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Lily Markova

Autor/a de The Loneliest Whale

5 obres 27 Membres 7 Ressenyes

Obres de Lily Markova

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It's not often I review a book and end up rocking in a corner from the implications but there’s a famous Garry Larson cartoon, with a couple of puppies typing and one says to the other “on the internet, no one knows you’re a dog”. From the blurb, the author offers her own book as a faintly ridiculous work, a custard pie of YA entertainment, setting the reader’s level of expectation low. In truth, it isn’t as shallow as she pretends because it looks into the subject of a real phenomenon – how people portray themselves online. This is a literary topic when you think about it because, when given the option to be anyone or anything, our individual choices tell us a lot about ourselves and society’s condition.

Then, to quote another pre-internet scribbler about two thousand, three hundred and fifty years earlier… "To be a master of metaphor" Aristotle wrote in his Poetics, "is the one thing that cannot be learned from others; and it is also a sign of genius.” Some words are an indulgence sprinkled around far too easily, but that was Aristotle for you, although he was right about metaphor and not nearly as bad as Suetonius at hyperbole, with all that stuff about statues walking around. I digress.

You see, Lily observes, constructs metaphors and hides them away in tales that can be read like lullabies at an easy to miss-the-message level or in parallel for their true meaning. On the whole, readers who don’t see what she’s really up to go ‘duh?’ and wonder why other people give these books such stellar reviews. This time, the book is much less rarefied and more accessible than usual (suggesting read her other books twice and this one once) but, just as when a quality writer returns to simplicity, it’s like seeing a hand idly spin a few pointless circles in the air before you realise they usually conduct symphonies.

This isn’t a long story and isn’t her best, as my head isn’t spinning with blurred impressions from it yet but metaphor is its spine and that can be delivered without writing an epic. The comfy sofa style presents a friendly and unthreatening end of the world as we know it. The state of Inearthia might even be preferable to real life as, unlike The Matrix, the citizens know they are inside and quite like it. Is this closer to the reality of online living?

The thing is, the story is subtly crafted to explore that most natural of all modern human urges, to turn into online pseuds and phoneys (Who, me? Hey! So rude). How can I give anything but five stars to a book that sensitively mentions me once directly and once more, I think, indirectly? I suppose I could… but not only does vanity forbid contesting a compliment but I assess that the story is a good observation of a general habit amongst humans which has infected millions of us and that raises far too much insight to blink away, drink and forget – or hide online from.

There are different types of masks people use online and this name-checks most of them: acting older or younger, only ever showing your best ever image from years before, calculating your portrayal for the purpose of tricking others. No one would deny all that airbrushing happens or that they haven’t noticed the self-hype where people only present you with their ideal avatar or go to inane active extremes to catch your attention amongst all that clamour. Currently, that’s two lives, one for the week and one for online Sunday best. What would happen then, if ‘normal’ stopped and every lifeform on the planet was suddenly thrust into a virtual reality where no possibility existed to step out and reality-check anything? What a muddle that would be.

I’m so sorry I took over a month to notice, purchase and open this book as it’s humbling to be mentioned anywhere, especially when you haven’t been warned, but life has been distracting lately and my appalling habit of dropping people, everyone who becomes too close, had manifested again. Personal defences like the Ark Royal over here, hang-ups like battleship chains. Mind that coil. I do respect intelligent criticism though, as you shouldn’t give it out if you can’t take it yourself and you might even learn something new.

As a tale, Inearthia works for any reader because it’s presented as a soft story we can relate to, also carrying that bonus self-examination prompt on ego. People’s real lives aren’t perfect and they know it but they don’t want you to know that. Most losers would prefer to be treated like a movie star and not a moose for an hour a day, or they’d like their superficial opinion to be noticed, in between that cheap egg sandwich, radio and displacement activity to avoid starting the intimidating pile of ironing, or to ward off the unknown danger of producing an original thought. Is that too cruel? Markova’s characters aren’t super heroes or copies, they’re credible and quiet, used to explore ideas in a softer, human and emotional way.

