LONDON (AP) — Australian literature-lovers cheered last Wednesday after Richard Flanagan won the prestigious Booker Prize with a visceral story of wartime brutality and its aftermath – a novel the head of the judging team said was as powerful as a kick in the stomach.

The country’s government may be less pleased. Flanagan in a post-awards interview that Prime Minister Tony Abbott’s environmental policies made him “ashamed to be Australian”.

Flanagan drew on his father’s experiences as a World War II prisoner of the Japanese for The Narrow Road to the Deep North, which centres on the Burma Death Railway, built with forced labour at the cost of tens of thousands of lives.

Named after a classic work of Japanese literature, the book is dedicated to Flanagan’s father – referred to by his prisoner number, 335 – who died at the age of 98 shortly after his son finished the manuscript.

Flanagan said that he and his five siblings grew up “children of the Death Railway. We carried in consequence many incommunicable things”.

“I realised at a certain point if I was to continue writing I would have to write this book,” said Flanagan, whose credits include five previous novels and work on the screenplay to Baz Luhrman’s Australia.

Flanagan said he had written five failed versions of the novel over 12 years, and burned them all. He said the finished book was not his father’s story, “because that would have been a failure. … He trusted me to write a book that might be true”.

Philosopher AC Grayling, who chaired the panel of judges, praised the “profoundly intelligent humanity” and “excoriating” descriptions of suffering in Flanagan’s novel.

Grayling said it was “the sort of book that kicks you so hard in the stomach” that it is difficult to move on.

Flanagan, 53, was given his trophy and 50,000-pound winner’s cheque by Prince Charles’ wife Camilla, Duchess of Cornwall, after a black-tie dinner in London’s medieval Guildhall. He greeted the royal with a protocol-busting hug. “Well, she seemed a sweet woman and she was very nice,” Flanagan said.

In a BBC interview, Flanagan was asked about Abbott’s recent comment that “coal is good for humanity.”

He said he felt the government was “committed to destroying” Australia’s unique environment.

“To be frank, I’m ashamed to be Australian when you bring this up,” Flanagan said.

Flanagan is the third Australian Booker winner, after Thomas Keneally and Peter Carey, and his victory disappointed those who hoped to see an American win in the first year US authors are eligible.

This was the first year writers of all nationalities have been eligible for the Booker, previously open only to authors from Britain, Ireland and the Commonwealth of dozens of former British colonies, including Australia.

US writers Joshua Ferris and Karen Joy Fowler were among the six finalists, along with Flanagan and Britons Ali Smith, Howard Jacobson and Neel Mukherjee.

Winning the Booker guarantees a boost in profile and sales, and can transform careers. When Hilary Mantel won for Wolf Hall in 2009, she went from modestly successful novelist to literary superstar.

Some British writers had expressed fears that the change in eligibility could lead to US dominance of the 46-year-old award, officially named the Man Booker Prize after its sponsor, financial services firm Man Group PLC.

Flanagan said boundaries had no place in literature.

“To talk about Australian novelists makes as much sense as talking about Angolan chiropodists to me,” he said.

Shridath Ramphal memoir Glimpses of a Global Life available Nov 1 

Shridath ‘Sonny’ Ramphal has lived a long and global life. He is a lawyer and international diplomat who led the Commonwealth of Nations as the association’s longest serving secretary-general during its crucial years as an international player.

Leaders from every continent engaged with him as he worked alongside them on issues such as ending apartheid in South Africa; laying the foundations for global concerns about the environment; the reform of global governance; and the resolution of conflicts.

In this memoir, Ramphal tells the story of the Commonwealth’s role in ending the Unilateral Declaration of Independence of Southern Rhodesia by a minority white regime and bringing Zimbabwe to independence; of aiding the struggle against apartheid and securing its end, and the release of Nelson Mandela and South Africa’s freedom; of the obduracy of Britain’s Margaret Thatcher against sanctions and the heroic stand against her by other Commonwealth leaders – from Africa, India, the Caribbean, Canada and Australia. Ramphal replaces conjecture over these dark episodes in human history with fact.

In these ‘glimpses’, the shadows of characters such as Uganda’s tyrant, Idi Amin, are recalled, as are the enlightened spirits of others like Germany’s Willy Brandt and Nelson Mandela – all of whom Ramphal encountered in his global life.

The book is also a remarkable account of the Caribbean’s ambivalence about integration. As an insider from the formation of the West Indies Federation; its collapse; the creation of CARIFTA and Caricom in the effort to pool the individual sovereignty of each country into a beneficial whole; and the seminal work of the West Indian Commission in charting the course for the region’s holistic development, Ramphal recounts the opportunities, the failures to act on them, and the triumphs when regional governments acted together.

