Lakis Fourouklas's Blog, page 4

Book Review: The Golden Egg by Donna Leon

Donna Leon is one of the crime writers that don’t quite follow the rules. Even though she’s lived in Venice, Italy for more than 25 years, she doesn’t want her novels to be translated into Italian, while the main character in her novels Guido Brunetti is nothing but a hardcore cop.
The Golden Egg is the 22nd Commissario Brunetti novel and within its pages one would think that nothing much happens. A young man is found dead, everyone is certain that it’s a suicide and yet the good inspector decides to investigate because his wife Paola asks him to. Now that would sound crazy to any crime fiction fan who doesn’t know Brunetti, and especially to those that are used to the western clichés of moody detectives, with personal lives that smell of disaster, and who always find themselves in dangerous situations.
Brunetti is not only a good and honest cop in a country where corruption rules, but he’s also a great husband and father, who enjoys drinking coffees with his colleagues and wine with his wife and who likes navigating his beloved city with his own GPS: Guido’s Personal System. And he’s also someone who always tries to help out his friends, has no big regrets, doesn’t carry a gun, and works hard to bring criminals to justice.
The author doesn’t seem very interested in dazzling the reader with nonstop action and a plot full of twists and turns; she rather wants to tell stories about a city, its people and its customs, and about the local laws of silence that most often than not stop a lot of truths of coming to surface. And it’s exactly this silence that Brunetti has to overcome here to discover the truth behind the dead man’s life. So he moves all over the city, meets people, asks a lot of questions and little by little he comes to realize that a crime has indeed been committed, though it was of a different nature.
As we follow Brunetti all over the city we get to meet a lot of interesting characters: Mafiosi, corrupt politicians, a cruel mother, lawyers with no morals, people who prefer to turn a blind eye on a crime instead of helping the police; and the most surprising thing is that the Commissario doesn’t blame them, since he knows that they are right to feel the way they do. In Venice, and in Italy in general, it all comes down to who you know to get things done; this seems to be the message. Brunetti is no angel either, but he only uses his connections for the benefit of others and not himself. So, he’s more interested in helping a good cop getting a promotion than helping his boss out, and when it comes to office politics, he just keeps his distance. His job is to solve crimes and keep the streets safe, and not to parade himself in front of this politician or the other.
If you’d ask me to compare Brunetti with some well-known fictional detectives, I’d say that Ian Rankin’s Rebus and Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch come to mind, but for no other reason that all three of them are stubborn and only interested in fighting the good battle. However, even though the latter two have been through a lot of trouble, their Italian counterpart seems to be serene, as if he’s sailing through his everyday life, enjoying all the little joys that it has to offer: whether that’s dinner with his wife, a secret chat with the brilliant Elettra Zorzi, one of his colleagues, or reading his beloved Lucretius. Books are to Brunetti what music is to Bosch and Rebus: his favourite, though thought-provoking, escape from reality.

