Javant Biarujia
UN PORTRAIT D’APRÈS GERTRUDE STEIN
Would her poetry have made any difference without her heavy accent? Would audiences have understood her any better? Would that poetry with a heavy accent make audiences understand better.
Would her poetry have made any difference without her heavy accent? Would audiences have understood her any better? Would that poetry with a heavy accent make audiences understand better.
Her accent made her charming. Poets from another age would have enjoyed it, poets from this age would have enjoyed it, poets from any age would have enjoyed it and poets full stop would have enjoyed it. Did she cultivate it? Did she wake up in the morning with this accent? Her accent made her charming. Did she know that her accent made her charming?
Charming mirror ivory water prisms lamps. Charming addition to her poetry. Charming addition to intonation. Charming addition to importance. Charming dawn crépuscule angels altars keys.
Charming.
Not charming. Who?
Not charming but waving.
Exactly.
Exactly.
Everyone found you charming.
Would it have made any difference had she an Australian accent? Would it have made any difference had she a local accent? Would it have made any difference had she a French accent?
Charming.
Not charming. Who?
Not charming but waving.
Exactly.
Exactly.
Everyone found you charming.
POSTCARD FROM JURATE
(AFTER FRANK O HARA — BUT NOT IN PUNCTUATION)
Jurate writes “what a trip it s
been! but never Paris in summer
again” yet the card depicts a
wonderful Delacroix tho with
an explanation in french only
(not esperanto italian
or german): “femme assise sur
des coussins” (this poem s just an
excuse to write the word “odalisque”)
belying it s “suburban
sexuality” — “for Guérin
was thinking of moors” — ah naked thigh!
“une étude pour « femmes d Alger dans
leur appartement » 1834”
i love Delacroix s studio
— Delacroix more — in rue de
Furstenberg (my Falkplan says
“Furstemberg”, but i ve checked) more of
a place than a rue close to the
church of saint Germain des prés with
its bust of Apollinaire out front
suburban again Eugène! what s
going on Baudelaire wrote of
odalisques but i don t think
Apollinaire ever did all
blue and white and “classical”:
Antiope! all seduction
and no play she is ennui!
from Addictionary: Poessays
“ASSOCIATIONS”
1. Jurate Sasnaitis was named after the goddess of the sea in Lithuanian mythology. She writes about memory, folklore, heritage, and family trauma, and has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Western Australia. Her poetry, short fiction, and essays have been published in Cordite, Meniscus, Otoliths, Southerly, Rabbit, Vilnius Review and Westerly, amongst others.
2. The National Trust (Victoria) bought Labassa in 1980, a grand nineteenth-century mansion the product of Marvellous Melbourne, which in the early twentieth century was split into flats. Javant Biarujia, one of its longest tenants, lived there from 1981, joined shortly thereafter by his life partner, to 2005, all the while being restored. It entered Australian literary folklore when Kenneth Slessor mentioned it in his poem “Five Bells”.
3. American critic, author, and professor, Marjorie Perloff coined the portmanteau-word “poessay” to describe poems (usually, prose poems) that were characteristic of mini-essays.
4. Rivers and Mountains was the third book of poetry by John Ashbery.
5. Michael Helsem is a poet, essayist and multilinguist, who has constructed his own language, Glaugnea. His recent publications include a book of poems written in Esperanto. Antikythera explains his various methods of composition. His latest book is Merope.
Javant Biarujia is author of many books and chapbooks of poetry, including Calques and Spelter to Pewter, and is represented in more than twenty anthologies. He was Asialink’s writer-in-residence in Indonesia in 1998, just after the fall of Soeharto. He is also an essayist, and prize-winning playwright. Nainougacyou, the dictionary of his constructed language, Taneraic, is his latest book.
in memoriam Ania Walwicz
Would her poetry have made any difference without her heavy accent? Would audiences have understood her any better? Would that poetry with a heavy accent make audiences understand better.
Would her poetry have made any difference without her heavy accent? Would audiences have understood her any better? Would that poetry with a heavy accent make audiences understand better.
Her accent made her charming. Poets from another age would have enjoyed it, poets from this age would have enjoyed it, poets from any age would have enjoyed it and poets full stop would have enjoyed it. Did she cultivate it? Did she wake up in the morning with this accent? Her accent made her charming. Did she know that her accent made her charming?
