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I have been thinking about this issue for a long time: where do you draw the line between pop fiction and literature? Why is a book considered as pop fiction and another as literature? How do you categorise them?
It is often argued that in our postmodern world there is a blurring between high and low culture. I agree to a certain extent, but I can’t regard the writings of Cecilia Ahern to be as valuable as those of John Banville, for instance.
When I ask the question, most people answer that pop fiction means that it is read by many people, thus it is popular. It is a certain way to look at things, but if we consider my example of John Banville, his novels are popular, they are best-sellers, however I would qualify them as literature.
I would be tempted to say that pop fiction is what is accessible to everybody, to the less educated. I know this is judgemental, but I think it is also true, without being universal of course!
I would also argue that pop fiction is limited to a denotative meaning whereas literature carries more connotative meanings. The narrative of pop fiction appears as flat, as telling only a story with a more or less well-crafted plot. On the other hand, literature is often regarded as carrying messages that are left to the reader to interpret. However, pop fiction could actually be analysed as a commentary on the society we live in.
This brings me to another point: what is pop fiction at a time might become literature at another. For instance, the sensationalist novel in Victorian society was pop fiction, yet it has now become part of the curriculum and is studied in literature courses. One might then wonder if it is not just academics judging of what is worthy or not. Although this is true to a certain extent, I am not entirely convinced by this explanation.
I am not sure I will ever find an answer to my question, but believe me, I will keep thinking about it!
At last, the day arrived! I went to see Beckett’s famous play, ‘Waiting for Godot’, at The Everyman Theatre in Cork. I wasn’t disappointed!
First of all, I think that going to the theatre is a great experience. I love to see the mix of people attending a play, I love the anticipation before entering the room, but above all, I love that feeling of intimacy you get with the actors.
As I’ve said in a previous post, this is a commemorative tour celebrating the Gate Theatre’s 80th anniversary, but also the 20th anniversary since the play was first produced by the Gate Theatre on Beckett’s request. With the exception of Johnny Murphy who only joined the cast in 1991, this 2008 production is acted by the original cast from 1988, that is Barry McGovern, Stephen Brennan, and Alan Stanford. I was particularly delighted to see Barry McGovern in a Beckett play, he is considered a master of Beckett and he did work with him a lot, so I believe that such a production is close to what Beckett would have done himself. Plus, I love Barry McGovern’s voice!!
I knew what to expect as I have read all of Beckett’s plays and studied ‘Waiting for Godot’ a few years ago, however I noticed that a few seats were empty after the interval. It made me smile and reminded me of the fact that when the play was first produced in France and in England the audience would often be dimayed and leave the room altogether! Indeed, it is difficult to know what to make of ‘Waiting for Godot’, or of any of Beckett’s plays for that matter. However, ‘Waiting for Godot’ is probably one of his most accessible plays since humour still seem to outweight that gloomy vision of human existence Beckett is often tagged with.
‘Waiting for Godot’ is a play about waiting and how to fill the time while waiting. It points at the pointlessness of human existence, when only one thing is certain, that we are all waiting to die.
“What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come” (Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot)
So, along with Vladimir and Estragon, last night I did wait…. And as Beckett’s plays often highlight it’s always more pleasant to wait with company than on one’s own, even if it does not make the waiting anymore logical.
And to give you a little taste, here are two extracts from the film, with the same actors… Enjoy!
I recently took this picture of a ladybird, and I wanted to share it with you. While trying to find something to say on the ladybird, I discovered that this insect was named bóín Dé in Irish, which means “God’s little cow”. In French, it is called “bête à bon Dieu” (“God’s animal”). I like the way the animal in one language is a little cow in another!
I’ve also come across this nice poem by Victor Hugo:
La Coccinelle
Elle me dit : Quelque chose
Me tourmente. Et j’aperçus
Son cou de neige, et, dessus,
Un petit insecte rose.
J’aurais dû, -mais, sage ou fou,
À seize ans on est farouche, -
Voir le baiser sur sa bouche
Plus que l’insecte à son cou.
On eût dit un coquillage ;
Dos rose et taché de noir.
Les fauvettes pour nous voir
Se penchaient dans le feuillage.
Sa bouche fraîche était là ;
Je me courbais sur la belle,
Et je pris la coccinelle ;
Mais le baiser s’envola.
- Fils, apprends comme on me nomme,
Dit l’insecte du ciel bleu,
Les bêtes sont au bon Dieu,
Mais la bêtise est à l’homme.
And in English… (my own translation):
The Ladybird
And she told me: Something
Is bothering me. And I saw
Her snow-white neck, and, above it,
A little pink insect.
I should have, – but wise or mad,
At sixteen one is timid –
Seen the kiss on her mouth
More than the bug on her neck.
It looked like a shellfish;
Pink back dotted with black.
To see us, the warblers
Were leaning in the foliage.
Her fresh mouth was there;
I curved over the belle,
And I took the ladybird;
But the kiss flew away.
- Son, Learn how I am named,
Said the bug from the blue sky,
Animals belong to God,
But foolishness belongs to man.
