| UNDERNEATH THE BUNKER THE ONLINE HOME OF EUROPE'S PREMIER CULTURAL JOURNAL |
LETTERS
FROM THE LITERARY MASSES
NOTE
FROM THE EDITOR: Influential and provocative journal
as it is, it comes as no great surprise that 'Underneath the Bunker'
should receive more than its fair share of letters from the literary
masses. Due to the unbearable restriction of space in the modern
magazine, the majority of these missives cannot be published. This is
undoubtedly a pitiable disappointment to lonesome
academics across the world, whose year can be made simply by the
appearance of their name in print. The appearance of 'Underneath the
Bunker - Online' provides us with the opportunity to placate these
miserable creatures, whose variously worthy and worthless epistles
appear
below. Your own letters can be sent to letters@underneaththebunker.com
Sir, - I am amazed and amused. Your precious general editor Georgy Riecke is well known for taking pains to present a skewed double-image of himself - the brave cultural adventurer on the one hand, the craven ditherer on the other - but I simply cannot accept this latest admission of his. One has to begin to question his motives in this direction. What is he trying to achieve? I suppose he fears the 'broad outlines' of a popular personality. He cares not for cartoons. He pants for a 'well-rounded' character; a complex, multi-faceted persona. He craves to be considered 'human' above all; to show off all his frailties like military medals: 'Look at me!' the poor wretch cries: 'I say one thing and do another! How wonderfully and simply intricate I am!' Every now and again he relents, he retreats, he retraces his steps and wonders whether he isn't superhuman after all; whether he isn't the editor par excellence, who reads every book eighty five times upside-down. But then he stops. Convinced of his greatness, he can't help throwing his weaknesses in our face. A few weeks ago I found him harping on about his fear of dogs. Fair enough: I've met some pretty vicious terriers in my day. Yesterday, however, he posted on his so-called blog an admission which, to my mind, overstepped the mark. Following a rather dreary description of two faintly pathetic folk-tales (related, I think, to his thesis-that-will-never-be) he appeared to confess that he is scared of leaves. His excuse is mediocre at best - I cannot even begin to imagine how this sub-horror story of his could shake any man's resolve. No, there can be no truth in this declaration of his. Fool he may be - but even I refuse to accept that Georgy Riecke is scared of leaves. What he is scared of, I fancy, is admitting that the power of literature cannot really permeate the senses of a logical man. Yours, ALDOUS EGG, editor of 'Knockespotch' Sir, - In his most recent 'recollection', Georgy Riecke describes the meeting between Tristan Sard and Robert Sevré as 'intriguing and irrelevant'. In what way, may I ask, is it irrelevant? The only sensible meaning I can glean from this statement is that Mr Riecke simply cannot be bothered to remove any relevance from the fact. Otherwise, he should be well aware that, in his line of business, nothing is truly irrelevant. Everything is something, even nothing (by which I mean 'nothing', not anything that is not everything). Still yours, TERENCE D PHICHER, Wittgenstein Water Polo Institute, Warsaw Sir, -
Two things, good sir, two things. Thing one: a recent review in your journal begins with
the line 'tape up my sides, they're splitting again'. Laughter is
indeed an unfortunate malady, but I fear that 'tape' is not the cure.
One requires broken sides to be stitched. Stitched, I tell you,
stitched! JEFFREY
GNOSSE, book-handler Sir,
- Far be it from me to make a habit of pointing out Georgy
Riecke's
crimes (I fear there is not enough time in a life for such a task to be
ever completed) but I simply cannot let his latest misdemeanor pass
without comment. You will see that his review of Ka Naurauch contains a quote by a novelist
whose Christian name is the same as my own. I suspect, however, that
'Mr
Aldous Huxley' is, unlike me, no more than a figment of Mr Riecke's
imagination. Certainly, I have never come across any actual novelist of
that name - and I have searched far and wide (trust me). This begs the
question - will Riecke ever cease quoting from non-existent authors?
