Captain Corelli's Mandolin

This novel, by Louis de Bernieres is charming, funny, and one of those novels that, though brilliant, knows of its own brilliance and aims for accolades while reaching mediocrity.

I picked up Captain Corelli's Mandolin from the shelf in my room, because it was there. I'd heard of the movie, and seen an excerpt in one of the students' books in school. I figured I might as well give it a try, since the World War II theme is ever-popular (and often present) in conversations I seem to be having - with others and myself. Plus, I've been contemplating writing my own historical novel. So far it's been without success, but the thought still surfaces now and then.

The story takes place just before the outbreak of World War II on the Greek island of Cephallonia, where the locals live as their ancestors did one hundred years prior, simple lives without electricity or running water. A love story emerges, that of the local doctor's daughter, Pelagia, and the young fisherman Mandras.

However, Madras enlists once the war begins. He wants to be a hero and prove himself to Pelagia. During his absence, she loses her love for him because he does not reply to her letters (he is illiterate) and once he returns, she wants nothing to do with him. He joins the communists and holes up in the mountains with the ELAS.

Meanwhile, Mussolini's troops roll into town. Heading them is Capatian Corelli, a consummate musician. He plays the mandolin, and would like to become a professional in an orchestra after the war. He meets Pelagia, and the two fall in love, slowly but deeply.

Trouble brews in 1943. The Germans demand Italy turn Greece over to them, and the Italians refuse. A massacre ensuses, and Corelli escapes. Pelagia knows he must flee - this is best, the only way for them all to survive. Years (and I'm talking years) later, Corelli and Pelagia are reunited. Happily ever after, it seems.

The novel is expansive, over 400 pages, and spans several decades, focusing for the most part on the 1930s and 1940s and the occupation of Cephallonia by the Italians. It is ultimately a love story that incorporates war, music, a critique of antiquity versus modernity, and the idea that, according to de Bernieres, "history ought to be made up of the stories of ordinary people only."

This idea, though noble, seems to be the reason novels exist; histories are for the victorious politicians and memoirs are for the famous. As a historical novel, Captain Corelli's Mandolini did its duty. I enjoyed every bit of the gripping, gory, thrilling and romantic story. I found the characters human; I could relate to them, I could love them and worry about them and want the best for them. But, it must be said: I knew it was made up.  That neither changed my feelings about the novel, nor did it prompt me to dismiss everything I'd ever heard about World War II. It did make me think that there is more to history than what meets the eye in the average text. For that, I'm glad I read it.

But, frankly, the ending sucked. I'll have to watch the movie to see if they changed it to be more "Hollywood." I which case, I might just change my mind about the book's ending...

A Single Man

I saw the film by Tom Ford when it came out in 2010, and was impressed by Colin Firth preparing a role that was, in essence, a one-man-show with props of other actors (he was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actor but did not win). Mr. Firth, unfortunately, was all that could be recommended for this film. I thought it was a little too something - ostentatiously gay? Visual? Superficial? Self-promotional? I'm not sure.

So, I liked the movie, but not as much as I thought I would. I saw a spot for it on Sunday Morning With Charles Osgood and various commercial spots...it seemed a lot deeper and artier than it actually was. In fact, I thought it was actually complete crap, and Colin Firth's character was a sleazy and maladjusted type for attempting an affair with a student.

Nonetheless, I have been looking for some Christopher Isherwood stuff, specifically the Berlin Stories or Mr. Norris Changes Trains and Goodbye to Berlin, as they were published in Europe. I'm planning to write my own "Vienna Stories" and would like some inspiration as to how to format my collection. Since these stories are more famously known (and set to music) as Cabaret, and in that form likely Isherwood's most famous works, I figure they're a good place to start.

However, when I went to the library, I didn't find what I wanted. They did have A Single Man on the shelf, however, and I decided, well, any Isherwood is better than no Isherwood.

What I love about A Single Man is that George is overtly and unapologetically gay in 1960's California (before the hippies, mind you - circa 1961). Isherwood's writing style, choice of scene and structure, never let the reader forget George's sexuality. In fact, Isherwood's style is pretty sparse, borrowing a page from Hemmingway's book in that it has very little physical description of characters or place; though it is better (i.e. not as bare bones) as The Sun Also Rises, for example. In concentrating on  the sensual aspects of live, the novella is charmingly and grippingly sensory - not erotic, not bogged down in details or description, just sensual. The ocean scene, where George goes for a dip (naked midnight romp?) with Kenny in the Pacific is one of the few exceptions to this, but in its description, continues to center on emotions George feels, rather than the temperature of the water, as an example. And it is critically important to George's psyche - the ocean, the young man, symbolize George's rebirth after Jim's death.