US-Latin American engagements and the effort to shake off US hegemony also form part of the revealing narrative of this book including debates with US Secretary of State Henry Kissinger.

The background stories behind the global Commissions of the 1980s and engagement with Edward Heath, Gro Brundtland, Ingvar Carlsson, Olof Palme, David Owen, Salim Salim and Cyrus Vance as they all worked to manage the crucial issues of the environment, disarmament, development, and security are put into perspective in ways that light a pathway to the future.

Glimpses of a Global Life

Available from: amazon.co.uk, waterstones.com, foyles.co.uk and hansibpublications.com

ISBN: 978-1-906190-92-7

Schwapp’s Dew Angels lands top award for children’s books

Jamaican author Melanie Schwapp’s Dew Angels was last week named among Literary Classics’ 2014 selection of top books for children and young adults. Dew Angels received the Words on Wings Book Award for the most remarkable young adult fiction work. Award recipients were selected from entries received from around the globe.

Dew Angels relates the story of Nola Chambers, a young Jamaican girl born with black skin into a fair-skinned family. Because of the colour of Nola’s skin she is subjected to cruel treatment by those within her family and the village in which she lives.

The book was also named among the best in special interest issues for outstanding cultural issues, sharing marquee space with other titles like If Chocolate Were Purple, Jen Barton (Rhyme), Alex and the Rabbit, Monica Dumont (Self-Esteem Preschool), The Santa Spy, Patrick Bates (Holiday Book), My Brother Is My Best Friend, Nicole Weaver (Gender-Specific Picture Book) Cockroach Invasion, Dr Sherry L Meinberg (Educational Book), (Sì Mama, Sì Papa, Nancy Scalabroni (Faith-Based Early Reader) and The Undecided, Robin Donaruma (Inspirational/Visionary).

Schwapp was thrilled at the honour. She told Bookends, “Writing this novel was one of the most rewarding experiences for me. I found my voice within Nola’s journey and her path of self-discovery. It is such a gift to know that Dew Angels has been recognised as a book that can be emotionally fulfilling and constructive to young readers around the world. It is my hope that Nola’s resilience and strength can be an inspiration to all who face struggles in this conflicting world.”

Literary Classics, an organisation dedicated to furthering excellence in literature, has as its major aim assistance with promoting classic literature which appeals to youth, while educating and encouraging positive values in the impressionable young minds of future generations. Judging is based upon the criteria set forth by Literary Classics’ highly selective awards committee which honors books promoting character, vision, creativity and learning, through content which possesses key elements found in well-crafted literature.

The Literary Classics judging committee consists of experts with backgrounds in publishing, writing, editing, design, illustration, and book reviewing.

The list of the 2014 recipients for top honours is as follows:

Words on Wings Book Award for the most remarkable young adult fiction work – Dew Angels, by Melanie Schwapp – Independent

Enchanted Page Book Award for the most distinguished children’s storybook – Scratch and Old Mouse, written by Kathryn England and illustrated by Kimberly Soderberg – Character Publishing

Eloquent Quill Book Award for one work of extraordinary youth fiction – Strange Metamorphosis, by PCR Monk – Bloomtree Press

Lumen Award for Literary Excellence honouring the most notable work of youth non-fiction – The Men Who Made the Yankees, by W Nikola-Lisa – Gyroscope Books

To learn more about Literary Classics, visit their website at www.literaryclassicsawards.com.

>>>HOT SHOT OF THE WEEK

Gladwell delights audience at UWI lecture

Celebrated best-selling author and New Yorker journalist Malcolm Gladwell last week Monday delivered a lecture the University Of The West Indies, Mona campus in the Assembly Hall. Dubbed ‘A Conversation with Malcolm Gladwell, he spoke on Capitalisation – surrounding the idea that the truest test of a society is the extent to which it permits its citizens to reach their true potential. Legitimacy, he argued, is what citizens need in this quest, and in order to achieve this state, there needs to be a contract between citizenry and leaders wherein there is respect, trust and fairness. In the absence of these, he posited, revolution, often bloody, will surely occur, referencing the current race upheavals occurring in Ferguson, Missouri in the wake of the fatal shooting of the unarmed Michael Brown by a white policeman. The rioting crowds “simply want respect” from a police force that is predominantly white, who don’t trust them and who often don’t act fairly when dispensing justice as it pertains to them, Gladwell said.