Since I finished my exams, I have been reading a lot; mostlylight books to start the summer easily. I’ve come across Peter Mayle’s book, A Year in Provence, and I really enjoyed it. It is not a major book, but a very entertaining one.
As the title states, the book is about the author’s first year in Provence. It is nicely written and one is easily absorbed by it. At first, I was afraid the book would be all about food, describing meals in details. However, this is not the case, it does mention food, but it is nicely balanced with other aspects of rural life in Provence. What I mostly liked about it was how Peter Mayle managed to create an atmosphere, I could even feel the sun shine! It is full of local colour: the markets, the food, the wine, and people from the region. If you fancy a delightful light read, that’s the book for you!
“You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino’s new novel, If on a winter’s night a traveller. Relax. Concentrate. Dispel every other thought. Let the world around you fade. Best to close the door; the TV is always on in the next room. Tell the others right away, “No, I don’t want to watch TV!” Raise your voice – they won’t hear you otherwise – “I’m reading! I don’t want to be disturbed!” Maybe they haven’t heard you, with all that racket; speak louder, yell: “I’m beginning to read Italo Calvino’s new novel!” Or if you prefer, don’t say anything; just hope they’ll leave you alone.”
That’s how Calvino’s novel starts, addressing you, the reader. The first chapter describes the preparation before starting the book and describes the reader’s anticipation at reading it. It’s not until the end of the first chapter that you, and ‘you’, actually start reading If on a winter’s night a traveller. However, after a few pages, your reading of the novel is interrupted because of defective printing. You are then back to the original narrative to see ‘you’ going to the bookshop to get a replacement copy. There, ‘you’ meets Ludmilla, another reader to whom the same problem has happened. The whole novel keeps alternating between the original narrative and books-within-the-book, which are interrupted for one reason or another. There are a multitude of plots, but the central one is a love story between the two readers, and between them and books. It is a self-reflexive narrative that considers the process of reading, writing, and translating. It is confusing, but certainly most enjoyable. I loved it and would definitely recommend it!
I’m far too excited to keep this to myself! I’ve just been told that the Gate theatre are doing a tour through Ireland staging their production of ‘Waiting For Godot’. That means that Barry McGovern will be playing in it! It should be good!
First thing tomorrow, I’m ringing to book my ticket! Can’t wait! I will have to though, since it’s not until September…
I reread ‘The Little Prince’ last night. Actually no, it was the first time I was reading the translation. My grandmother used to read this story to me when I was a kid and I reread it a few times when growing up. I happened to come across a copy of it in English a few weeks ago, and thought ‘why not, it’s been a long time I haven’t read it’. Although I try to avoid translations as much as possible, I still enjoyed the read.
It hasn’t lost any of its freshness and childish innocence. However, behind the light tale are serious concerns. ‘Le Petit Prince’ points to the absurdity of human life. It shows how by growing up as adults, we have lost sight of what’s really important in life. We have become too serious, individualistic, and are unable to reach true happiness. ‘Le Petit Prince’ warns us about the dangers of forgetting how to love with the heart rather than with the eyes, and reminds us how to give a sense to our lives. As the fox says:
“On ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur. L’essentiel est invisible pour les yeux” (“It is only with one’s heart that one can see clearly. What is essential is invisible to the eyes”)
I think this book should be on every bookshelf, it is definitely a beautiful tale of love.
Last night, I went to see a production of Beckett’s ‘First Love’ by the Gare St Lazare Players at the Half Moon in Cork. I couldn’t miss that! It was the first time I ever saw something by Beckett on stage, and I wasn’t disappointed. It was brilliant!
In a few words, the story is that of a man who, after his father’s death, is thrown out of home and meets a woman on a bench (his new home). He becomes obsessed by her, a feeling he associates with love. After a few encounters on the bench, he moves into the spare room where she lives. After one night of sex, he keeps living there, enduring the noise from the clients she receives in rotation. Finally, he abandons her on the day of the birth of their child because he cannot stand the cries, these have kept haunting him to this day.
It wasn’t a play per se, but rather a recitation of the short story, ‘First Love’. I did read it before, but the performance by Conor Lovett gave it a completely different dimension. First of all, there was the man, Conor Lovett, with a physical appearance worthy of a Beckett character. He had an impressive presence on stage and managed to give life to words. Reading the story, I might have smiled, but last night, I laughed! Many would consider Beckett’s writings as pessimistic, I think they are just realist and pragmatic. Death is a certainty, the only one we have, and life is just, well, time spent waiting for death. Now, Beckett’s vision of that waiting for death might seem bleak to some, but I personally find it quite funny. It is definitely ‘food for thought’, if nothing else. Beckett’s characters do not seem too bothered by the apparent insignificance of their life, and his humour highlights that we might take it all a bit too seriously!
“The smell of corpses, distinctly perceptible under those of grass and humus mingled, I do not find unpleasant, a trifle on the sweet side perhaps, a trifle heady, but how infinitely preferable to what the living emit, their feet, teeth, armpits, arse, sticky foreskins and frustrated ovules.” (Beckett, ‘First Love’)