I was pleasantly surprised that the novella far exceeds the film. Isherwood's character George, far from being the superficial, self-conscious and self-promoting type of gay man Tom Ford made him out to be, is down-to-earth, sarcastic and outrageous as only a gay man can be, and though wounded by the loss of the love of his life (Jim, who passed away in a car crash visiting his folks in Ohio), George perseveres, does not assault himself by minimizing his love, like society is wont to do, or falling into an almost-affair with a student - he more or less fantasizes about sex, but does not delude himself into grander emotions, or actually committing any acts. Besides, Kenny (the student) doesn't have much to offer George beyond a nice body. Aside from scratching an itch, Kenny's not much of a catch. He's pretty dopey.


The one thing I hate about A Single Man (which was ambiguous in the book, but more ambiguous in the film) is that George dies at the end. Why does he die, when the book is about persevering despite obstacles?! It was so annoying, because it implied that a person cannot be total, complete, without another person to live with, love, and more importantly, have sex with. Most of the time protagonists in such situations are women falling all over themselves for a man, but obviously anyone can fall victim to the mentality - the sex part almost always shrouded in innuendo in anything pre-Woolfe (or pre-Anais Nin) for the woman. Gotta keep those Victorian double standards in working order...

Anyway, I think it's ridiculous that anyone should ever want to be defined by another, in any way. Yes, love is powerful, and I think true love does exist, but it is not the be-all and end-all of an existence to get married (or move in together) and "become" that other person, or have that other person become you. Sure, people need relationships, another to guide them, help them and give them the chance to become the best they can be through love and support and faith in their love. And it is painful to lose someone so dear and necessary to you. But that does not mean when you lose someone, you should not go on living! You are still you, not the other person and you deserve to continue your life, perhaps diminished, but hopefully not for long!

Losing love and losing faith are not one in the same, and though losing both can be devastating, no one says you have to.

The Secret of Storytelling

Alfred E. Neuman of MAD Magazine

I guess I might as well be honest. I've been working on some non-blog writing recently, which may or may not become a novel...and this has led me, I guess, to abandon the blogosphere. I mean, to neglect my blog a bit. Not that any of my undying fans have noticed or anything. But still. I've been having a bit of writer's block, if that wasn't obvious from the post about how hot it is. Total cop-out, obviously. I shouldn't even be explaining it, it's so lame. And yet...this is what we stoop to when we have nothing of interest to say.

Well, I don't know. I guess I'm having a hard time focusing, or finding interesting things about my life to share. Or being able to put them in perspective, at least. One thing I've found semi-inspirational is walking through Vienna. I like taking walks in the evening, around 6:00, so it's a bit cooler, and the sun sets while I'm out. Since the Northern Hemisphere is creeping toward fall, it's been getting dark out earlier, between 7:45 and 8:00. I've also been taking photos of weird things I find in Vienna, mostly shop window displays, or graffiti, but sometimes monuments or people.

I went on a walk a few days ago and regret not bringing my camera (which is why it't on me at all times now). I was walking through the Hofburg when I saw this strange-looking couple. She was in a 1940's dress that grazed her ankles and lace-up heels, with a matching hairdo, and he was in a checked shirt, suspenders and a straw hat, more like from the 1920's. I was coming out of the area where the Lipizzaner horses are kept, and as I walked out, I saw them waiting to cross the road. I couldn't help it: I stared at them, trying to figure out what they were. Extreme hipsters? Reform Amish on vacation? To me they stood out as much as those guys dressed in cutaways and powdered wigs to sell Mozart tickets near all the touristy monuments. I'm pretty sure they were just tourists, and I'll never see them again, but next time I go out, I'll be sure to snap a photo of the Mozart wannabes. Anyone who's been to Vienna before has probably been accosted by these guys and knows just what I'm talking about.

You know the old adage: a picture says a thousand words. Maybe that will help me master the art of storytelling. At least it will give you something better to look at.

Café Europa: Life after Communism

wrong one, but it'll do

I recently finished a book I bought while visiting a friend in Poland. Café Europa, its contents as well as how it and I found each other, are of equal story-telling merit. Thus, I must begin with our first encounter:

It was a dark and stormy night... No, wait.