Charming mirror ivory water prisms lamps. Charming addition to her poetry. Charming addition to intonation. Charming addition to importance. Charming dawn crépuscule angels altars keys.
Charming.
Not charming. Who?
Not charming but waving.
Exactly.
Exactly.
Everyone found you charming.
Would it have made any difference had she an Australian accent? Would it have made any difference had she a local accent? Would it have made any difference had she a French accent?
Charming.
Not charming. Who?
Not charming but waving.
Exactly.
Exactly.
Everyone found you charming.
(AFTER FRANK O HARA — BUT NOT IN PUNCTUATION)
Jurate writes “what a trip it s
been! but never Paris in summer
again” yet the card depicts a
wonderful Delacroix tho with
an explanation in french only
(not esperanto italian
or german): “femme assise sur
des coussins” (this poem s just an
excuse to write the word “odalisque”)
belying it s “suburban
sexuality” — “for Guérin
was thinking of moors” — ah naked thigh!
“une étude pour « femmes d Alger dans
leur appartement » 1834”
i love Delacroix s studio
— Delacroix more — in rue de
Furstenberg (my Falkplan says
“Furstemberg”, but i ve checked) more of
a place than a rue close to the
church of saint Germain des prés with
its bust of Apollinaire out front
suburban again Eugène! what s
going on Baudelaire wrote of
odalisques but i don t think
Apollinaire ever did all
blue and white and “classical”:
Antiope! all seduction
and no play she is ennui!
from Addictionary: Poessays
We remember in order to write but we write to forget
— Martin Edmond
Think and dream are the same in French
— Vladimir Nabokov, Ada
— Martin Edmond
Think and dream are the same in French
— Vladimir Nabokov, Ada
For years, I’ve had the idea of writing my own oneiricon — I even came up with a title: Imaginary Lines, like latitude or the prime meridian, or songlines, for that matter; something to navigate by. Something like Leiris’s Nuits sans nuit, et quelques jours sans jour or Yourcenar’s Songes et les sorts, or even Burroughs’ My Education. I’m sure many a prose poem has originated from a dream. Jurate sent me a photocopy magazine, where my eye was drawn to a poessay by Martin Edmond, in which he described the four stages of oneirocriticism, giving each element an Italian name. I don’t know if he invented the specialised use of these words himself, or if he was quoting a source. (Sogno, Edmond’s first stage, was probably what Nabokov was talking about, which is rendered as songe in French, as Yourcenar has done, for it, rather than rêves, nearly rhymes with sorts, a kind of “easy rhyme”, more alliterative, in effect.) He ends by saying the task is “impossible, it cannot be done. And yet we do it”. That set me thinking. Is that why I’ve never finished Imaginary Lines, because it’s an impossible task? My latest dream: I aye slvpohgb an umbrella, wh%* ous had ispered, from the mnxjouissancecxz. I have xlsvuitrw fi~re ‘nft’ illicit lover (to rhyme with “umbrella”), who mo~cks me with his tongue dghtlpqnmr no picnic on the grass.
“CARS”
I never learned to drive, so I have never been captivated by the mystique of the automobile, except the idea of it, perhaps, never its adventure, its acceleration, its sexuality. Proust, being on the cusp of great technological change, mentioned X-rays and cars in À la recherche du temps perdu. At the start of the twentieth century, Apollinaire titled a poem in Calligrammes “The Little Car”, and Max Jacob said that “Pure Artists Buy Automobiles”. Apollinaire may have talked about little cars, but that wasn’t the case with American ones, which were known as “Yank tanks”. Speeding to show off (the speed of automatic writing); the inextricability of police with cars, new notions of time and space. For inherent danger and frisson, you think of Isadora Duncan and J. G. Ballard. Michael Helsem said somewhere that cars, traffic, are archetypal to the twentieth century. The Ford assembly line, from primitive jalopies driven by chains to the electric vehicles of today. Gertrude Stein’s wooden wheel. From goggle-eyed but smelling the outdoors to a hermetically sealed cocoon, where the notion of time disappears, where private property apotheosises.
Cars need fuel. Some cities have tried to extradite petrol-driven cars, creating “pedestrian precincts”, in an attempt to appear human. The anatomy of the car has meant a carving up of cities and countryside to provide highways, autoroutes and autobahns. (Even despots recognised their utility, but as Burroughs warned, “Watch out for the cars.…” Cendrars speeding by in his Alfa Romeo designed by Braque, for there are no barriers, sound or otherwise.) Swallowing distances, tempting fate.