One can but dream... ALDOUS
EGG, editor of
‘Knockespotch’ Zweg, - Tsiskie schneg carbvitz el flĕbnag orb klek ĕmonnab schneg răbz! Merni Sertin loszt taub iszt! Nor ilm em 'p52' tier ăc morink ilber, kraw esct tílon. Gleknich floerak ăc horichneg laaub, engerlash rop, noms kacktash endé teeps. Läh zno mararaka hom orb bluerdiz em Horm-Ranish slarb kin losornor zi kiric taraw di. Ta likonich 'sprenik torbor' em acta lieber dornag inel aul öschnaulel flenk. Bah szenchy, P P
GRESZNIC Sir, - It is with regret that I must express my alarm at your promotion of the very dangerous work by Jean-Pierre Sertin, ‘p.52’ Given my deep respect for you and your publication, I must assume this was a hasty decision made without careful thought as to the consequences, the consequences to our children, our purity of essence and our precious bodily fluids. At first blush, ‘p.52’ might appear to be a simple and quite amusing exercise to be tackled by any person, particularly those who enjoy solving and even constructing their own convoluted puzzles. I cannot help, however, but be disturbed by several aspects of this seemingly innocent game and what it truly represents. First, it stretches the imagination to believe that the number 52 was chosen so randomly, so casually. Why not 25? Or 53? Oh, we are assured, it was most likely chosen by this Mr. Booth for no reason at all. I would happily accept such a notion if I did not immediately recognize some alarming clues that I believe are being used by Sertin, surreptitiously and most maliciously, to promote his own frightening agenda. To be more scientific, as the sum of four combinations of the first 15 prime numbers, the number 52 has major significance to mathematicians, astronomers and tax preparers. Finally, it has until recently been a closely kept secret that the British government has been stockpiling Adrenomudullin, a 52-amino acid peptide that is suspected of stimulating adenylyl cyclase activity in a platelet bioassay. How many ‘natural deaths’ can be attributed to the undercover use of this volatile substance? How is it that the author is so conveniently aware of what is, to most, a very obscure chemical? Once again, I find all of these things, combined, to be hardly coincidental with his choice--of the number 52. And don’t think for a moment it went unnoticed that, in the index, a page number was deliberately left out (to divert us) for ‘wooden telephone box’. I wasn’t fooled by Sertin’s little tricks. It took me an hour of repeated readings but I found it on page 52. No, 52 was not a casual choice at all. It is a little noticed but highly significant number. I fear - for us all - that Mr. Sertin actually taunts us by using it. I can go on and on but will spare you further examples of the danger presented by this number. I will only add, however, that I am immediately suspicious when sensing so transparently hidden an agenda, regardless of which it might be. You will forgive me, I hope, for feeling a strong need to express my skepticism and refusal to be manipulated so easily I have an even greater concern. Even if this particular exercise does not turn the weak of our society into atheistic anarchists (as well I suspect its purpose may well be), I am concerned for the health of those who might enter into this folly thinking it a mere amusement. Bartlebooth is an excellent example -he goes blind and clearly quite mad, dying a miserable death, torn by frustration in which he forgot the number 52 and became preoccupied with the letter ‘W’. I’m happy to point out that a recent study by Doctor Oskar Zweiundfünfzig of the University of California strongly suggests that forcing children to do puzzles (or complex exercises such as these) causes idiocy and hastens the onset of senility and even madness in adults. There are 217 uses of the number 52 in this book - enough to drive anyone mad! For these reasons alone, I feel measures should be taken to have this book removed from the market immediately and banned. I am reluctant to take so strident a stance, for I do truly oppose censorship, but too few people are aware of the dangers inherent in this number 52 and what it can do in the hands of someone so reckless as Sertin. Until public education can increase awareness and prepare people for the dreadful impact of ‘fiftytwoness’, we cannot allow the spread of books like these. Think of the disruptions alone--people missing subway cars while trying to figure out which page to bookmark (52?) and MFA teachers trying to maintain order in their classes (‘Everyone turn to page…?’) J JIMSTON, Editor, the Jimston
Journal DR FRANK NEMONUS,
Author of 'Written on Ricebread:
Surface and Shape in the Modern Asian Novel'
EDGAR
BOTTLER, freelance journalist
P. G.
VLETLERDAM
TERENCE
D PHICHER, Wittgenstein Water Polo Institute, Warsaw
DR. V.