Krakow, bleak December. Just a minute.

Imagine you have decided to visit your friend from university who is teaching English in Poland, while you are teaching English in Austria. Imagine that you decided to pick the perfect time to visit, when you had a bit of time off from work because of one of the many, many Catholic holidays Austria celebrates: The Immaculate Conception. Which just happens to be 8 December. Perfect.

You arrive in Krakow early in the morning, having left before dawn on a bus with no heat from the small town where your friend teaches. It is snowing and freezing and it is quite possible you have not felt this kind of cold in several years - if ever - a dry, scratchy cold, sort of what you get in the plains of the American Midwest...for example, North Dakota.

Your friend suggests keeping warm above all else. You agree, your survival instincts kicking in. You dash into the mall next to the bus terminal, and suddenly everything becomes familiar...civilized...except that all of the shop signs are written in Polish. Aside from that, this could be any mall in any city in the world. It is very warm, and you think about buying a cup of coffee, but your friend scoffs.

"Don't you want to see the real Krakow?" she asks.

"Of course," you acquiesce.

You trot along the main square, survival mode breaking out again and quashing your enjoyment of, admittedly, a very beautiful city. The facades of the buildings seem to belong to the middle ages. The locals are dressed in fur and waterproof boots. Smart of them. You are in your normal black boots (decidedly not waterproof after going through snow drifts) and parka and woolen hat with a Green Bay Packers logo. Your friend suggests going to an English language book store, one of her favorites, she professes. Now you are only thinking about warmth. But, certainly, book stores are always nice, too.

Slavenka Drakulić

And here is where you find: Café Europa. The front cover looks interesting, but the back cover hooks you. Café Europa happens to be a collection of essays about life in post-Communist eastern Europe. Score! you think. This is just your ticket. For some reason, you have had a mild obsession with former Soviet bloc countries for the past two or so years. And the author, Slavenka Draculić, is not only a prominent Croatian writer and journalist, she hails from the former Yugoslavia (having spent most of her life in Croatia while it was still part of Yugoslavia). Living in Vienna when she wrote most of the essays (between 1992-1996), you think, again, this is perfect, since you, too are living in Austria. And you are not disappointed.

Draculić's prose is simple, yet poignant, informed to a high degree without being pedantic, and hilariously funny. Think the Croatian, female David Sedaris, but replace "being gay" with "living under Communism" and throw in feminist themes for good measure. Definitely the most satisfying 49 złoty ever spent.

*For those interested (and planning on visiting Krakow) here is the book store's website.

Post 100: Is it a Milestone?

Checking my Blogger dashboard the other day, I realized that I had 99 posts published on Wo meine Rösen blüh’n...which means in turn that this is my 100th blog post! Pretty exciting stuff.

Not that I rely on chintzy gimmicks like 100th blog posts to gather readers...or legitimacy as a blogger. I just thought it would be fun to mention.

I've thought a lot recently about what this blog does mean to me - what sorts of relevant issues can I bring up? How does blogging affect my "real" life? I've realized that, despite what I thought nearly a year ago when I began this blog, I actually enjoy blogging, and I actively search for things to blog about. My entire perspective has changed. I feel a lot more interested in the world around me, perhaps because I have a productive (or, "productive") outlet for my random and scattered thoughts. It's really nice, actually.

I probably mentioned at some point that I never liked diary writing as a kid. I always thought it sounded forced, or boring, or both. I admired great writers, biographers, etc., who could pen the entire lives (in excruciating detail) of famous persons. Or people like Anne Frank, who wrote her most private desires, hopes, musings, and expected them to be published. I always though my musings paled in comparison, so I quit writing them down. For the sake of posterity, and the sake of a glimpse of myself as a 12-year-old, this was not the best idea, but it happens to the best of us. Maybe I could have come up with precocious brainstorms, beguiled the page...but then again, what I remember of my diary entries was who liked whom in the 7th grade, and what the cafeteria served for lunch. Not the makings of the next Great American Novel. Oh well.

I'm getting a bit worried that no one reads my blog except my mom (who, by the way, did say it was brilliant). I don't get a lot of feedback aside from that, though I would like it made clear that I don't need a lot of feedback or encouragement to continue. I did, however get a disparaging remark from a fellow teaching assistant, who was interested in starting his own blog. I told him Blogger was what I used, to which he retorted, "I wasn't really asking you. I want to start a good blog."

He should speak to the guys at Google.