The car is the paradigm of mechanism, science, technology, notwithstanding breakdowns. Popular culture, films, books, music, songs (spinning wheels, Gary Numan as an Ohrwurm), sculpture and painting, abound with the image of the automotive (Drive My Car, not to be confused with Ryan Gosling’s Drive, a very different film, for instance, Firebird, Chariots of Fire). The poetic names, such as “torque” (trochee) and “dipstick” (distich). Inertia. Racing cars and the futuristic ones designed to break records only (Bluebird et al.), taxis, limousines, cars reaching places that trains cannot, consulting maps and compasses. Is the paradox of the car inherent?
“CHOICE”
I wonder why I rail against the pervasive notion of choice in our lives, yet propound the idea that all value comes down to volition. At first sight, there does not seem to be much difference between choice and will; it takes an act of will to make a choice. Ah, there is the key! Choice is merely a facultatif, an option; it is not will itself. Choice and will do not run along parallel lines. The confusion lies in the present-day rhetoric surrounding choice: “I choose to.…” Everything from buying consumer goods to murdering another citizen. However, I choose to imbue object X with value is not the same as my contention, I imbue object X with value. In the former proposition, the individual is conscious if not conscientious of making a decision; it is, if not a reasoning, a calculation. My proposition allows for the conscious, conscientious and the unconscious.
“GOSSIP”
Andy Warhol loved it. Who needs the gossip papers when his Diaries, that Pat Hackett edited, are full of it? Dishing the dirt. Stuff you’re not supposed to know. Like when Elizabeth Taylor and Halston went to the toilet at a function and he reported one of the ladies present wondered: “Why are they both going to the bathroom?” Or a few pages on about Robert Rauschenberg getting arrested and Roman Polanski being such a “poor guy”, for “these young girls could be as young or as old as they wanted to look”. He reported how Halston would tell him lots of gossip: about who’s having an affaire — or affaires — with whom, who was gay even though he was married (to a woman, that is), who’s living with whom (“No wonder [Joe Dallesandro] hasn’t been calling for money”), who’s taking which drug, who’s an alcoholic, who’s promiscuous (not just at Studio 54), whose ass is getting bigger, who’s “in” and who’s “out” (“I bet the reason all the society people didn’t show up was because it was given by Truman [Capote]!”), which place is “in” and which is “out”, who’s been in jail (did he really push his mother out the window?), who’s sick, who’s fighting, who’s hustling, who got mentioned in the papers and who didn’t. All the parties and places to be “seen” at. People’s health. Who has to pay and who doesn’t. What people are saying. Who’s getting paid and who does it for nothing. Who’s seeing a psychiatrist — who’s a fantasist or mythologiser. Who likes to confide and who’s got a big mouth. Who’s a troublemaker. In one entry, Warhol wonders whether there are so many good-lookers because there were no wars to kill them in. Who’s so pockmarked “her face look[s] like a used dartboard”. Who’s hair was dyed and who was wearing a piece (he framed his own old wigs and gave them as gifts). Who looks like an old woman without makeup. Who’s glamorous, good-looking or “on his or her way” and who’s the worst dresser or a has-been (“[Y]ou’re through, darling. I hope you’re not going to commit suicide, darling, are you?”). Who’s wearing fake jewellery. In New York, as elsewhere, name-dropping is not a sin — only Ned Rorem could outdo him in his published Diaries.
“VIRUS”
Language — or more specifically, a word — is a virus but so is addiction. There is an interiority of the imagination, a supplication of geography, a freedom from the unknown that transcends it — and in the end, prescribes it. What to do when we come across certain passages in Sei Shônagon or entries in diaries? Such as, “Put it down to posterity”. What “posterity” meant for Burroughs is expressed in Sonnet No. 55 by Shakespeare: “Even in the eyes of all posterity, / … till the judgment that yourself arise, / You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.” It’s an ejaculation in the air, something accessible, like nostalgic literature. You don’t get AIDS from a manipulation of technology. Speech is at the far end of Proust, decorated with the virus of failure, where Burroughs found his typewritten paradox, chicly decorating and absorbing photographs as “sculptures”, because it’s easier. A whiff of form in the air — even though Burroughs’ ecstasy aided and abetted Proust’s deconstruction and anthropomorphism — in terms of darkness. Darkness personified in courage and cowardice, where people escaping impressed themselves on the history of memory with an architectural faux pas and panorama not seen before, not even by Tournier or by Lévi-Strauss. That is why Proust talked of Burroughs as one who had “espoused our mortal state.… We shall perish, but we have as hostages these divine captives who will follow and share our fate.”