ROBERT, St. Ignatious Hospital, Liverpool Sir, - Readers may have noted that my recent critique of the de Roquet rooms failed to answer some of the questions set by the previous reviewer. This is because I in fact submitted my work at the same time as Mr. Engreido - the ten day gap falling between the two being nothing more than a fiction etched by the less than graceful hands of the editor in order to give the impression that there is a constant flow of material being produced behind this magazine's unpromising grey facade. Had I been given the oppurtunity to respond to Mr. Engreido's critique in my own time, however, it might have run as follows. The man talks nonsense. Hidden meanings? I may be as reluctant as the next man to open the field of literary criticism to mathematicians, and yet I wonder whether or not their stinkingly logical presence might of some use in establishing the statistical likelihood of these 'word connections' of yours. Sufficed to say, if one takes the amount of words in the three de Roquet novels and divides them by the frequency of these connections, I cannot suppose that the figure in any way rises above the so-called 'coincedence mean' (which states that in any given circumstance some things will be automatically-indeliberately connected). I have no more to say on the subject, Yours sincerly JINPES
TERENK,
Regular reviewer for Underneath the Bunker (irregularly paid) Sir, -
Further to a
not unkindly review of my recent novel 'An
Everlasting Evening', I am a tad bemused by the following comment: 'you would be forgiven
for thinking that
there
ought to be much more praise heaped upon his bone china plate than
there presently
is..'. To what bone china plate does the partially anonymous
reviewer refer? I have personally examined the contents of my crockery
cupboard and have not discovered a single object of this sort; my
plates being constructed, it seems, of a much cheaper substance (the
nature of which, on account of my pride, I shall neglect to divulge). I
did once own a bone china teapot, inherited from my ex-wife's
grandmother, but I am compelled to inform you that it is no longer in
my hands, having been stolen from me last August by an adolescent man
wearing a teddy bear costume. OA
AAYORTA, Author of 'Silence with Subtitles', 'The Endless Winter Night'
and 'An Everlasting Evening'
MIKHAIL
KOHOLVESERCH, St.
Petersburg
LEONARD
TOTSLOY
(The Kafka Society, Russian Outpost. Author of 'Boar and Geese') Sir, - In the first of two footnotes following the excerpt of J T Marsden's 'Firelight Crumbled...' I noted a reference to Ivan Basiuk's attempts to plough a field with what the author has described as a 'desert spoon'. As I am a kindly creature, I resolved at first to give Marsden the benefit of the doubt, guessing that this was not the mistake that I thought it to be. For indeed, I am well aware that the 'desert spoon' does in fact exist. It is, of course, the piece of cutlery invented by the commander of the Desert Rats (a branch of the British army) in order that he might enjoy tinned peaches without unnecesary slurping. However, it has since occured to me that this same 'desert' spoon, whilst real, would not be a likely contender to be part of a Bulgarian poet's kitchen drawer circa 1965. For this reason, I would draw the conclusion that Marsden is indeed in error, and that a 'dessert' spoon - a much more common piece of cutlery, also used for the consumption of peaches, though rarely found in the desert - was the actual implement used - or misued - by Mr Basiuk. Whether or not this makes his endeavour seem more or less futile I leave to our readers' judgement. Yours sincerly, PEDRO
DANTO (President of the
SPCL)
Sir, -
In his
review of the Sträunhoe Festival,
Adrian der
Linger mentions a poet by the name of Eva Holub. Is he referring to
someone of
whom I have never heard, or is this a grammatically erroneous reference
to Eva Holubk, the
young Georgian poet? Or perhaps the object of his attention is meant to
be Eve
Hobul, the Estonian poet? Maybe the real person in question is the
Jamaican
word artist, Steve Holuba, or middle-aged Lithuanian songwriter Eva H
Olubic,
whose sensitive lyrics might well be termed ‘poetry’? So long as
misspellings
are left uncorrected and writers mentioned in passing (without so much
a word
of explanation as to who they are and what they do) it seems that we
readers
must be expected to live evermore in the dark. And this would indeed be
an
unfortunate state of affairs. STEPHANIE
