Super Nintendo: The Game-Changing Company that Unlocked the Power of Play by Keza MacDonald

  Some of my fondest video game memories are with the Super NIntendo Entertainment System: from Contra 3 to Super Mario RPG to Earthbound, the system had so many memorable experiences. With that in mind, I thought I would check out Keza MacDonald’s Super Nintendo: The Game-Changing Company that Unlocked the Power of Play. In all honesty, I expected the book to be more focused on the SNES, but the book is more of a retrospective of some of Nintendo’s landmark franchises across times and consoles, including Donkey Kong, Super Mario, The Legend of Zelda, Metroid, Pokemon, Kirby, Wii Sports, Animal Crossing, Super Smash Bros, and Splatoon.

Towards the end of the book, MacDonald makes a comment about the book being more descriptive than analytical, which I think is accurate. I would have appreciated some more exploration of the significance of particular games or analysis of their core themes. In the conversation about Animal Crossing, MacDonald does discuss the historical factors that made the game explode. It had been a franchise that faced a lot of skepticism and only really made a name for itself when Covid hit and the cozy game industry exploded, allowing people to connect even when in isolation. More historical and cultural commentary on the games would help me to connect with the overall narrative for what Nintendo is accomplishing as a company.

One thing I will say is that the book does prove inspiring for some of the franchises I’m less familiar with. The discussion of Metroid makes me want to revisit the series in more depth and the history of Kirby’s genesis is a lighthearted and joyful experience. MacDonald focuses mainly on NIntendo-driven franchises and acknowledges that there were so many innovative and interesting games (including Earthbound) that got no mention; there are a series of brief descriptions of some landmark games made by third parties and I’d love to delve more into some of those.

Super Nintendo: The Game-Changing Company that Unlocked the Power of Play essentially presents a thesis that Nintendo as a company has continuously been an innovator and that fun always comes first. They run themselves like a toy company rather than a games company and have continued to grow by allowing ideas to flourish. MacDonald does, however, express some skepticism about the ongoing success of the company. Essentially, the concern is that Nintendo will commit too much to extant franchises without pushing the boundaries. There is an element of risk that they need to lean into in order to stay relevant.

MacDonald’s book is a casual read that is a nice stroll through memory lane with some insight into why Nintendo has been successful. It’s a fun, if light, experience that makes me want to go back to the good old days of waking up at 7 a.m. on the weekend to play a game I’d rented before having to return it.

Happy reading!

Recitation by Bae Suah

Marxist philosopher and critic Louis Althusser discussed the idea of the interpellation of the subject. Essentially, he describes the way in which ideology and power transforms people into subjects as a simple process: power yells out, “Hey, you there!” and you turn around. You’re a subject because you’ve acknowledged the call. That model of interpellation troubles me because it seems so irresistible—is there no way out? No alternative? I wrote about this once during my Master’s and tried to think through a collective response to a call: think of all the people in Spartacus that respond to a call not intended for them.

I bring this up because this problematization of interpellation struck me in Recitation by Bae Suah. The central character of the novel, Kyung-Hee, recounts a moment of false identification. There’s a bizarre scene where Kyung-hee is in bed and her sister, whom she does not know at all, enters her room and begins to strangle her. The scene already feels nightmarish and surreal, but then Kyung-hee gives an account of a strange memory of identification. I’ll include a substantial portion of the account here, hopefully to also demonstrate the rich imagery of Recitation. Kyung-hee

“recalled a scene that had taken place one gathering dusk, when someone called her name. She was walking down the twilit alley. The alley sloped at a gentle gradient, lined by brick walls carpeted with soft, pale green moss, the scent of early roses coming from the gardens beyond. It was an evening in early summer, and I was on my way home from school [...] But, inexplicably, the person walking along the alley is not me but my sister. The retreating figure is that of my sister. The one returning from school is me, the one being spoken to by the objects which the sunlight touches is also me, the soft breath of the evening breeze and the scent of the roses are sensations I am experiencing, no one else; but the composite whole walking down that old alleyway with the rose branches trailing down over the red bricks, where the evening light has gathered, flushed the colour of rust, is not me but my sister” (142-143).

