Discussion

I happened to stumble upon this well-written piece and beautiful artwork and was quite surprised to realize that the subject and I hail from the same town. I have even met him (only while clothed!) on a few occasions. Generally speaking, I share the father's point of view: nudity is completely natural and nothing to be ashamed of, and here, it is quite artfully expressed. All of that said, I completely understand the son's point of view, particularly as I contemplate how I might react to a similar painting of my own father, or how my own children might react to a similar image of me.

I was also completely surprised that this man now has an adult son who appears to be quite an accomplished author in his own right. (I recall his father to have been something of a man of letters himself).

Ryosuke Saegusa do you think that as in the cinema where there were directors who appealed to the heimat of Japan and its psyche as in the case of say Ozu Yasujirō's films as opposed to the internationalist Kurosawa Akira that there is a similar divide in literature for domestic consumption and literature for the "West"? Or are those divisions passé?

Toby one could quite easily after "K" upset all those punters with an expectation that it will be "L..." and give them instead a number. But I suppose that is more the Douglas Adams' line of thinking. I agree re e-books.

I think this must be the truncation of a longer piece because the editing leaves too much unknown at the death scene. I would read more.

The storytelling is masterful, the prose is nearly perfect, and the characters, especially Sebastian, incredibly appealing. And moving. I want to read more.

I like this author, this story and this gorilla. I will read more.

I am commenting on what the commentors said mainly, since the work of art is unreproachable on any level. I think the symbols are not so difficult for native speakers, who feel more than they intellectualize, although I am not sure that the one who wrote that comment is a non native speaker. I only suspect.

This would not stand up well as a novel length piece I think because of the intensity of the cadenced, metered feeling of the text, again much more poetry in structure than prose.

Pronouns are tricky and I think that here they are only of concern because the "you" is the author, a woman, and the "I" is a man, AND the author's name under the title is clearly a female gendered name in English. If we had no authors name, or a bigendered name (imagine one) we would interprete the story according to the gender roles described about the characters inside the narrative. In Turkish there is one word only for the third person (he, she are not separated) so this tale in Turkish might be more direct since we would assume that the author and speaker were the same and were male. This confusion turns the pronouns and gender of the characters into a symbol, a ploy or a red herring of sorts. We don't know.

I had never imagined this type of prose, narrative and shortened short story. I think that the imaginer of that structure is more of a genius than the writer of it. But neither is far from genius. It is as others have said, amazing, in what it accomplishes emotionally and how efficiently it accomplishes it.

Siento una luz.

Siento una
luz en el canto
dichoso que
recuerda silente
el sabor de
un diverso sonido,
rezo en el
sol como un
triste presente.

Francesco Sinibaldi

any plans to make the podcast available to people who use other mp3 players?

Our first date and we’re in dangerous, forbidden territory. It is 1976 and blacks, whites and any colour in between, straight and gay, all mixing in apartheid, Calvinist South Africa. But this is louche, seedy Long Street, where anything can happen and sometimes does.

We walk back down into the humid smoke-filled, sex-laden club, not touching. Procul Harem's on the turn-table. I’m sure I hear electricity crackling. We’re combustible. His white shirt glows in the red disco lights, his face a translucent sheen.

“The room was humming harder
As the ceiling flew away
When we called out for another drink
The waiter brought the tray.”

He takes me in his arms and holds me close. I close my eyes as we sway to the music. I turn my head to the side and bare my neck.
‘Bite me,’ I think I hear me say.

“And so it was that later
As the miller told his tale
That her face, as first just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pale”.

Still together after 34 years.

Sorry, I posted this after the wrong article.
Apologies.