BARKING-MÜDER Sir, - Further to Rebecca Minyon’s letter [see below] I fear that my bird-colour-song system cannot be transferred to humans, for the simple reason that the latter creatures have developed the ability to change the tone of their voices at will. Though some are undoubtedly better at this than others, the variety of accents, languages and ability to give or even attempt ‘impressions’ beyond the natural voice would ultimately make it impossible for a scientist to formulate any sort of workable system. As for other animals, there is no reason why my research could not be continued, though I hasten to point out that the lack of musicality in the vocal range of mammals in comparison to our feathered friends would make it very difficult, not least in the fact that it would take much of the pleasure out of one’s research. I have had much satisfaction listening to birdsong over the last few months. No doubt I would enjoy myself much less if forced to contemplate the strangulated cry of a vixen day and night. What is more, my dear wife would probably strangle me. Yours sincerely, TRISTAN
STEIGLITZ (Academy of Science, nr Murnau)
REBECCA MINYON (Professor of Vocal Psychology, University of Tunbridge Wells)
TRISTAN STEIGLITZ
(Academy of Science, nr Murnau)
GLENDA HARSTEIN, Professor of Postmodernism, Hampstead University
Yours
in anticipation of a
swindle, Dear Sir,- I have on several occasions in my life had the misfortune of stumbling across barbed wire. Rest assured I did myself less damage on such occasions than I did when stumbling across the online home of your ‘journal’ - Underneath the Bunker. What is this frippery, this drollery, this quackery, this preciosity, this whimsicality, this coxcombery, this charlatanry, this nincompoopery, this drearily disposed literary loam? Your grey background drove me close to suicide. As for this ‘blood-red’ backdrop you are currently experimenting with, I have yet to see blood of that shade outside of a primary school production of Macbeth. Surely you have taken bad design to a new level. I had already thought this to be an astonishingly amateur outfit: now I read (in ‘The Pathenikolides Affair – Part Three’) that you have not even got round to paying one of your contributors (and yet you have the cheek to print his protestations!). Sir, if you have ever gone anywhere, you have gone too far. Yours with barely concealed malice, ALDOUS EGG, editor of ‘Knockespotch’ – Europe’s Premier Cultural Journal (no seriously)
All
that it remains for me to do
is to burst the final bubble of your belief and give you the saddening
news
that, far from being a ‘great’ novel, The
Markoviev Cousins has been derided by all those who had the
misfortunate of
reading it. Believe it or not, the St. Petersburg publishing house
seems to have been quite
right in rejecting it. MAXIM PISKKOV, Professor of Comparative Literature, University of Omsk See Dear Sir, - Jean Massonet’s second instalment of The Pathenikolides Affair is not only suspiciously jaunty in tone, but also erroneous in factual substance. He describes a lawyer as having ‘stepped down from the ancient temple pediment, needing only a discus in his hand to complete the statuesque effect’. Though there are a multitude of Greek sculptures depicting athletes in the process of discharging a discus, it is generally well known that such figures cannot found within a temple pediment, as this space is normally reserved for those of a godly rank, most of whom have better things to do than throw plates across fields. Might I suggest the following improvement on his harebrained simile: ‘stepped down from the ancient temple pediment, needing only a winged helmet and decorated shield to complete the statuesque effect’? Professor CLAUDE QUENEAU, Head of Artifacts, Luöt Gallery Sir,- Is it not inappropriate that the co-founder and general editor of this admirable journal should be consistently and blatantly seen to be indulging in his perverse taste for self-hatred through the words of his junior contributors? I have counted around half a dozen negative references to Mr Riecke within the online journal (‘Slavo-teutonic slave-driver’, ‘notionally estimable editor’) and do not doubt that many more exist. Was there ever another man who loved to hate himself this much, forcing all others to do the same? EMILIA GONZAGA, Psychiatry Department, University of Bologna Sir,- in his article on Alexis Pathenikolides, Sebastian Cheraz makes use of statistics which claim that ninety two percent of European novels are explicitly concerned with the subjects of sex and war. These may not be his own figures (indeed it does appear that he is not overly fond of the statistician from whose personal research they were derived) yet he neglects to state that they are very possibly completely and utterly incorrect. Sex and war are indeed elephant-sized subjects, extensively covered in European literature, and whilst there is no harm in pointing this out, I am nonetheless suspicious at the wall of silence built over that other ‘great’ European subject - Religion. Underneath the Bunker contributors may well be happy to plunge their torsos wholeheartedly into the quagmire of curiousness for the sake of art, but do I detect slight hesitancy at dangling their precious toes in the reservoir of religion? MIKHAIL KOHOLVESERCH, St. Petersburg Sir,- loath as I am to admit the existence of pleasure within my heavy poetic soul, I must thank you nevertheless for drawing my attention to the work of Brszny Derydaripov, in whose poetry I cannot help but glimpse the influence of none other than yours truly. I am thinking especially of the lines: ‘like the ornithologist pecked/to pieces by a rare species/of migrating sparrow’ which remind me somewhat of the following passage in my critically acclaimed 1972 poem The Boy Who Fell In Love With Himself : ‘once there was a sparrow who/in a mighty temper flew/all the way to east Bahrain/just to pick a parson’s brain’. As fate would have it, this poem is included in a recent anthology of my work, published only a few weeks ago by WaterSword Press, available now at a discounted price of £4.99 J GARCONCOTTÉ – (poet, writer, thinker, self-publicist) Sir, - I am appalled by your estimable magazine’s decision to print D H Laven’s ridiculous piece on the tombs at Khum Tash, in which he suggests that art historians have shied away from the aforementioned monument on account of cowardice. In reality, the reason why the tombs have been conspicuously ignored since their discovery is that not only do many believe they were devised a group of eighteenth century pranksters, but also that the work is, in the end, of extremely poor quality. A good example of this is that the scorpions that Laven consistently refers to have been identified by other visitors as crabs, black cats or tripods – making ever clearer to us the murky haziness of this needlessly eccentric academic’s cocksure interpretation. RICHARD B MATHERS – (Leeds University) Sir,- in Robert Sordin’s article on the Estonian enlightenment (Issue 17, March 2005) he mistakenly referred to sardine magnate Karl Dimikov as the author of fourteen books of fish-related poetry. Though it is true that Dimikov did write several dozen odes to Baltic fish (including the famous work ‘Oh Sweet Sardine’), his poetry was not exclusively concerned with ichthyological matter. In fact, in the thirteen books of poetry that he published (why you have credited him with an extra volume is beyond me) there can be found poems dealing with a range of other subjects, from eels and crabs to the International Monetary Fund. LARS PIEK (Professor of Arts, Tallinn polytechnic)Sir,- in her generous review of my work, Heidi Kohlenberg raised the question of what criteria I used when selecting my line-up of Eastern European novelists, querying in particular my inclusion of Fjona Uu who, as is well documented, was brought up in Iceland by African parents, and my rejection of several important Hungarian, Romanian and Ukranian novelists, most notably Vitali Osmuk. In my defence, I must reiterate that my study was never intended to be about Eastern European novelists, but Eastern European novels. As to whether an Eastern European novel has to be written by an Eastern European novelist is no doubt a matter of such tenderness that it may require additional discussion; nevertheless, I believe that Uu’s experiences living in Murmansk and the style in which all of her novels are composed well qualify her work to be included in this study. Often it takes an outsider to draw light on a particular place: Uu is very much that outsider. As to why Vitali Osmuk was left out, great novelist though he may be, I must say that I sense something in his style that betrays major influences from outside of Eastern Europe, despite the fact that he has never travelled beyond the Ukranian capital. I refer in particular to his latest novel ‘Chip Butties and a Nice Cuppa Tea’ (Folksmen Press, 2001) GROSNOR
PADVICONAVIC (Author of ‘The Solidity of Emptiness: The State of
Eastern
European Literature at the turn of the millennium’) Sir, - life-affirming though it was, the latest instalment of Georgy Riecke’s beguiling series on modern suicide methods contains a deadly error. In the paragraph in which he makes parallels between Jean Roquetsalade’s 1978 treatise ‘Nine Ways of Dying in the Bathroom’ and the range of dismissals a batsman can face in the game of cricket, he seems to have overlooked the fact that there are ten ways in which a batsman can be dismissed (bowled, stumped, caught, run out, lbw, hit wicket, handled ball, double hit, obstructed field and timed out). Considering this, I wonder whether he might have been better off making the parallels with Roger LeTisse’s 1982 pamphlet ‘Ten Ways of Topping Yourself in a Tent’ BENJAMIN HOUSNER