It’s a peculiar moment where her identification is somehow both herself and her sister “And then someone calls her name” (143). Kyung-hee narrates, “I, no, she turns and looks back. In that moment my sensations return to my body, I recover the whole that is I, and I carry on walking down the alley” (143). The moment seems so close to this moment of Althusser’s “Hey you” interpellation that I can’t ignore. But here, there’s a misidentification with her sister or a dual identification. Kyung-hee continues to recount her strangulation and the flashback to the alley. She recalls “the old alleyway where, hearing her name being called, I (she) turned to look back” (157). She continues on to explain how this identification then extends to her physical appearance, too: “the fact that gradually, as I grew up, I outwardly came to resemble my old sister; the moment when, being struck by the intense feeling that my face in the mirror very strongly reassembled someone else’s, I had the astonishing presentiment that that someone might be none other than my sister; all of these disappeared from my memory” (157).

I find this strange moment so compelling because it also fits in with the broader pattern of the text. I’ll have to admit that Recitation is a darn weird book. The novel can be described reasonably simply about a Korean woman, Kyung-hee, who used to work in recitation performances (specifically not acting—recitation). She has minimal action on stage, but one day has a spontaneous toe break. In response, she decides to go walking around the world, somewhat figuratively and somewhat literally. The book is essentially encounters she has with boarders and travellers at places she stays. But there’s something about the style where the shifts happen so oddly that we jump between time frames and characters in ways that require a great deal of attention to detect. The ‘voice’ of the character becomes ambiguous. Even Kyung-hee’s job as a recitation actress is someone else speaking through her. Thematically, the work is very tight in that respect—we never quite know who is talking, who we’re seeing, how they’re interpolating. In the final movement of the book, we see Kyung-hee’s children looking for their estranged mom. I’m a little unclear on whether this happens in reality. The book then ends with a recitation—again, taking us further away from the main character.

I find all of this fascinating, but I also don’t pretend to really understand the novel. There are a number of scenes I found impactful—the toe breaking scene, the strangulation, and some of Kyung-hee’s connections. The book is punctuated by a “Karakorum” organization, which is essentially a network of couch surfers and home exchanges. This allows Suah to incorporate a number of diverse experiences, making the novel read somewhat like a short story collection. In my experience, the novel is best consumed by reading it in prolonged sessions; the elliptical nature of the text requires sustained attention to how these moments are connected.

The novel also is a pursuit of absences. Kyung-hee goes in search of her former German teacher. There’s a character named Mr. Nobody. When the surprise characters arrive (I didn’t even notice the moment Kyung-hee’s narration turned to that of her potential children), they even note that the more they try to pin down the situation, the less present Kyung-hee seems to be. They describe what happens when they are listening to her uninflected recitation:

“But the more we strained to catch the details of what was being said, the more the whispering persuaded us of Kyung-hee’s absence. Kyung-hee had been discontinued. Kyung-hee was finished. Kyung-hee had boiled down. Kyung-hee had been annulled. Kyung-hee had been dismantled. Kyung-hee was the burnt-out past. Kyung-hee had become no one. Kyung-hee was nothing. The woman lacked the fact of being Kyung-hee. Kyung-hee had been extinguished. Kyung-hee was within the sleep of sleep. In other words, doubly asleep. Kyung-hee was with a woman who no one knew, with no way to tell the two of them apart. Kyung-hee was three-fourths Kyung-hee. Notification of the fusion of Kyung-hee’s components. Kyung-hee had slipped down in the form of low hills … The whispering continued night after night, lingering into the hours of broad daylight, clinging to our ears as we rode the bus or the subway or wandered the streets of Seoul, and we didn’t know how to shake it off” (242).

The disconnect feels eerie. The incantatory repetition of the passage is alarming. The more her name is repeated, the less she is there—and there are so many types of absence that the ways of describing it seem innumerable. 

