called Aus Dodos Kindheit in which she described her idyllic childhood in Paraty, referring to it as “the happiest time of my life”.

If you read German, you can still find it in many libraries throughout the world.

Check the World Library Catalogue for one near you: http://tinyurl.com/8rvh2y3

Leighton - Monday