Showing posts with label Haruki Murakami. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Haruki Murakami. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 25, 2024

Christmas Books = Christmas Cheer!


J. R. R. Tolkien: The Collected Poems (3 vols: 2024)


Some years ago now I wrote a blogpost called "The Tolkien Industry." It seemed to cause a bit of a stir at the time, and even ended up being reprinted on the Scoop Review of Books (16/6/09).

What I thought were some fairly mild remonstrances at the relentless commercialisation of J. R. R. Tolkien's literary remains apparently touched a raw nerve in quite a few readers. A certain "Mister Lit" enquired:
... does Ross the academic subscribe to the increasingly meaningless dichotomy between ‘high’ and ‘lowbrow’ culture which sees meaningless ‘poetry’ by so-called ‘postmodernists’ studied in great depth while popular, human-oriented authors like Tolkien and Wilbur Smith are regarded as not ‘good enough’?
To which I'd reply (some 16 years later): No, not then and not now. I have to say, though, that I do find the juxtaposition of Tolkien and Wilbur Smith somewhat eccentric. So far as I know, no-one's yet been tempted to publish Wilbur Smith's scribbled notes and papers in vast, annotated, scholarly editions. Perhaps it's just a matter of time, though.

The next comment, by a Henry Saltfleet, was even more indignant:
Jack Ross writes: “What’s a poor collector to do? A poor completist collector, that is.” Well, in his case I think he should get rid of his collection and take up a hobby more suited to his intellect — perhaps bowling. His main argument against newly published Tolkien material seems to be that it takes up shelf space. But what is more egregious is his underlying belief that because (for whatever reason) he isn’t interested in such material that he thinks those of us who are interested in it should be deprived of the chance to read it. Fie on him.
That sideswipe at bowlers and bowling seems rather more egregious than any of my own misdeeds, I must say. What did they ever do to get dragged into this argument? Bowling is (by all accounts) a sport requiring great visual acuity and muscular skill, which puts it a fair few rungs above balancing books on shelves, I would have thought. If only I had chosen to cultivate it in my misspent youth, how much better off I would be now!

As for the rest, I think Mr. Saltfleet rather missed my point. It wasn't that this material isn't interesting - more that this piecemeal, over-annotated and commentated mode of publication doesn't really do it justice. However, my lament (in 2009) that we still lacked a decent Collected Poems for Tolkien, has finally, a decade and a half later, been met by a massive 3-volume boxed-set edition edited by Tolkienophiles extraordinaire Christina Scull and Wayne G Hammond.

WHICH I JUST GOT FOR CHRISTMAS! (all those heavy-handed hints to Santa must have paid off ...)


Christina Scull & Wayne G Hammond, ed.: The Collected Poems of J. R. R. Tolkien (3 vols: 2024)


"Thrills for Noddy!" - as some of the coarser denizens of my old school used to say when encountering excessive displays of enthusiam. Never mind. Damn them if they can't take a joke. It is quite a thrill - for me, at least.




But wait, there's more. As a suitable companion volume, I'd already decided to invest in another absurdly over-elaborate piece of book design, a new edition of Tolkien's The Silmarillion illustrated by its own author!


Christopher Tolkien, ed.: The Silmarillion. Illustrated by J. R. R. Tolkien (2022)


I look forward to rereading it over Summer, savouring Tolkien's clumsy daubs and line-drawings, and perhaps even comparing them from time to time to Ted Nasmith's perhaps slightly over-skilful illustrations for his own 2004 version of The Silmarillion.


J. R. R. Tolkien: The Silmarillion. Illustrated by Ted Nasmith (2004)





Curiously enough, I had much the same experience recently comparing two different illustrated texts of Tolkien's masterpiece, The Lord of the Rings.


J. R. R. Tolkien: The Lord of the Rings. Illustrated by the author (2021)


On the one hand, there's this sumptuous new hardback edition, with illustrations culled from the author's papers, which I purchased when it first came out in 2021. I mean, what reasonable person could resist the temptation of owning "the complete text printed in two colors, plus sprayed edges and a ribbon bookmark"?


J. R. R. Tolkien: The Lord of the Rings. Illustrated by Alan Lee (1991)


But then, on the other hand, there's this thirty-year old veteran I picked up second-hand a couple of months ago, with illustrations that now look rather prophetic of much of the visual imagery of the feature films.

Not, perhaps, that that's all that surprising when you consider that Alan Lee (together with Canadian illustrator John Howe) was one of the two main concept designers on The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001-03) - as well as working on its prequel, The Hobbit (2012-14).

There's never a shortage of arguments for getting new books, unfortunately - it's persuading yourself that you can jettison some, or (better still) not buy them in the first place, which is hard.




J. R. R. Tolkien: The Hobbit. Illustrated by the author (2023)


I'm not falling for this one, though. I can promise you that! I mean, who needs it? I already own a nice old hardback copy of the original edition, which was already "illustrated by the author":


J. R. R. Tolkien: The Hobbit (1937 / 1974)


And, if that's not enough, I also have copies of the two books below which (between them) surely provide more Hobbit-iana than even the most exigent fan could require:


Douglas A. Andersen, ed.: The Annotated Hobbit (1988 / 2002)



John Rateliff: The History of the Hobbit (2007 / 2011)





What else? Well, there's an intriguing new addition to the Heaney canon, to stand alongside Marco Sonzogni's excellent 2022 edition of The Translations of Seamus Heaney:


Christopher Reid, ed.: The Letters of Seamus Heaney (2024)


There's also the latest Murakami novel, of which I have high hopes after a couple of duds from the Japanese literary superstar:


Haruki Murakami: The City and Its Uncertain Walls. Trans. Philip Gabriel (2023 / 2024)





J. R. R. Tolkien (1895-1973)


To return to Tolkien, though ("Tollers" to his friends - just as C. S. Lewis was "Jack" and his brother Major W. H. Lewis "Warnie").