That last bit on original thought is arguably my problem (narcissists make everything about themselves, so here goes) and superimposing other, brighter people’s thinking on my reviews and in my emails has put me into a metaphysical fix which I think Lily has noticed, hence the name-check. Metatron, The Voice of God, probably gets this type of intellectual counter-bollocks a lot (“That’s not your opinion is it? It’s His opinion. You’re just a vacuum, aren’t you? You don’t even have a neck.”) and as a creature of eternity he knows how to handle it (by booming at people even more until they eventually die or push off) but commentators like me at a different end of the audible spectrum can only explain themselves when they’ve gone too far with eyes lowered and a certain amount of sheepish coughing.

Before I drop kick myself into the sun over this, I’ll bore you with some imagery: Your stylish shoe hurts. Everyone’s fashionable shoe hurts because we’ve all prioritised how we impress and then walked such a long way on the side of this mountain in… let’s say it’s Mount Parnithia, as that’s hugely symbolic. The fashionable shoe strangely fulfils one purpose because it is supposed to keep nagging away and keeping your attention on small things to show life is suffering or we wouldn’t appreciate the afterlife, where your feet go up on pillows and they do free grapes. I love grapes. We are so used to coping with bad choices and making the best of them that we accept things which underneath are rubbish because they have a very thin veneer or decoration superimposed on top to make them look stylistically better than they really are (without being any better). I find that symbolism familiar because (i) that’s what people do online and (ii) for later this evening my outfit appears to consist entirely of nylon mesh which I’m going to have to scissor myself out of. The counter-intuitive message you give to yourself is don’t try to be better, just put lots of effort into making yourself appear better. Welcome to Ikea. So much effort, so many lives, we suffer not gain from this superimposing and achieve less than we should. Do we wake up and say “It’s only yourself that you’re deluding”, no, as who would willingly leave a daydream?

The mountain (remember that?) has a broken treeline with the broad brush thinkers and original creators above (Plato-types), the analysers and measurers a little below (Aristotle-types) and then there’s the woods (ordinary people who just consume) and a river below that sweeps all dropouts away.

Lily Markova’s natural realm is in the clear above the treeline, wandering unaccompanied and lost in thought. I guess she’s not self-assured enough to know it but her abilities are rare and will draw the attention of critics and copyists who should know their place in the deep woods, but feel drawn upward by such people. That’s me, just confused by the instinct that the Aristolean type are wrong because they think that if something doesn’t have energy, mass, can’t be measured or proven, it doesn’t exist and should be ignored – so what about wit, beauty, goodness, charm, soul and artistry? If they are wrong, then scientific method has missed a whole realm and we just might be in the purple poo.

We regurgitate learning and insight, heard from voices above, incompletely understood and repeated to anyone who will listen. It makes bumbling tree-folk like me (and all other critics) feel good. Some of us are bright enough to hear and present combinations of other people’s original ideas in new ways, as an artificial intelligence might learn to combine them with an algorithm. I think I’m naturally somewhere in the woods but I portray myself higher because I am inexorably drawn toward very smart people with fresh and interesting perspectives. Is that bad? Each time I repeat an idea without citing the person who said it to me, that makes me look smarter than I am and my vanity allows it. Yes, we use decaying old selfies online because we’ll, I’ll, never look that pristine again and miss those days when the sun came up and made us happy and work hadn’t got its teeth in yet. Yes, the laptop I’m typing on was a smart friend’s gift because I made them feel sorry for me so I’m not as self-reliant as I seem. 35% of all the thoughts in my head are things I read last week or other people explained to me before I offended them. The trap is, the crime is, when I draw from the same source too often and don’t cite it, so readers may conclude that I am really that perfect person, when I haven’t realised that that person’s ideas are published. I think the author guesses the online persona of people is always phoney but the mind behind each is singular and real. Actually, that’s wrong ending the stick in some cases because the online form is real but we and I collect other people’s clever thinking like a magpie.