Wild Poppies, or: Recollection

poppies in a field in Amstetten

I know that I will have many memories of my time in Austria. One of the fondest, and yet more mundane, will be of my daily walk/run along the Ybbs. I have finally brought a camera along and will share with you some of what I see every day:

Doubtless, these photos (and, by extension, this blog) will help me remember much of what has happened this year. It's a curious thing, memory. There have been countless studies done on how people retain memories, a very recent one picked up as a topic on NPR's Talk of the Nation about our earliest memories: why do young children remember things from very early in life, yet as we age, we forget most of what happened to us before the age of four? Here is the article that accompanied the program on NPR's website.

Since I can get streaming radio on my computer, some of the copious free time I've recently been blessed to have (seeing as it is now summer vacation for me) has been eaten up by my "catching up" on certain things I miss from America. Including, yes, NPR programming. 

The show (as well as the transcript) was quite interesting. The expert brought in said that several memories of early life are attached to emotions. If a person experiences a strong emotion during an event, he or she is more likely to remember not only the event, but more details of the event as well. The most powerful emotions are often fear or anger (dangerous situations and arguments are easier to remember than calm or happy situations) as are shocking or new situations. This made me think about my own earliest memories, one that involves the German language, actually. 

I remember as a very young child watching news footage of the Berlin Wall being torn down. I was two, almost three, most likely watching the evening news with my parents. I remember the television we had at the time, an old analog dial set that fit snugly within the shelves of our entertainment system, next to my dad's record player and enormous white speakers. It's been a tradition in my family ever since I can remember to watch the news together at 6pm, huddled around the TV in the living room. And before the advent of cable, this was even easier - fewer channels, and less crap to watch. We did eventually get cable, but that was long after I had started elementary school.  

calf put out to pasture

I remember images bursting onto the screen, the ones that have become stock footage now - people in the dark mounting the wall, taking sledge hammers to the side, East Germans walking triumphantly past guards, waving at the cameras. My parents sat in shock, probably in disbelief. Watching these images, they knew that the Cold War - and ideological terror of the "other" that had existed since before they we both born, mounted in bomb scares, fears of traveling abroad, the destruction of "the American way of life," that had urged hate and conspiracy and espionage - would soon be over. 

And it happened overnight, quickly and without warning. That is why my parents sat shocked. I'm sure they discussed it afterward. This would change the way they viewed the world. the way millions of people viewed the world. And this was the era before the 24-hour news network, before streaming video and internet and chat rooms and information all the time, anywhere and everywhere at the click of a mouse. They could read more in the papers the next morning, watch the news again the next evening, when the reporters had submitted new information. They had to wait - they may have waited on tenterhooks. 

cow (mommy)

Although I, a child, could not contribute meaningfully to a conversation about international affairs, the collective breath of the world expelling what it had been holding back for over 40 years, I understood that something important had happened. Berlin. I remembered the name. It held weight for me. When I was older, old enough to look up things in an encyclopedia (we had a set in the house, circa 1992) I discovered many things (now all outdated) about Berlin: it was a city, divided, the new capital of a reunited Germany.

I feel that this experience grounded my interest in the German language, in Germany, in Berlin.  I wanted to see for myself what sort of a city this was, what happened there, how people lived. It seemed like a city with a fantastic history, a place making history, alive, being shaped, becoming renewed. As a teenager, exposure to the stories of Christopher Isherwood and Cabaret and pop culture like Nena, propelled my interest in learning German. Of course, these were not my only reasons, but more to add to my list. I had already taken French, and wished to continue. To pick up a second foreign language, I had the choice between German or Spanish, and (as I've heard from many other students of German) the odds were against Spanish, mainly because it was seen as the lesser of all the offered foreign languages (all the dumb kids took it). This is, of course, unfair to the Spanish language, beautiful in its own way; I have grown fond of Spanish after having learned it - given it a chance.

preparations for Sonnenwende (Midsummer's Night)

German, anyway, and French, were my chosen university majors. These choices allowed me to study abroad. And where did I choose? Berlin, of course. I was not disappointed. I fell in love with the city a bit, I think. I still have fond memories of my time there. The city was alive, changing, making history. Vibrant. Charming. Magnificent. A big city, but not too big, like London, or too seedy, like L.A. Plenty of history, but still plenty of future, too. 