(Department of Health) Sir, - For the third time since it emerged, your magazine has erroneously announced my death. Much as I enjoyed the glowing obituary that accompanied the latest statement, I do wish you would stop doing this, as I sense that it is getting to my relations, especially my mother. CONSTANTIN DOYEZ
(Still Professor of Spanish Literature, Vienna) Sir, - Much as I admire the need for artistic licence to hold its own in the sphere of critical discourse, I am nonetheless inclined (at the risk of spoiling your fantasies) to suggest a watering down of a story that has twice appeared on your pages concerning an altercation between myself and the eminent Bosnian novelist Hoçe. In one instance it was written (with accurate use of the word ‘allegedly’) that I was ‘pursued for five months across the uncharted wastelands of the Antarctic’; in another that this perilous chase took place in the slightly more hospitable climes of Greenland for the lengthier period of ‘forty-six weeks’. In the first case, it is said that Hoçe was armed with ‘poison-tipped quills’, whilst in the other he was said to be wielding an ancient axe, of Persian origin. The discrepancy between the two is enough to suggest that more than a modicum of imagination has been used in describing the event, which to no ones surprise can be said to have taken place in a fashion quite unlike either version. I was in fact in Siberia when Hoçe tracked me down after having stalked me for no more than five weeks, armed with only a miniature bow and arrow, with which the writer might have had difficulty killing a small rabbit. It is correct, all the same, to say that I fell into a sort of coma, though I suspect that this had less to do with the cold climate than with a particularly unpleasant sausage I was served up at a remote Siberian restaurant. Baring in mind all of the errors in reportage, I might at least commend you on having reached the appropriate conclusion. Having penned a cruelly vitriolic review of ‘Receding Rainfall’ it came as no surprise that Hoçe should have bayed for my blood (as many other writers have done since) yet I am glad to report that we have indeed settled our differences and, to this day, remain good friends. Meanwhile, I can only look forward to finding my name associated with further wild and fictitious adventures. HULDRIECH
GOLDSTEIN (Freelance reviewer based in Paris) Sir, - In Lucia Noisenbach’s review of Siegfried Günter’s recent exhibition of sculpture, held at the Boggenbeim Museum in West Düsseldorf, she described Günter as having been inspired by the properties of ‘Pleistocene’. Was she fully intending to refer to the Pleistocene epoch (the earlier of the two Quaternary sub-eras of geological time, generally considered to have been around ten thousand years ago) or was she merely misspelling the word ‘Plasticene’, which is of course the word for the colourful clay-like modelling material commonly used by children? If the latter case be true, may I suggest that Ms. Noisenbach might start commonly using a dictionary? PEDRO
DANTO (President of the
SPCL – Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Language) Sir, - Though I cannot say that I disliked Caspar Neitcher’s recent review of Yoy Ijit’s ‘My Grandmothers Pudding’, I cannot help wondering why, along with all the other reviews of this novel that I have seen, it failed to address one of the central concerns of the book. This is, of course, the question as to what would provoke an elderly woman to put a hot cherry crumble directly into the fridge. As any self-respecting Latvian cook will know; cherry crumbles are best eaten hot, or not at all. Either Yoy Ijit has made a crass error, or the anomaly contains a significance that Neitchir has failed to note. WILLHE
FÄÄRSI (Head of Catering,
University of Riga) Sir,- Judging by recent reviews appearing on the website, I fear that Underneath the Bunker has once again closed its blearly eyes to the spectre of reality, continuing to allow its contributors to ignore the wonders of translation and thus blunting their critical swords to the extent that chopping a soggy onion might prove somewhat of a snag. Not only has Caspar Nietcher failed to pick up on the many Latvian double-meanings for the word ‘pudding’, but Jinpes Terenk has somehow allowed the masterful wordplay of Oa Aayorta to sink without trace below the crust of his inept criticism. I cannot help tracing these failures back to the fact that the editor of this apparently esteemed journal is rumoured to read only in a single language, requiring his wife to translate into English the majority of his pleonastic articles. HOSÉ ANTONIO MERDELAS (Tonto Professor of Pescado)
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