Further shoring up his credentials as an ace storyteller, Gladwell regaled his captive audience with the story of Alva Belmont, the prominent American multi-millionaire born in the 19th century, who rose to become one of the major figures of the women’s suffrage movement, an action borne out of the lack of respect she experienced as a woman of those times who would be considered mere chattel.

Gladwell’s talk was stimulating and reflected why he is considered one of the brilliant minds of our times.

Bookends recommends as the hot pick of the week any Malcolm Gladwell book, which tend to deal with the unexpected implications of research in the social sciences and make frequent and extended use of academic work, andwhich include:

The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make a Big Difference

Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking

Outliers: The Story of Success

What the Dog Saw: And Other Adventures

David & Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants

Fiction:

At the Salon

By Sharon Leach

Jeez. I can’t believe my luck. My mother told me I was born under an unlucky star. Just before she took off with my father’s business partner. But she was right. She knew about stuff like that. She was a tealeaf reader: a euphemism for what we in Jamaica call an obeah woman. All right, a reader woman. There. Happy?

So I’m always telling my friends that I’m the unluckiest guy alive. They, however, don’t seem to believe me. “How salt can you be Oliver?” they ask, rolling their eyes in bored annoyance. Then they’d start listing my accomplishments – You’re a handsome, brown-skinned boy, you have your own business, you’re a part of the cream of Jamaican society… Then they’d say something like, “if that’s what being salt is all about, open up the salt shaker and let me jump in! Just thank the good Lord, darling, that you have what you have. There are so many out there less fortunate than you.”

Yeah? Well I don’t feel so fortunate today.

It’s pouring cats and dogs out. Standing at the window of my little salon with a steaming cup of Blue Mountain coffee in one hand, today’s paper in the next, I glare at the driving rain, which is creating a soupy mess out on the street. A storm in November? What’s the odds?

Hairdressers don’t like the rain, trust me. It wrecks business. Show me a woman who’ll get her hair done on a day like today and I’ll show you a woman who is spending her husband’s moola. If you get what I mean. Spoilt uptown bitches.

My clients weren’t that type. They were mostly young working class bitches. They came by, mostly on Fridays and Saturdays, decked out in the Hilfigers or Fubus they’d bought at the downtown arcade. After 40 hours of ass kissing up to their bosses at the warehouses, they would head straight for my salon, paychecks still in hand, to get the killer hairdos du jour. To the salon. Not the market for the kiddies’ meals: the salon.

Not that I’m complaining, though. Hell, nah. Those whole paychecks afforded me the fire-engine red 190E parked round back, the cushy six-bedroom spread complete with whirlpool and indoor swimming pool in Beverly Hills and the shopping sprees to Miami, New York and Paris.

I guess it’s stuff like that my friends refer to when they call me an ingrate.

Screw them. Man can’t live by French bread alone. The more you have, the more you want. Right now I’m wanting to make about 100 g’s to help settle a bet I’d made last night at a game of strip poker. Don’t ask.

Suffice it to say that now, in the cold light of day, my mind cleared of the Amaretto Sours and the big head spliffs, I desperately needed to make enough money today to save my ass from losing my ability to form coherent sentences. This big ugly guy is coming around this evening to collect. I’ve been able to scrape together around 40. I need to make 10 by this evening to give him, as a good-faith deposit, and my current account’s a tad on the thin side. Living above one’s means will do that.

But as I stand watching my hopes for hectic business float away with the rain, I can’t help thinking about just how salt I am. I am in some serious dogsh-t here.

I pad across the floor, barefoot, because my moccasins are drying behind the fridge. The rain had soaked them through by the time I got in this morning. Already it’s 9:30 and none of my girls have put in an appearance. Typical. Lazy heifers. Never hauled ass on a sunny day anyway, so what did I expect?

I flip on the radio and begin tidying up a bit. Foot baths tucked under the chairs. All the combs and brushes stacked together. Blow dryers placed in their correct receptacles. Measure out prescribed amounts of rubbing alcohol for respective stations. That sort of thing.

Outside the rain is howling and slapping branches of a nearby ackee tree against the windowpanes. A drip has begun in a corner of the room. As I set a basin beneath it, the radio announcer’s voice cuts in with a special item of news from the Met Office. Hurricane Zelda means business. Flooding occurring across the island. Rainy conditions are expected to continue at least for another twelve hours.

Sh-t. I’m sooo freaking screwed. The day’s already shot to hell. I put the radio on FAME. Might as well get some good music while I read the newspaper.