The Walk of Life - Chapter 3

What surprised her the most was his calm manner that seemed to border to insensibility. But no, he wasn't insensible, and he's already proven that, he was just peaceful. And the peacefulness that ran through his whole being was so obvious that it could turn someone else mad. How could that be? How could he be like that? It was almost out-worldly the way he talked and acted. To her eyes he was wrapped in mystery, a mystery that she was eager to investigate.
They were walking in quiet for a long time that night. He asked her naught and he didn't even try to find an answer to the many questions that have started piling in his head since the moment he met her. Could it be that he wasn't that interested to know how she found herself on a Saturday night-Sunday morning, sitting at a park, alone and in tears? She asked him, without words, and so he didn't answer. At the moment she thought he didn't care, but as he would explain later he was simply letting her to decide whether she wanted to talk to him or not. He didn't want to blackmail her answers. Besides, he had already guessed the reason why, so all that remained were the details. The truth is that she wasn't willing to share those details with him at the moment because of her lack of faith in people. And if she couldn't talk to the people who knew her about it, how could she ever tell everything to a complete stranger?
So they kept silently walking their path towards nowhere in particular. They'd listen to each other's fade breaths once in a while and steal glimpses of each other's figures, but no more than that. It was as if they were walking in the forest and not the city streets. They hardly noticed the vehicles passing by, nor the voices of the other night walkers.
She doesn't know, she can't tell with a certainty since time stood still that night, how long that walk lasted, and she could never guess how much it would mean to her one day in the not so distant future. That simple walk would open for her the gates to a new life, a life full of tenderness and hard truths, clashes and reconciliations, love and repugnance.
Now she shuts her eyes forcefully and paints in a masterful way on the canvas of their inevitable past. She paints them as they walk, like friends and strangers at once, in the old city streets, listening to the sounds of the waking day and the dying night, and her inner sight is flooded with the colors of a rosy dawn and his warm unexpected presence.
No, that was not the happiest night-day of her life, but perhaps it was the most important of all. It was the beginning. The beginning that would be followed by many endings. The beginning of everything and nothing. Of the nothingness that now fills her life.
When I'm away I feel closer to you than ever, he once said, trying to find an excuse about his proclivity to leave every so often, for his need to visit new places, meet new people. If I don't miss you then I won't be able to love you the way I should, like my ideal you, he added, making her smile, in melancholy. Now she feels exactly like he describes, closer to him than ever, as he accompanies her from sleep to awakening, as he emerges so serene, and angry, and stubborn and tender out of her memories.
She regrets it. That she drove him away. That he left her. But she believes that things happened the way they were supposed to. Did they though? No, she's not sure about that, she could never be. He keeps insisting in his letters that everything happens for a reason, and that the pain of parting is far better than the daily death of life, and things like that, but she can't really follow his logic, agree with it.
Often enough she loses her head and then finds herself feeling like she hates him, she despises him, but not long after the mist clears from her delusional sky, and calmness, though unwelcome most of the time, returns and then she loves him again. She loves him with a lazy passion, almost drugged, because he have helped her find her own way in life, and then vanished like a passing shadow on an unending universe.
She's not kind to herself. She keeps asking him tough questions. She thinks that the answers can offer her an illusion of salvation. What would she do if she hadn't met him? Who would she be? Where would she go? These questions weigh in her thoughts and though she secretly knows the answers, they are softly killing her. She was saved by his love. He saved her from her own self and her false passions. He saved her from a self that wasn't hers to begin with. And she thanks the unknown gods of fortune for that, and she blames them, for the gift they give her, for the one they have taken away.
She feels strange. It is quite weird how someone like her, that makes her living through the art of word, cannot truly and clearly write on the blank page all that she wants, to put all the words in line and try to express how she feels. Perhaps, in the end, all her words were meant for him. But, maybe, she really doesn't know how she exactly feels at the moment, and thus she can't describe it.
Nevertheless, she is certain about one thing: that she is now poor; poor and rich at the same time. Poor in her day to day life. Rich in memories of the past one.
She's now wholly wrapped in a veil of sadness and she has no clue as to whether this self-imposed solitude could be the medicine that she needs. But, even if it isn't, that doesn't change anything. She wants to be all by herself. She's sick of people. People who have eyes that do not see, ears that do not listen. She's sick of them and they are sick of her, since none of them can any longer stand to be close to this great melancholic. No one can feel her, or even get her. And the truth is that she feels sorry. She's deeply sorry not for herself but for them. She no longer wishes to sacrifice her soul for their sake. She will not wear her fake happy face for them. But she's also sorry that she can find joy no more in the small and the unimportant, the ephemeral things in life. She's sorry that she can no longer give kisses in the air surrounding the ears, and exchange small compliments, extracts of lies, with the others, as the rules of social contact dictate.
And she's full of rage. A rage so fierce that seems to rule her every moment, destroy it, and which keeps her soul enslaved. It may one day calm down, weaken, and turn itself into something else, something completely different, but probably that's not going to happen any time soon. Unless, of course, he comes back to her. Or unless she meets someone like him, an exact replica, someone who will get to know her without asking her anything. The letter…
The image was taken from here. 

Week 11

Some people say that I'm pretty. Am I? I know not. What I do know is that I like to laugh, a lot. My laughter lights the world, my mother says; but she's my mother after all, what else would she say?
In the picture above you can see me celebrating the Festival of Water or Loy Krathong, in Chiang Mai, Thailand. This festival marks the end of the dry season and the beginning of the rainy one.
For three days (and more, actually) we eat, drink, and participate in endless water fights and have tons of fun, placing for awhile all our troubles aside. The water, as it flows, plentiful, seems to wash everything clear, our bodies and souls. This is a thing of wonder and joy for me, and makes me smile wider still.

I Have No Tears by Maria Polydouri

No, for you I have no tears anymoreyou lying night, with your jewelryand with your electric eyes.
In your call I remain silent like a grave.And my nostalgic songsand my loves like a shredded thread are they.
I used to believe in your beauty onceand a heart I'd become full of pain.From your loves both and your nails.
Now I see you with horror getting close.Do not caress me so modestly,my hatred is the only thing you raise.
Translated from Greek by yours truly.
The image was taken from here. 