This book is about internet personas generally and the insight delivered about human online behaviour is correct, spot on, but instead of reviewing it objectively, as I should have, I’ve answered from my personal point of view, under licence because of the book’s dedication. I’m far from brilliant. That’s an online illusion, although the statement does work as irony. I chirp away, signify nothing and if do I inspire someone occasionally, it’s because I want to get the best intellectual ideas out of them as they are writers with higher quality creativity than me and I bang my head unable to understand why everyone in the stupid forest hasn’t noticed them yet.

Look at this book. The way in which the life forms survive the end of the world is completely unique in science fiction. The form of the alien is completely unique and original, the first I’ve read about in years where the author did not repeat the mistake of copying an Earth body design. If this story is supposed to be an example of this author being uncomplicated, I would point out that it also blends originality, allusion and humanity into a subtle critique. It’s still precious.

As a reviewer, I don’t collect these people, ludicrously waving some insightful gift of fire from higher on the mountain and promising fame. No, they collect me on their journey, like the briar they weren’t expecting to get tagged by and can’t prise away. For me, the internet is an all-portal access to writers who exist above me and too generous to their public, either through writing books intended for all or by one thoughtful message. I love it when my mind lights up, but that takes provocation. It is inspiring to feel a glow of genuine talent from another and be drawn up from the woods to listen to them for a while. The relationship has been misunderstood if an author thinks original wonder or brilliance comes from their critic. Lily Markova needs to get herself a mirror.
… (més)
 
Marcat
HavingFaith | Dec 4, 2018 |
All of Lily Markova’s books have exquisite tragedy and depth and all of them explore issues of mortality in an intangible sort of way, the flight of the soul and transience of life, but this is the first one written with an age range of ten to late teenage in mind. That doesn’t mean the voice or plot are simple or the narrator talks down to the readers, far from it, it’s just an example of Lily’s beautiful elfin style captured in the elegant petals of a new folklore.

This is Tim Burtonesque, at the very least. A much better story than Frankenweenie or The Corpse Bride, yet equally artfully disturbing as Saskia screams those wistfully sad and gorgeously coloured characteristics that seem to define Burton’s puppetry genre. Youngsters love this stuff, big eyes and a chorus of bones, wisps of solitude, scampering pets with ticking hearts and all the time phasing, breathing the air between two realities. It’s the old musing that there are places in our world where you can break through, where the interface is at its thinnest and the pure of heart can slip across. The lucky, the blessed and those too young to know better can find such places, when the rest of us ignore the possibility. There are those who believe they can pass – but it is their minds alone that have gone over the edge. Can they tell the difference? Can you, from the facts they’ve gathered? The pure iron nails of reality feel uncomfortable in the human brain too.

It’s like this story has always been around, waiting for someone to pick it up and read it. A sword in a stone, wreathed in trails of ivy and patience. As with all the most intriguing folklore, this exists in the boundaries of what’s real and what isn’t. Even at the end, who can say whether the world this girl walks through is a genuine alternative reality, a ragged breach between her childhood places and another world, or a distortion of a worrying situation in the real world that’s conveyed through the loose perception and faulty understanding of a child; the only symptom that’s real in her mother’s mental pictorial cabinet of marvels.

She loves her though, a bird in a ribcage.

“Proper people” believe Saskia’s mother does not have the capacity to care for her. “Proper people” want to extract Saskia and pull the pseudo-reality she loves apart. “Proper people” believe in painful and occasionally effective lightning treatment and are cruel to be ki… no, no they’re not, they’re just cruel really. Screw them. I’m on Saskia’s side. You need to read this. It strikes at the heart and it’s a hell of an imaginary tale. In the guise of a cat’s cradle, this story chimes along quite unlike something newly written, more like something that’s always been there, only we’d forgotten.
… (més)
 
Marcat
HavingFaith | Oct 27, 2017 |
I tend to read Lily Markova books in one sitting because they’re so heart-wrenchingly cool. This one, the only one I hadn’t got to yet, took two sessions. Hmm. I guess that sets it below the level of The Loneliest Whale but a first book equalling the standard of a third would be expecting a lot. I didn’t pick this up and read it for a long while because I thought it was about someone dying of cancer, which it isn’t. Joy Cancer actually turns out to be the main character’s name, odd choice, so that’s one abysmal chasm of depression avoided.