I’m deeply engrossed in the crossword puzzle when the buzzer sounds. I jump. Look up and spy a well-dressed woman standing in the pouring rain, her head shielded by a humongous Air Jamaica umbrella. I beckon to her, nip across to the kitchen where I snatch on the moccasins and skate over to open the door.

She’s middle-aged, I guestimate. Very tailored, very refined. Not from around here. Her Chanel No 5 wafts up as she slides past me. Her umbrella is making puddles on the hardwood floor.

The sleek, silver-grey Bimmer in the car park catches my eye as I close the door. Hmm. I notice the heavy jewellery. The Choos. I’m filled with hope. A creme relaxer? Her hair was mousy. Maybe a dye job? If I’m lucky, maybe I can get her to spring for a mani-pedi as well. “What can I do for you, midam?” I enquire unctuously. These types like you to know they’re in charge.

She’s Mrs Westheimer, she informs me in a very pronounced upper Sn’Andrew accent. Pronounces “Westheimer” like it’s two separate words. Uppity bitch. I can tell she wasn’t born into the riches. A friend told her about me. Says she hears I’m the best. I swell with pride – a bit. No matter how many times you hear it, being validated always feels good. Anyway, she thinks men make the best seamstresses, cooks and hairdressers.

“And lovers,” I add mischievously.

She doesn’t find it funny. She looks me speculatively up and down, then gets kind of icy. She’s assessing my sexuality. Uppity rich bitch.

She wants something done with her hair. It’s limp and fine. She wants it to look like the girl on Friends. Who, Rachel? No way. Not a chance, not with that board-head. She hasn’t got a prayer. Not without extensions, which she is adamantly opposed to.

There goes a cool three-five.

She also wants a half-body massage. She’s really stressed. And a mani-pedi.

Great, we’re in the money! It’s looking like I can keep the business, after all. Maybe, I’m not so unlucky after all. My sprits are buoyed.

Mrs Uptown West-Heimer also wants her eyebrows tweezed, her hands and feet given a paraffin wax treatment, and her, um, mustache bleached.

I’m looking at a cool five grand. Six. Six-five, if I can stretch it. A full salon deal. Thank you, Jesus.

I recommend a perm first, followed by a body-building shampoo and conditioner. She’s all for it. “I have to snip your ends, too,” I say, ruefully, tugging at a few limp strands. Women hate cutting their hair. They really do. I think it’s tied to their DNA, or something.

I’m surprised when she gives me carte blanche. “Do your magic,” she murmurs. Then, before I can get a chance to dazzle her with my impressive abilities in the conversational skills department, she sort of nods off.

No big deal. I’m not in the mood to impress Mrs Rich Bitch, anyway.

So I’m going on, thinking about getting into another game tonight. I’m massaging her scalp, lightly using the balls of my fingers when she starts to moan. The perm has been rinsed and I’m about to set. The massage is a little something I do just because I know they’ll like it. A girl I used to date told me she had orgasms when I worked her scalp like that. Sure enough, all my clients get their panties wet when I do it.

So, Mrs Rich Bitch is fully awake now. And, suddenly, she’s feeling chatty. You know how women do after you give them a good screw. You can’t pay them to just shut the f–k up. They want to tell you their entire life story. From A to Z, no stops in between.

This is what I glean: Mrs West-heimer here becomes f–king Oprah Winfrey, talk show host extraordinaire. She’s married to a diplomat (I knew she was spending someone else’s cash!). He’s white, she’s careful to point out. (Were there any other types, I wanted to know). Anyway, loverboy’s a son of a bitch. (Her words, not mine).

I want to tell her he’s a son of a bitch with extremely good taste. The M3 convertible parked before my shop is a credit to it. But I don’t. I make commiserating sounds, instead. You never want to piss off your clients.

So this creep wants to keep her locked away in their Cherry Gardens mansion. Well, not literally. But… you know. She can’t have friends. Can’t hang out. She’s originally from Grant’s Pen. I hope my eyebrows haven’t arched in surprise at this tidbit. The smell of the ghetto has long since been fastidiously scrubbed from her person. Everything about her screams affluence. Even her accent doesn’t seem affected the way those nouveau riche types’ sometimes do. She’s done quite a job of exorcising all her grassroots demons. Big ups, girl!

This guy, the husband, is allegedly a real piece of work. A blue-eyed devil, is how she refers to him. They’ve been married for five years. She’s only 30. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Sistergirl seems 40-ish to me.

While the rollers are in, I decide to give Mrs WEST HEIMER her half-body massage on the little daybed I have round the room in the back. It’s for the girls, when they get their monthlies. I don’t usually do massages. But hey, a dollar is a dollar, right? I could swing it.