“WANDERLUST”
Arles. Famous as a Roman town (its forum, mostly gone, its amphitheatre, intact). Famous for the mistral. Famous for Frédéric Mistral. The most famous inhabitant of Arles, to me at any rate, was Vincent Van Gogh, even though locals viewed him with distrust and even mocked him, and he lived there for just a year. However, as Lydia Davis points out in her essay on the town (she visited in 2018), its history goes back almost three thousand years: Stendhal visited 1837; Henry James, in 1883. I visited in 1993, leaving a temporary mark, for I urinated in the cryptoporticus. I visited Les Alyscamps, the ancient roman necropolis with a church at the end. (My first “sesquipedalian” word was “necropolis”, for a cemetery in Melbourne was called that, until someone, no doubt a consultant, thought it was too literary; now it’s known simply as a “botanical cemetery”.)
What attracts me about Arles is, it rises from a swamp, rather like the town I grew up in — I was born, however, in Dame Nellie Melba country. I’m fascinated by mosquitoes and other swamp creatures, from tadpoles to stunted fish to man-eaters, the people who live in such places or even solitary wanderers, mud (nostalgie de la boue) and flooding. Impressionists never went there, although they loved the sea, and “meadows” is such an English word! Give me “mangrove” instead, one of my favorite words.
Swamps take you to other places, other voices (Marco Polo), other rivers or lakes, like the Nile delta, Rivers and Mountains — not to mention Dante’s swamps — African jungles, American bayous, outposts; the smoke from hearths, because it’s too cold and wet. Moss, moors, a botany long ignored, a transformation into a place of pleasure, of exile. Does Bachelard mention swamps in La Poétique de l’espace? Drained. Unable to discern a pattern, like you do in forests. The artist is able to become entirely lost, but enveloped, a metempsychosis of sorts.
I never learned to drive, so I have never been captivated by the mystique of the automobile, except the idea of it, perhaps, never its adventure, its acceleration, its sexuality. Proust, being on the cusp of great technological change, mentioned X-rays and cars in À la recherche du temps perdu. At the start of the twentieth century, Apollinaire titled a poem in Calligrammes “The Little Car”, and Max Jacob said that “Pure Artists Buy Automobiles”. Apollinaire may have talked about little cars, but that wasn’t the case with American ones, which were known as “Yank tanks”. Speeding to show off (the speed of automatic writing); the inextricability of police with cars, new notions of time and space. For inherent danger and frisson, you think of Isadora Duncan and J. G. Ballard. Michael Helsem said somewhere that cars, traffic, are archetypal to the twentieth century. The Ford assembly line, from primitive jalopies driven by chains to the electric vehicles of today. Gertrude Stein’s wooden wheel. From goggle-eyed but smelling the outdoors to a hermetically sealed cocoon, where the notion of time disappears, where private property apotheosises.
Cars need fuel. Some cities have tried to extradite petrol-driven cars, creating “pedestrian precincts”, in an attempt to appear human. The anatomy of the car has meant a carving up of cities and countryside to provide highways, autoroutes and autobahns. (Even despots recognised their utility, but as Burroughs warned, “Watch out for the cars.…” Cendrars speeding by in his Alfa Romeo designed by Braque, for there are no barriers, sound or otherwise.) Swallowing distances, tempting fate.
The car is the paradigm of mechanism, science, technology, notwithstanding breakdowns. Popular culture, films, books, music, songs (spinning wheels, Gary Numan as an Ohrwurm), sculpture and painting, abound with the image of the automotive (Drive My Car, not to be confused with Ryan Gosling’s Drive, a very different film, for instance, Firebird, Chariots of Fire). The poetic names, such as “torque” (trochee) and “dipstick” (distich). Inertia. Racing cars and the futuristic ones designed to break records only (Bluebird et al.), taxis, limousines, cars reaching places that trains cannot, consulting maps and compasses. Is the paradox of the car inherent?
