bookmateriality bookmateriality

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bookmateriality  Reader, book materialist | books/art/writing | SYD Australian adopted from South Korea Hello: #bookmateriality

no words
only these words (in books)
and pathetic fallacies
and the rain, in sheets, zig-zags, diagonal and vertical, and the pock marks the drops make in puddles
and listening
and crying
and sequestering and seeking ways to mobilise

Book lovers, we dabble in sorcery every day. The very act of reading can only be described as M A G I C ✨🔮How WILD is that?

People follow celebrities; I follow writers and their creative work 🙃
South Korean novelist, Hwang Sok-yong, signing my books on Saturday: Familiar Things; At Dusk; Princess Bari.
Also, Sydney Writers Festival release their program on Thursday, tickets on sale on Friday! 📸: @yonhap_news

Since Sunday, after finishing Georgia Blain’s Between a Wolf and a Dog, and weeping on my ferry ride home (pelicans grazing the harbour waters, becoming majestically airborne, their wingspan moving in slow motion; the labouring sun finally exhaling as it makes its descent behind our seemingly eternal line of sight), then coming home and reading about the insanely horrible set of circumstances that took place leading up to the publication of Blain’s book, I’ve been sobbing and weeping while reading, watching TV shows, and listening to music. Perhaps it was Blain’s profound ability to extract the heart out of human experience, relationships, infidelity, family, grief and death and press it firmly throughout the pages of the novel that has so affected me. ⁣⁣
A chain reaction of emotions. Does this happen to anyone else?! Maybe it’s a mixture of being sick at the moment, but books...⁣⁣
Forever the medicine for life’s ills. ⁣Currently self-medicating myself on these: ⁣

A collection from Toni Morrison to soothe all maladies: essays, speeches and meditations that span four decades. Thank you, @penguinrandomhouse, for sending me this copy. I believe this is the Australian version of The Source of Self-Regard.
“Certain kinds of trauma visited on people are so deep, so cruel, that unlike money, unlike vengeance, even unlike justice, or rights, or the goodwill of others, only writers can translate such trauma and turn sorrow into meaning, sharpening the moral imagination. A writer’s life and work are not a gift to mankind; they are its necessity.” - Toni Morrison.

Ruffled sheets and familiar bedfellows.

I exist inbetween the cartographies of writing and reading and observing and eavesdropping. Dropped pin to dropped pin and back again. Lines criss-crossed and zig-zagged, conjoined and redrawn.

Here is one year and two months of words, page-upon-page of words, the wisps of words, curlicues twined through the deep crevices of my consciousness. Impressed in the supple tissue of my muscles. Tendrils laced intricately through the ventricles of my heart. Sometimes a spear straight through the left and right atrium. Language sewn beneath the skin.
The print, the mind of the author - all their knowledge, experiences, and imagination merged into a medley, a meeting of the minds.
This is reading.

Thank you for all the kind words yesterday. In true Margaret fashion, today, I enjoyed books, a vego burger, and a beer to celebrate my existence.

Birthdays are hard for me. There is internal tumult: the disconnection and severing of my Korean heritage and maternal bonds associated with what should be a celebration of one’s life. Each year, the dull throb of what feels like a missing limb seeks an address in my body. And each year older, I try to embrace the celebration of my life as much as my temporally stuck self allows me to. I hold onto my lot in life, for better and for worse; I had no say in it, but here I am.

*low whistle* oooeee, Tokarczuk...⁣

“But the most astounding thing Marta sees is the sleep of the thousands of people who lie side by side, plunged in experimental death, in towns and villages, along highways, at border crossings, in mountain shelters, hospitals and orphanages, in Klodzko and Nowa Ruda, and further afield, over an area that you can’t see or even get a sense of. Amid their own familiar smell or in strange beds - the bunks in workers’ hostels, or the divan beds in cluttered bachelor flats - behind the partitions separating sleeping space from living space, in each house lie inert bodies with their arms spread wide, or huddled together, with flickering eyelids, beneath which their eyes dart restlessly. She hears the music of breathing and snoring and strange words blurted out, sees the involuntary dance of feet, the movements of bodies roaming far from their duvets. Meanwhile their minds see images, but they aren’t in control of themselves, those millions of people - half of humanity - who are asleep at any moment in time, while the other half is awake. While some are waking up, others are lying down, thus keeping the world in balance. One night without sleep and people’s thoughts would start to smoulder, the letters in the world’s newspapers would get muddled up, speech would make no sense and people would try to push it back into their mouths. Marta knows that no moment on earth can be bright and intense without being balanced on the other side of the planet by a dark, dull moment.” - Olga Tokarczuk (House of Day, House of Night).

Currently reading my third Tokarczuk, House of Day, House of Night. Flights was a phenomenal experimentation in form and writing, and Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead - a pointed reflection on animal ethics and the interactions between the citizens of a small Polish town. There is an understated, simple quality to Tokarczuk’s writing; but at many points in her novels a visceral and emotional element - a balance that I think is very hard to achieve. But she pulls it off effortlessly. “Marek Marek sat out most of his evenings in the cellar. There he would cry silently, without any tears. There he realised that his pain did not come from the outside but from inside, and had nothing to do with his drunken father or his mother’s breast. It hurt for no particular reason, the way the sun rises each morning and the stars come out each night. It just hurt. He didn’t know what it was yet, but sometimes he had a vague memory of a sort of warm, hot light drowning and dissolving the entire world.” - Olga Tokarczuk.

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