I point to this earliest of memories, watching the news with my parents as a toddler, to be part of the reason I am here now, in Austria, continuing to learn German. Continuing to be fascinated by the German language, by the history and culture of Central Europe. There are so many things that could be said about how destinies are shaped. Some say it is purely the past which determines the future. Others say the past is only and example to be learned from. I would argue that memories, being an exquisite form, a representation of the past controlled and controllable by the possessor of said memory, are the greatest tool in shaping one's destiny, if past and future being in equal parts relevant help us determine who we are. Or who we shall become.

train tracks

I Want to Make an Impact

I've decided my blog needs some spice.

Does anybody really care what I have to say?

Do people who blog about their families, children, etc., ever fear that some pedophile is going to stumble upon said blog and stalk their children?

Do religious fanatics who preach the "word of God" ever have second thoughts after they post?

Do wannabe writers, music bloggers and other artsy-fartsy types ever think they will actually be discovered if they're persistent enough and post regularly?

Can the internet cure the ills of society, or has it already contributed enough (too much?) to the downfall of civilization as we know it? And, follow-up question, if we're going to hell in a hand basket, how come it's taking so long? Can we stop for a potty break?

Why are Americans so obsessed with body odor? Sure, some people are so smelly they're offensive. But doesn't a little b.o. remind us that we're all human? Maybe that's just me.

That Summer in Paris

Here is a testament to my lack of focus...

I recently finished (by recently, I mean yesterday) a book I bought in Montreal at a used bookshop, The Word. It came highly recommended in Lonely Planet, but was unfortunately disappointing when we got inside. But that is beside the point. The point is, I started it in Montreal and lugged it around since, to finish it...yesterday. In Austria.

The title, as you may have guessed, is That Summer in Paris, written by Morley Callaghan (who? Yes, I'm getting to that). Famous in his own right in the 1920s and 1930s, Morley Callaghan was a Canadian writer who grew up in Montreal and ended up hightailing it to Paris with the best of them in the 20s and became part of the ex-pat community, including Gertrude Stein, James Joyce, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway - and the less well-known of them: Robert McAlmon, Sherwood Anderson, etc.  

Furthermore, I have a thing about ex-pat writers in general, and a really big thing about the Summer of '29 - and most things Hemingway. I read a now out-of-print collection of short stories, Men without Women while I was living in Paris in the summer of 2008, finishing out an internship. The book had been left in the apartment I was renting, and, seeing as I had an hour commute every day to get from one side of the city to the other, I ended up reading a lot that summer - a book a week, at least. I now regret not stealing the book from the apartment, considering it has been out of print for several years and I am unlikely to ever find it the way I read it. However, I hope the current inhabitant of my former apartment in enjoying it as much as I did.

Unfortunately for poor Morley, he wasn't very popular outside of Canada, except for a few short stories. I had never heard of the guy, to be honest, and what drew me to the book was the fact that Hemingway and Fitzgerald were both on the cover (a first edition - 1963, which would be worth something if a) Morley Callaghan were actually famous and b) it were not a paperback). 

Callaghan seems to think, however, that he was the inspiration for one or other character in The Sun Also Rises and suffers under the expectation of greatness - don't we all, though? I was originally enraptured by his name-dropping, which, by the end became tedious:

"One September afternoon in 1960 I was having a drink with an old newspaper friend, Ken Johnstone,   when unexpectedly he told me he had a message to pass on from Ronnie Jacques, the well-know New   York photographer. Jacques had been in Sun Valley taking some pictures of Hemingway, and they had gotten to talking about me." 

No doubt, Morley. Surely his ears were always burning.

The central theme of That Summer in Paris is this boxing match between Callaghan and Hemingway during that summer, where Callaghan knocked the $#^& out of Hemingway while Fitzgerald kept time (poorly), against which Hemingway took personal grievance - his relationship with Fitzgerald was never good to begin with - and is coincidentally (or not) mentioned both on the first page and used as the climax of the story arch. Why? This was obviously the highlight of Morley Callaghan's life, and he didn't have much else to write about. Certainly it could not have been because the scene was so intensely interesting. 

I continued reading, despite flat prose and excruciating ego because I decided I might as well, having bought the book. And the funny thing is, I have a character who is Morley Callaghan - I just didn't know it until I read That Summer in Paris and could compare my ideas on the aspiring (but ultimately doomed) writer and his real-life counterpart (poor baby - would have ended up teaching in a community college were it not for Hemingway) which I hope will prove fruitful. Otherwise, I wasted $6.50 CAD and almost 3 months...