Lily’s books up to this date have not been about everyday artificial candyfloss meaningless like dating, consumerism and cars; they’ve been oblique insights into the human condition, often first person philosophy from an observer with wide eyes for both the world of today and the shadowy internal that’s ubiquitous and timeless. Markova’s tales run through the Id (the now desires – I am thirsty) to the Ego (satisfying the desire in a socially responsible way) to the Superego (morality, right and wrong), then, amazingly, spin off into a new classification around the meaning of life and need for existence that disconnects from what an individual person might want. Some people think it’s about friendship, which it isn’t. Some think this is a writer caught in a spider’s web of her own mind and she can’t fathom it. Every one of her books exceeds Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, drifts up, finds rarefied air and loses sight of crowds on the ground who pace their lives by sales, news and their pointless meal times. Lily doesn’t seem to view the world like a human being looking up, she sees it in the way that an ethereal spirit looking down might, lost in time. How can she have this much life experience already? I want to hypnotically regress Lily to see what she was before – probably Buddha, possibly drunk.

This is not her best book, probably a four and a half stars job, but it’s unusual, original and timeless. This author is like a new instrument in the philharmonic, a new sound after all these hundreds of years, but wise and worthy at the same time. Can a library of the classics be complete without something by Lily Markova?

“I just – in order to write something worthy, I have to be unhappy, but when I start writing, it makes me feel so happy I can’t write anything worthy any more, and that makes me feel so unhappy, but not unhappy enough to write something worthy.” This sounds like a shallow and pretentious line that’s unrepresentative of the main body of the manuscript but I think it’s the author talking, not the character, which is why she hasn’t phrased it to her usual effortless high standard. The author says many of the characters hold views opposite to her own but the character Joy’s predilection for ending it all and her melancholy must be the author’s.

Do you know what this reminds me of?

We Real Cool, by Gwendolyn Brooks, 1917 – 2000

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.
… (més)
 
Marcat
HavingFaith | May 23, 2017 |
Lily Markova is the best unsigned writer of literature in the world today.

Justice, if you do exist somewhere in your ivory tower of airy promises, please read that line again.

I swear I will return and revise that statement if I find another rookie novelist with no publishing deal who can elevate prose to the same standard as Lily Markova, The Loneliest Whale being the current benchmark. The crazy thing is, this isn’t her best book but it represents a prototype of literary craft that forewarns of a pen-scratching ability rising up with every title.

Immortown is Lily Markova’s second book, the one from the shades, the bleak moments of dying candles and lowered voices, whispers at a wake, personal loss and an edge of self-protection, all drawn into a singularity of otherworldly unfairness that has become a location, a genius loci that endures and entraps in a town that no longer exists. Is remembrance useful or does it stop us living? Mortality then, as a theme? Cruelty and entropy enter the story too, again shaped by the spirit of place and the wastefulness of waiting. Not as soulful as her latest work, more tragic and isolating certainly, yet still mesmerising and exquisite in its realisation. Lily writes of realities behind the world we see, senses, memories and feelings all pictured as spaces.

Should I describe the plot? No, I don’t think so. I don’t think anyone writing about the shadows and the ruins is likely to have been at a high point in their life but discussing this would demean the colours and vitality in this writing, the stream of insights that show this writer can take a negative subject and bring even that back to life. There’s the summation really. This book is a pomegranate in the underworld and I think you should discover it as a path to her latest work, the one where all the lights come on and you’re aware of the cottontail sky.

Ok, I’m done but when you award the contract to design a new Universe, you could do worse than hand it to Lily Markova because she’ll give you access to more beautiful layers than the single reality we’ve been locked into in this one.
… (més)
 
Marcat
HavingFaith | Hi ha 2 ressenyes més | Mar 3, 2017 |

Estadístiques

Obres
5
Membres
27
Popularitat
#483,027
Valoració
4.1
Ressenyes
7
ISBN
4