: Kirsty Gunn
: Pretty Ugly
: Rough Trade Books
: 9781914236433
: 1
: CHF 10.80
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 217
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Contradictions (both real and apparent), oppositions, enigmas, provocations, challenges--this is the kind of material that makes a life, and is the kind of material that, in fiction, one is never quite sure of. With Pretty Ugly, Kirsty Gunn reminds us again that she is a master of just such stuff, presenting ambiguity and complication as the essence of the storyteller's endeavour.   The sheer force of life that Gunn is able to load these stories up with is both testament to her unrivalled skill and an exercise in what she describes as 'reading and writing ugly', in order to pursue the deeper truths that lie at the heart of both the human imagination and human rationality.   So here we have all the strange and seemingly impossible dualities that make up real life--and pretty ugly it can be, as well as beautiful, hopeful, bleak, difficult, exhilarating. But never, ever dull.  

Kirsty Gunn is the author of novels, short stories and essays which have been published in over twelve territories, widely anthologised, broadcast, turned into film and dance theatre, and are the recipient of various prizes and awards, including Scottish Book of the Year and the Edge Hill Prize for Short Stories. She is Research Professor of Writing Practice and Study at the University of Dundee, and also teaches at Oxford and Wordpath, an online international writing programme. She lives in London and Scotland with her husband and two daughters.

Praxis, or Why Joan Collins is Important


“I want to talk to you about Joan,” Anne said, taking me by the arm and leading me into a corner of the room. This was two weeks ago at a party thrown by a mutual friend to celebrate the publication of her book about historic rose gardens of England. There were roses, of course, everywhere.

“It’s important,” Anne said.

So, past enormous china bowls filled withDancing Ballerina,Rambling Jack andIceberg Anne led me, the names of each arrangement written carefully on cards balanced next to them, along with dates and details of the gardens where they could be found.Whisky Galore; Sunset; Faint Hearted. She found us a spot behind an elegant high-backed sofa where we could be on our own, a large bouquet ofCelebration on a table in front to shield us. These displays, each one different from the last and so carefully annotated, were clearly instructive. You might have even said they had a part to play here. My eye, for example, had been drawn to a blue and white amphora ofSkip-to-my-Lou, set just to the left of Anne on a side table also crowded with glasses and bottles of champagne. ‘First planted at Sissinghurst, 1876, cuttings taken for Blenheim, Highgate and Kew early 20th C’ I read. There was surely something significant, I remarked, about the use of all the proper nouns. Something about a rose never being just a rose.

But Anne was having none of it. “I’ve made a time to see her tonight,” she said, referring to the actress Joan Collins about whom she was writing a biography. She drained her glass, inured entirely to the charm of petal and scent. “It’s important that a plan is put before her,” she was saying, “for the new direction the book is taking. It’s complicated, to explain…” She let her voice drift off, as though she was uncertain, as though something really was complicated, but there was nothing uncertain or complicated about her. Her eyes were bright and her gaze direct. “Joan is smart as a whip but she only stays up for half an hour at a time and there’s loads to convey,” Anne said. “So I need you to come with me.” She set down her glass next toSkip-to-my-Lou and waited for a response.