19
Followers
19
Following
M Sarki
Besides being a poet with four collections published, M Sarki is a painter, film maker, and photographer. He likes fine coffee and long walks.
M Sarki has written, directed, and produced six short films titled Gnoman's Bois de Rose, Biscuits and Striola , The Tools of Migrant Hunters, My Father's Kitchen, GL, and Cropped Out 2010. More details to follow. Also the author of the feature film screenplay, Alphonso Bow.
Currently reading
L'Appart: The Delights and Disasters of Making My Paris Home
We Learn Nothing: Essays
Elmet: LONGLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE 2017
Limbo, and Other Places I Have Lived: Short Stories
The Double Life of Liliane
At Home with the Armadillo
American Witness: The Art and Life of Robert Frank
Autumn
Inside Out: A Personal History of Pink Floyd (Reading Edition)
American Witness: The Art and Life of Robert Frank
Austerlitz
http://msarki.tumblr.com/post/72908914865/austerlitz-by-w-g-sebaldI love the way Max Sebald writes. His language is rich and warm, quite sophisticated, but still accessible. I religiously claim W.G. Sebald as the master of all dream-state authorship. I have never read anyone so gifted at lulling one to sleep and slowly, unhurriedly, in some leisurely way, unsuspectingly knocking our heads off at the very same time. My problem with Austerlitz is that it just never happened for me. And this is the first time Sebald ever failed to excite me. I could never get engaged with this seemingly-astounding production, and this saddens me, really to no end. I am quite disappointed. In fact I have even gone so far as to blame myself for feeling this way. The character of Austerlitz left me feeling nothing for him. I owned no stake in his memorable misfortunes. Of course I felt bad for his slowly-recovering memories over what made victims of so many in Europe during that awful period of our world's history. But the character Austerlitz never evolved for me. I hate to admit it but I just didn't care about him, even though I knew all the awful things that happened all around him. His story left me feeling cold.
In the book-blurb hype one critic said that the book "takes its time lifting off the ground", and I find that is true for almost any Sebald entry into literature. It is something I like very much about the Sebald oeuvre. But I kept bracing for liftoff and it just never occurred. I actually got a bit stressed and tense being so eager for it all to surely, eventually, occur. Perhaps at some later date I might reacquaint myself with the book and see if I might still fly. But in the meantime I suppose I will forgive him for letting me down as he has so often thrilled me to no end. This ends my study of Max Sebald. I thought I was saving his very best work (and last) for the end. My mistake, and not my first one, either.