It’s raining like a motherf–ker outside and none of the girls has shown up as yet. None of the heifers has even called, at this point. I put on some coffee for both of us. When I take in her cup, I almost burn myself. Mrs. Westheimer is totally au naturel. She’s peeled off all her clothes despite the fact that it’s only her shoulders and neck that she wants to be taken care of. Her smooth chocolate skin is gleaming and sinewy. Hey, her dime, her call.

She’s lying on her back, her legs spread wide. Poor horny thing. Problem is: my Up-an’-Coming won’t budge for her. It’s weird; I really don’t screw my clients. I’m a professional that way. They usually assume I’m gay anyway, being a hairdresser and all. The truth is, I can totally do the AC/DC thing. Too flat-chested. If she had some curves, you know: a Miss Jamaica-type. Tits and ass. Then…maybe .

But I digress. Mrs. WEST HEIMER is bitching and moaning about her husband. He’s taken to beating her. Did she deserve that? He never beat her before they were married, when she was still a go-go…er, exotic dancer and he was her biggest customer. He had been great. Great tipper. US dollars, no less.

She’d gladly married him. Thought she’d be marrying up. I’d be shocked at the things he subjected her to. The indignity. When they made love, he loved to hold a loaded revolver to her skull. Who could get turned on with a loaded revolver to their skull? Then he’d bang her around during the act.

Bastard, I say, secretly wishing I could meet the guy. Me, I’m a sick f-k.

So anyway, she’s thinking there’s a new chickadee on the side.

What’s your problem, I say. Someone else can take the gun at their head, then.

She doesn’t see it that way, though. She’s paid her dues. She deserves the right to catch his blows. What if this cookie replaced her in his affections? She’d signed a prenup. She’d be back with her ass hanging out in the cold, to the slum she’d left behind. She’d kill him first before she’d let him do that to her.

I, of course, agree with her. Can’t fault her logic. Besides, I completely understand about men who make you crazy.

Midday rolls by. She orders us Chinese. My shampoo girl calls in sick but I can tell she’s going down on her man. Her voice is ragged and uneven. I can always tell these things. That’s why I’m a good hairdresser: I’m a good listener.

Hairdressers are a lot like shrinks, I guess. We listen all day to our clients’ problems. Then get paid for stroking their egos. Making them feel better about themselves. Because that’s what hairstyles, manicures and pedicures are all about. Mind therapy. Excuse me: Mind f–king. When a woman felt like she was kicking ass, she could move any mountain. So you tell her, “Hey, you’re kicking ass, girl! You go on with your bad self!”

At the end of the day, she pays me my seven grand. I’m a crook but, hey, she’s got no objections. Even tips me three grand. It’s my lucky day after all.

As I sit at my desk, recording her name, address and telephone number in my big black client book, I smile. I’ve paid over the 50-grand to the muscle and his boss has graciously agreed to give me another week to fork over the other half. I pledged to call up Mrs. Kim Westheimer by next Wednesday afternoon to schedule her for a shampoo and conditioner. Ten f–king grand. Can you believe that? Maybe my luck was beginning to change, after all.

**

Mondays are usually slow. The shampoo girl is first to arrive, looking used up and guilty. She’s stayed out ‘sick’ all weekend. I’m docking your pay, I tell her. She grins sheepishly, hands me a pack of Rothmans and the newspaper. Bitch is just glad she still has a job.

I settle in to do the crossword puzzle but the headlines and the picture of a woman with a fierce hairstyle reach out and grab me by the throat.

DIPLOMAT MURDERED, WIFE CONFESSES.

Seems Friday evening, after leaving my salon, Mrs Westheimer walked in on her husband in a little tête á tête with the two maids. When he’d grinned and suggested she join them, she’d mangled his skull with a meat cleaver.

Sh-it. Is my luck unbelievable or what? There goes my appointment. Which is a damn shame. She was a damn good tipper, too.

A Marley Man

By Jean Goulbourne

The world

has wept with music

and the air has been cleansed

by its tears.

The poor have found their solace

in the narrow breath

of the weeping wind,

in the rivers of the valleys,

in the birds’ wet passage

of song.

Come.

The sea has no boundaries,

no sand on which

to dash its waves.

Come,

Sail.

Raft the streams

that flow on the passage of sound

like the river maid.

We braid our hair with wet fingers

and the river that blows its spray

high above the riverbed

of time

shall know the sound of reeds,

shall know the clash of tides

that brought a Marley man to rest –

Shall know no rest but peace,

no song

but the ghetto cry

that merged eternity

with time.