I wonder why I rail against the pervasive notion of choice in our lives, yet propound the idea that all value comes down to volition. At first sight, there does not seem to be much difference between choice and will; it takes an act of will to make a choice. Ah, there is the key! Choice is merely a facultatif, an option; it is not will itself. Choice and will do not run along parallel lines. The confusion lies in the present-day rhetoric surrounding choice: “I choose to.…” Everything from buying consumer goods to murdering another citizen. However, I choose to imbue object X with value is not the same as my contention, I imbue object X with value. In the former proposition, the individual is conscious if not conscientious of making a decision; it is, if not a reasoning, a calculation. My proposition allows for the conscious, conscientious and the unconscious.
Andy Warhol loved it. Who needs the gossip papers when his Diaries, that Pat Hackett edited, are full of it? Dishing the dirt. Stuff you’re not supposed to know. Like when Elizabeth Taylor and Halston went to the toilet at a function and he reported one of the ladies present wondered: “Why are they both going to the bathroom?” Or a few pages on about Robert Rauschenberg getting arrested and Roman Polanski being such a “poor guy”, for “these young girls could be as young or as old as they wanted to look”. He reported how Halston would tell him lots of gossip: about who’s having an affaire — or affaires — with whom, who was gay even though he was married (to a woman, that is), who’s living with whom (“No wonder [Joe Dallesandro] hasn’t been calling for money”), who’s taking which drug, who’s an alcoholic, who’s promiscuous (not just at Studio 54), whose ass is getting bigger, who’s “in” and who’s “out” (“I bet the reason all the society people didn’t show up was because it was given by Truman [Capote]!”), which place is “in” and which is “out”, who’s been in jail (did he really push his mother out the window?), who’s sick, who’s fighting, who’s hustling, who got mentioned in the papers and who didn’t. All the parties and places to be “seen” at. People’s health. Who has to pay and who doesn’t. What people are saying. Who’s getting paid and who does it for nothing. Who’s seeing a psychiatrist — who’s a fantasist or mythologiser. Who likes to confide and who’s got a big mouth. Who’s a troublemaker. In one entry, Warhol wonders whether there are so many good-lookers because there were no wars to kill them in. Who’s so pockmarked “her face look[s] like a used dartboard”. Who’s hair was dyed and who was wearing a piece (he framed his own old wigs and gave them as gifts). Who looks like an old woman without makeup. Who’s glamorous, good-looking or “on his or her way” and who’s the worst dresser or a has-been (“[Y]ou’re through, darling. I hope you’re not going to commit suicide, darling, are you?”). Who’s wearing fake jewellery. In New York, as elsewhere, name-dropping is not a sin — only Ned Rorem could outdo him in his published Diaries.
The writer sees himself reading to the mirror as always …
— William Burroughs
Language — or more specifically, a word — is a virus but so is addiction. There is an interiority of the imagination, a supplication of geography, a freedom from the unknown that transcends it — and in the end, prescribes it. What to do when we come across certain passages in Sei Shônagon or entries in diaries? Such as, “Put it down to posterity”. What “posterity” meant for Burroughs is expressed in Sonnet No. 55 by Shakespeare: “Even in the eyes of all posterity, / … till the judgment that yourself arise, / You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes.” It’s an ejaculation in the air, something accessible, like nostalgic literature. You don’t get AIDS from a manipulation of technology. Speech is at the far end of Proust, decorated with the virus of failure, where Burroughs found his typewritten paradox, chicly decorating and absorbing photographs as “sculptures”, because it’s easier. A whiff of form in the air — even though Burroughs’ ecstasy aided and abetted Proust’s deconstruction and anthropomorphism — in terms of darkness. Darkness personified in courage and cowardice, where people escaping impressed themselves on the history of memory with an architectural faux pas and panorama not seen before, not even by Tournier or by Lévi-Strauss. That is why Proust talked of Burroughs as one who had “espoused our mortal state.… We shall perish, but we have as hostages these divine captives who will follow and share our fate.”