If by any chance you're still having difficulties disentangling the relationships between his various works: the two main ones published during his lifetime - The Hobbit (1937) & The Lord of the Rings (1954-55) - and that other, posthumous compilation - The Silmarillion (1977); together with its myriad supplementary texts - you could certainly do worse than have a quick squiz at the diagram below:


Ian Alexander: Tolkien's Legendarium (2021)


Clear as crystal, wouldn't you say? In any case, this is just to wish you all a similarly

MERRY CHRISTMAS
& A Happy New Year



Monday, August 15, 2011

Under which king?


[Stephen King: 11/22/63 (due out November 2011)]


Under which king, Bezonian?
Speak, or die ...

So the ranting, bombastic soldier Pistol to poor Justice Shallow in Henry IV, Part Two. I don't want to put you on the spot to quite the same extent, but the other day, when I found myself pre-ordering various novels online, I began to wonder when and how it is that an author crosses over from a subject in which one takes a general interest to an indispensable, habit-forming drug.

I realised that had happened with Stephen King when I ceased to be able to wait for his books to appear in paperback (let alone in second-hand shops) before I bought and devoured them. I think that happened somewhere around the time of Needful Things (1991), a good twenty years ago. I have to say that the Master has seldom disappointed, though there have undoubtedly been some ups and downs along the way.

So it's not surprising that I would want to guarantee my copy of his latest tome well ahead of the crowds (and, given what appears to be the imminent demise of High Street bookselling as we know it, that I should end up doing so online).

What did surprise me was the discovery that there were some other writers who had imperceptibly slipped into the same status for me. I find him a bit frustrating at times, but there's just something so very congenial about the literary territory of kooky occultism and historical conspiracy theories Umberto Eco inhabits, that I found I couldn't resist the lure of his latest:


[Umberto Eco: The Prague Cemetery (due out November 2011)]

I mean, seriously: Prague? A cemetery in Prague? Nineteenth-century craziness instead of his usual medieval and renaissance craziness? The Protocols of the Elders of Zion? Umberto Eco? What's not to like?

That one went on the list, too. As did:


[Haruki Murakami: IQ84 (due out October 2011)]

Again, I have slightly mixed feelings about Haruki Murakami. The fact remains that I appear to have collected all of his books. I've seldom bought one new before, but the prospect of a 1,000-odd-page epic did rather attract me, I must confess. Even though I don't profess to understand him, I find myself compulsively reading and rereading him almost against my will. I do have my theories about what it's all about, mind you, but I seem to be happy to keep on reading in a state almost of suspended animation -- a little like the heroine of Sputnik Sweetheart, perhaps ...

An American, a European, and a Japanese: all novelists, each putting out another big fat tome later this year - more or less in time for my birthday and the beginning of summer vacation ... I can almost taste the suspense.

It did make me think, though. Who else is on my list? Well, just to continue the rollcall of global regions, there's my favourite Latin-American novelist, Mario Vargas Llosa:


[Mario Vargas Llosa: The Dream of the Celt (due out 2012)]

This latest novel of his hasn't been translated yet, and so it won't actually appear till next year. I did use to try and force myself through each of his new books in the original, but now I'm content to wait for the English version. This one is all about Roger Casement and his adventures in the Congo and on the Amazon, I gather, so I don't want to miss any of the niceties through my rough-and-ready Spanish.

I know that Mario has a lot of critics who find him a bit dubious politically, but I do think he thoroughly deserved that Nobel Prize they finally awarded him last year. The sheer scale of his achievement is pretty impressive, and it's hard to think of any of his contemporaries (Gabriel Garcia Marquez? Carlos Fuentes? certainly not Isabel Allende ...), who's still writing at the same level of intensity and commitment.

What about the Antipodes? Of course I have many favourite New Zealand authors whose work I follow. When it comes to snapping up each book the moment it appears, though, I guess the one who springs to mind is Martin Edmond. I talked in the previous post about his latest, Dark Night Walking with McCahon (2011). Here's one from last year, though. This is the second of two books of poetic prose he's put out (so far) through Dunedin's Kilmog Press:


[Martin Edmond: Hypnogeography (2010)]

Nor is it just novelists and prose-writers I follow. Here's the new book from one of my favourite poets, Canadian classical scholar (and all-around extremist) Anne Carson:


[Anne Carson: NOX (2010)]

The book's appearance - a long, corrugated, paper scroll in a hard cardboard case - is almost as eccentric as its contents. She's long since become an indispensable writer for me.

Who else? Here's another poet I find it impossible to ignore, British "laureate of grot" Peter Reading:


[Peter Reading: Vendage Tardive (2010)]

Reading has shifted his principal target somewhat from bourgeois complacency and greed to an even more extreme set of Philippics against environmental destruction. He's a very angry man. Long may he prosper.

Of course there are far more names I could mention, but I've tried to confine myself to those for whom there's no question that I'm going to get the latest book. I'm possibly even keener on Paul Muldoon than on Peter Reading, but I don't find myself rushing out to buy every one of the former's publications. An element of selectivity (as is only right!) enters into my relations with most authors, I'm happy to say.

Nor (while I'm on the subject) do I buy each new critical book of critical prose that appears by Umberto Eco or Mario Vargas Llosa. I do find I have to get each of their novels, though ... whether I like it or not.