Your story resonated, but from another perspective. In 1963 we watched in despair as, one by one, families were forced to sell up, usually at great financial loss, houses in which they had lived for generations. Gone were my friends, my cousins too. My parents’ friends who had once vowed never to cave in, all gone. If a buyer could not be found, the government acquired the property for a price which could not be disputed. This is what happened to us. Goodwood was now reserved for ‘Whites Only’. A few days before we left, I woke one night to a sound of such deep sorrow and despair, I thought I would break in two. I stopped at my parents bedroom and in the dark heard mum trying to ease my fathers grief. I was thirteen years old.

On the morning of our departure from Goodwood, mum locked the front door and held the spare key tightly pressed to her cheek, her face blank with grief. I dared not look at my dad. Head down, I sat quietly in my uncle’s car waiting for them to say goodbye to the house he had built for his family. Then we drove off to start our new life.

As an adult , when I come back to South Africa for visits, I drive past the house, always slowly. It still looks unchanged, except for security gates and burglar bars. On one occasion I even considered stopping, trying to pluck up the courage to knock on the door; to ask to be let, but fearing rejection, continued on.

Spam

Afin sensacion.

Con la fuerza
de la rima esa
nube de viento
regresa, en el
dulzor de la
mañana; siento
el sabor de
la noche encantada
que lucida viene
regalando la luz.

Francesco Sinibaldi

Mémoire.

Quand le son
de la nuit
m'appelle
tendrement
j'écoute la lumière
des visages
solitaires comme
le chant du
matin qui décrit
le sourire.

Francesco Sinibaldi

Great writing Leila!, sincere, without tricks; as a reader I don’t get the impression that you promise an article, an opinion and therefore were force to write.

Send more please.

Cristian Fierro

Wow, what a great read. I've had very similar experiences here and on the very same timeline. It's gratifying to connect with such an honest and well-written piece.

A place to be seen...

In a promise
there's the
light that
always remains
like a delicate
leaf in the
dark of a forest,
and there, in
your eyes, I
see beautiful
skies and a tender
relief.

Francesco Sinibaldi

You should create spotify playlists for these and link to them from this page. I've done a cursory search for the first few tracks and they are all available...

This is hilarious. I wish I could see the performance!

London town.

The hot waters
of the Thames delay,
like a bird in
a charming breeze,
where a nocturnal
silence describes
a behaviour, and even
a sparrow, at night-fall,
flutters the wings
recalling profiles
of a beautiful quietness.
In that Abbey,
and in ancient times,
a feeble delight
presented a whisper,
but a stillness
remains, perpetual
and living.

Francesco Sinibaldi

Il sole appare ridente.

Quel sole
appar ridente
nel passar
d'un pensiero,
e quel canto,
innevato d'amor,
ridona l'eterno
e una candida
rima.

Francesco Sinibaldi

After the sound.

In the air,
with the voice
of a clarinet,
I hear a luminous
sound that tries
to discover a
little emotion,
a charming behaviour
and the tender
delight....

Francesco Sinibaldi

Quelquefois dans mon coeur....

Cette lumière
m'appelle, dans
le coeur de
la nuit, comme
un son perpétuel
qui souffle dans
le rêve la chanson
de la vie: c'est
la délicate neige,
la naturelle voix
qui rappelle la
jeunesse....

Francesco Sinibaldi

I heard Janine speaking on Radio 4 yesterday and was so moved by her feelings of guilt that she hadn't done more to help Nusrat. She has done so much more than most by just telling his story and the story of all those who suffered so much. Her words, in response to the comment, 'you can't help them all' were, 'You can help one, if you save one life you save humanity.' I have written them down and will keep them where I can read them every day. Thank you Janine, and God Bless.

El sonido de los sentimientos.

La noche me
llama, dulce
y llena de pasión;
escucho el aire
pasar suavemente
donde un vivo
destino cubre
la rima y la
timida suerte,
duermo en el
sueño de una
triste canción....

Francesco Sinibaldi

They were Bloggers before there were bloggers.

Nice to see the reference to Gregory Corso as well, I was never really attracted to the 'Beat' platform (being born much later) but Gregory's short poems were things of analytic beauty.