Arles. Famous as a Roman town (its forum, mostly gone, its amphitheatre, intact). Famous for the mistral. Famous for Frédéric Mistral. The most famous inhabitant of Arles, to me at any rate, was Vincent Van Gogh, even though locals viewed him with distrust and even mocked him, and he lived there for just a year. However, as Lydia Davis points out in her essay on the town (she visited in 2018), its history goes back almost three thousand years: Stendhal visited 1837; Henry James, in 1883. I visited in 1993, leaving a temporary mark, for I urinated in the cryptoporticus. I visited Les Alyscamps, the ancient roman necropolis with a church at the end. (My first “sesquipedalian” word was “necropolis”, for a cemetery in Melbourne was called that, until someone, no doubt a consultant, thought it was too literary; now it’s known simply as a “botanical cemetery”.)
What attracts me about Arles is, it rises from a swamp, rather like the town I grew up in — I was born, however, in Dame Nellie Melba country. I’m fascinated by mosquitoes and other swamp creatures, from tadpoles to stunted fish to man-eaters, the people who live in such places or even solitary wanderers, mud (nostalgie de la boue) and flooding. Impressionists never went there, although they loved the sea, and “meadows” is such an English word! Give me “mangrove” instead, one of my favorite words.
Swamps take you to other places, other voices (Marco Polo), other rivers or lakes, like the Nile delta, Rivers and Mountains — not to mention Dante’s swamps — African jungles, American bayous, outposts; the smoke from hearths, because it’s too cold and wet. Moss, moors, a botany long ignored, a transformation into a place of pleasure, of exile. Does Bachelard mention swamps in La Poétique de l’espace? Drained. Unable to discern a pattern, like you do in forests. The artist is able to become entirely lost, but enveloped, a metempsychosis of sorts.
Notes:LABASSA LÀ BAS
(AFTER YEATS INSOFAR AS SUBJECT AND STANZIFICATION BUT LITTLE ELSE)For scholars and poets after us — William Butler Yeatsi edged “persian and furcular” the stairs also received as “logogriphic” by me suburbia violet peeling walls auctioned papers fifties color schemes kissed by the muse overlooking the bay at other real artificial crowns the imaginary of acanthus atop the pillars of cracked acrobatic sweat for tombs an anagram spider oh spider what is to be installed your hands stained by an autumnal language and cut muting the footsteps of a book by drums still your dancing as the sea approaches is my fear — as letters are syllables squaring life without you and you become an arthritic lover of mine farewell you are different in your period farewelled novels you were miraculous but no stage endorsements for your tenants i have since arranged the sweetest called you practice for Paris — house with a name like a city what does it leave for your acquired illnesses and azure whether i am an artist or a vagabond Slessor who never lived here — and by all accounts neither did Joe Lynch — on the altar of babel — Labassa resembles Ardis Manor in Nabokov s Ada houses trees harmonised how suddenly your windows look hollow and shabby now that gentleness is a lipogram voices echo in rooms before the latch turns for the last time
1. Jurate Sasnaitis was named after the goddess of the sea in Lithuanian mythology. She writes about memory, folklore, heritage, and family trauma, and has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Western Australia. Her poetry, short fiction, and essays have been published in Cordite, Meniscus, Otoliths, Southerly, Rabbit, Vilnius Review and Westerly, amongst others.
2. The National Trust (Victoria) bought Labassa in 1980, a grand nineteenth-century mansion the product of Marvellous Melbourne, which in the early twentieth century was split into flats. Javant Biarujia, one of its longest tenants, lived there from 1981, joined shortly thereafter by his life partner, to 2005, all the while being restored. It entered Australian literary folklore when Kenneth Slessor mentioned it in his poem “Five Bells”.
3. American critic, author, and professor, Marjorie Perloff coined the portmanteau-word “poessay” to describe poems (usually, prose poems) that were characteristic of mini-essays.
4. Rivers and Mountains was the third book of poetry by John Ashbery.
5. Michael Helsem is a poet, essayist and multilinguist, who has constructed his own language, Glaugnea. His recent publications include a book of poems written in Esperanto. Antikythera explains his various methods of composition. His latest book is Merope.
Javant Biarujia is author of many books and chapbooks of poetry, including Calques and Spelter to Pewter, and is represented in more than twenty anthologies. He was Asialink’s writer-in-residence in Indonesia in 1998, just after the fall of Soeharto. He is also an essayist, and prize-winning playwright. Nainougacyou, the dictionary of his constructed language, Taneraic, is his latest book.
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