I Saw You by Ana Zumani

I saw you with love feeding an antYour father's pretty face touch with a tender handI saw you sacred symbols in books engravein front of rude people I saw you turn paleI saw you chatting friendly with a catand a love affair for naught turn to dustI saw you in the wood getting drunkwith the leaves' distinct aromain a now yellow prairie danceand to the summer wave farewell alasI saw you grow up in routine and also learnhow your life's mysterious web like a spider spreadI saw you indecisive at crossroads lie in waitand elsewhere signs and landmarks with red ribbons braidI sat in the corner so that I'd disturb you notthough as long as I live I'll watch and love you a lot.
Translated from Greek by yours truly.
The image was taken from here. 

Book Review: Unseen by Karin Slaughter

I came to Karin Slaughter a little late and perhaps that’s one of the main reasons that I enjoy all her tales just as much. Whether they are short stories, novellas or full-scale novels it doesn’t make any difference to me. Her writing is consistently good and so are her plots, and in Will Trent I have found one of the most likeable and unforgettable heroes of crime fiction.
What makes this character different is his flaws, which are a little bit different from those of his colleagues. He’s dyslectic, an orphan and someone who prefers to work alone and undercover, not because he’s misanthropic but simply because he doesn’t want to see people he cares about get hurt. One could say that Will lives in his head, and they’d be more or less right, but that doesn’t mean that he’s unwilling to live in this world, in a circle of friends and lovers; he just finds it hard to do.
In this story Trent, along with many other cops and agents from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation go after an invisible man, a big time drug dealer who’s currently moving his operations from Florida to Macon. The problem they face in finding out who he is and arresting him is that no one has ever seen him. He runs his business in the darkness and moves in the shadows, and whoever comes close to discovering his identity doesn’t live to tell it.
So, how do you apprehend someone like that? Perhaps the only chance the cops have is to get lucky. But even if they do, will they be able to achieve their goal? Big Whitey, as the drug dealer is called, seems to be someone who’s not only very clever but also extremely careful. Will hopes to get close to him by going undercover, but what if the man you’re going up against knows your every move right from the start?
The author created a tight plot, with some twists and turns, but mostly with lots of downs when it comes to her heroes. Every single one of the protagonists of this series of novels seems to be struggling with their lives, with their past, and with some memories that they want to create but which perhaps are never meant to be. Amanda, Will’s boss and kind-of-a-mother, has to fight racial and gender discrimination every day, something that makes her life miserable most times than not. Faith, his partner at the GBI has her own ghosts to deal with, while Sara, his doctor-girlfriend is not the happiest woman around either. Can these damaged souls live together or around each other and do their jobs without getting into some serious trouble? Well, they can, and they cannot. And that’s exactly what makes the story work. Their weaknesses make them human, and their humanity brings them close, and as a result they have each other’s back no matter what.
If you’ve enjoyed the previous novels in the series you’ll surely enjoy this one. But if you haven’t had a chance yet to take a look at this author’s fictional criminal world, starting here could be as good a point as any. This is pure, well-written, and finely-tuned crime fiction, and as such if you are a fan of the genre, you’re bound to enjoy it.
L.F. First published in Crime Factory magazine. 

A Eulogy for Love - Chapter 3

Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath.
Emily Dickinson
I think that during this day that's about to end, a lot of people came to visit you. Less will come tomorrow and even less the day after. Perhaps they'll bring you some more flowers, probably they'll offer a few more tears. In pain. Little by little this scent of spring and greenhouse will abandon once and for all your two meters of land, and you'll remain by your lonesome, a soul among a score of souls that were blessed with plentiful of love in life. I'd like to find for you flowers in dew, blessed with the sweet color of the sad twilight.
You know, some people say that love is paradise. It's obvious to me that the people who claim that have never loved much. Love is hell. A hell, in whose fire you constantly burn. It's also pain and a lot of tears. There are more people that have loved and were never loved in return than those who gave love and were repaid in kind. Love is hell, because it gives you wings and lights them on fire all at once. It makes you weak. It gives you hope but steals your dreams. Has there ever been someone that loved somebody wholly, truly, with blazing passion and never hurt? Anyone that touched the flame of love and hasn't been burned? If love was paradise I would have lived there, since I loved you passionately, blindly. But my love was pain. Not much different from now. The pain of your absence. The pain of your broken gaze. The pain of your whispering. The pain of you being there, but not for me. When you love and are being loved, when you weep and your partner wipes with kisses the tears from your cheeks, when you are in pain and a beloved being is there to comfort you, when life brings you down and a second pair of wings springs up at your sides and help you fly again, when you feel the world blowing up to pieces and hear a sweet voice whisper into your ear "Life is beautiful. I love you," then hell transforms itself into paradise, and paradise becomes the essence of love.
I would like to have even a little bit of talent, to be a humble painter, so that I could pick up brushes and colors and recreate your image as it is engraved in my well of memories: a smooth white face, sad eyes with a spark hidden in their depths, loose curly long hair, not exactly blond nor fair, taking shape by the wind's whims, an angelic body and in the chest a heart with two white feathers holding it up, illuminated by a pink glow, and on the lips you'll have a wide smile, as wide and as narrow as my world. There, I've turned you into an icon inside my head, but a saint you never were.
Smiling! That is how I want to remember you. I want your smiles to be my fortune, and the many tears you've shed I'll only think as a cacophony in a perfect picture. I want to forget the dark circles around your eyes. I want to forget the way you always seemed to bend, about to break. I want to forget all the things I've guessed through your silence. And yet I know that I will forget nothing, because of who you were, because of who I am. I couldn't since I long for all that has been lost. I will be always be the dream's ridiculous victim.
I've devoted all of today to you, looking at your photos, reading the very few letters you've sent or gave me, listening to songs and instrumental music that I've first shared with you. I miss you so much, more than you could ever imagine, more than I can possibly say. With a restless mania I want the thing I miss, I want you.
Your presence and your absence felt so intense in my room, small and claustrophobic, that I wanted to start yelling, to cry out in despair, to turn my tears and the many memories into a boat, with which I could cross the Acherusia lake to come and find you. But, despite what I wanted to do, I already felt that you were nearby, no more than a breath away from me. While reliving in my head all that we have lived together or apart, I've managed to reanimate you as a creation of my fantasy, a person that was there and yet was not. You came back to life as a single teardrop that didn't run dry on my cheek but kept on going, crisscrossing my whole body and spilling into the land, and thus passing into eternity.
The songs we've heard together, the lyrics we've read, our times of madness, the secrets we've shared, the smiles we've exchanged, all our confessions, the great moments that many people have dreamed but only a very few lived, these are the things that will always haunt me and make me feel a little bit proud about the riches of my yester years. And as long as there's a heart beating in my chest, your heart will also go on beating. My soul will always be the faithful comrade of your soul.
They say that death is the ultimate limit. Well, I refuse to acknowledge it. Limits were invented to keep us enslaved in cages not of our own making. Beyond all, above all is love, and it knows no limits. It pays no heed to the no's and the don'ts, it doesn't know what must means. We put labels on love, the fools. As if we don't know that love is the thing that cannot be told. Beyond place, beyond time!
Now, I want nothing more than to reach you, to stand close enough to you to be able to see… to see once more that very first look you gave me as I came along… all those tiny wrinkles on your face… to see your smile… to see your arms spreading forward to embrace me…
The lines written in Italian are taken from Maria Polydouri, a Greek poet.
You can read the previews chapters here and here.
The image was taken from here. 

Because I've dreamed by Maria Polydouri

Why doesn't the dawn want to me to smileand has hidden away its rosy shape?Sweet the dream today I have madewhere blossomless the dream's been buried.
But with no hope will it bless meas it remains dressed in grief,with a purple glimmer in its facewhich in blurry tears suffocates.
Oh, had it remembered that oncein the winds of autumn pastthat for the blue ether I had longed forof the dream, before the evensong call.
And that it would come where my bitterlife has finally tilted blossomless finally,to give me a sweet smile and spread hitherher flowers' rosy secrets tenderly.
Translated from Greek by yours truly.
The image was taken from here. 

Ana Zumani - Eros

I want to undertake your protection and care on a spiritual, psychological and bodily level.
To preserve it and multiply it every hour and every moment - with the strength of Eros.
I want to be for your precious machine whatever fresh air and pure nourishment is to it.
A tonic of its divine resemblances.
And if one day my magical allure is gone, I want to simply vanish from your life, with my memory full of those sacred days and nights, when you used to rhythmically grow with my every breath.
Translated by yours truly from Greek.
The image was taken from here. 

Shut up

Don't tell me what I can and cannot do.I can do everything.Since always.But what for me matters the most isthe moment.And every moment is different.It once leads me one way and then the other.My dreams can wait.But not for long.Let your dreams for me waitthey'll never come true.I was born free a master of myselfand not your underling.And if I've chosen some forms of slaverythey were part of my learning processa process that doesn't seem to seek to cometo an end.I have not forgotten your words and exhortationsbut I never wanted to partaketo the secret of the daily miserythat you call life.Your way of thinking is ephemeral andit's only purpose is the transient vindicationof your expectations.I think of the paststudy the presentand visualize without even tryingthe future.So, at long last you should shut upand let me be myselfmy own rulerand if your dreams for me don't come trueworry notmine one day will.
This was originally written in Greek.
The image was taken from here.