In terms of other angles, I don’t have a lot to say about Recitation. I think the work is masterful and thoughtful. There are so many moments of rich imagery and carefully constructed narratives. The layered nature of the text makes it extraordinarily difficult to follow the specific facts. Even the sentence structure and vocabulary, for a reason I can’t quite place, feels misty. Working through a page of text, I found my mind drifting—which was less than ideal, because the narrative, too, drifted. Trying to grapple with this strange hypnosis made it harder for me to latch onto the text. That being said, I think Suah has something really special here (maybe not as special as Untold Night and Day felt to me at the time). The craftsmanship and layering of the text is a truly impressive, if inaccessible, feat.

Happy reading!

Year Zero by Brian Henderson

Brian Henderson is a Canadian poet that was a big inspiration to me in the early years of me seriously writing any poetry and it’s kind of scary to me to think that the last time I read his work was over a decade ago. I read his collections Sharawadji and Nerve Language, and this time around I’ve jumped to one of Henderson’s mid-career collections, Year Zero. One of the things I’ve found inspiring in Henderson’s poetry collections is their unconventional nature; one of the first poems of his that I read is presented, essentially, as two poems in a side-by-side conversation and I remember seeing him as an experimenter to follow.

Year Zero is perhaps not as experimental as some of Henderson’s later works, but still had quite a bit to latch onto in terms of imagery and insight. There’s a metaphysical bent to a number of the poems that finds meaning in the environment. In the opening poem, “Shadow Lake,” Henderson describes in a brief ten lines, a dark lake: “That lake / with its language of swallowed things” (11). This idea of a lake swallowing detritus and making it a language, communicating through that which it absorbs rather than what it expels is an interesting inversion. It also evokes a mournful tone in its final stanza: “The air is rich with unfinishedness // Things want to be free / impossibly / without having to be lost” (11). The meditative register presents a compelling juxtaposition. The incomplete is presented as richness—it makes me think of Karl Jaspers’ existential philosophy that posits possibility as the ultimate identity of something. Here, what is absent is what gives the air its richness. But Henderson also highlights a depressing reality: that being free entails also being lost; the liberatory and the elegiac operate in tandem.

I think it’s worth noting just how many of these poems are written in dedication. Indeed, the afterword of the text orbits a number of deaths. Henderson describes the manuscript not as an elegy but instead “cut glass, folding water, streaming wind” (59). He goes on to describe the complications of dedicating the book to particular people before noting that he “felt how impossible even multiple dedications were, since the relationships were of such differing textures” (59). He notes that the dedications would “all be cracking off in different directions, felt wrong, and would overburden the book, like a tombstone even though, perhaps even especially because, they are at the heart of it—not their names, but them” (59). This sadness, this sense of loss, does seem to permeate through the text.

“In the Old Garden,” for example, begins with the lines “You have hardly begun the poem /  the voice says, and yet /  many people have already died” (14). There’s a tension in the need for immediacy—if we don’t write it now, it means more people will die. At the same time, there’s a richness and endlessness to the work: “We open even a word like a book / I try to say” (14). If every word is a book, then every book is infinite. The line continues, though into a kind of futility: “but how does this help, / when in the living / every lit vein runs to the golden stigmas of the heart” (14). The reflective poem continues with the idea that the body and the word are connected and “Perhaps the only real word is /  the one the body speaks /  as a whole life” (14). We see Henderson grappling with existential and linguistic themes here, as elsewhere, and it does seem to speak in the writerly register I find so resonant.

Throughout the collection, we also see a return to the idea of the incomplete, the unfinished. As in the first poem where the air is rich with unfinishedness, “There is a Kind of Music” also connects to the idea: “There is a kind of music / an unfinished music / to this constantly moving house / an opening and closing of breath / like a tide of shadows” (29). The piece once more gestures towards a spaciousness and emptiness filled with something not quite done. The unfinished music acts as a kind of furniture. The emphasis for the speaker of the poem is placed on listening for the house’s noises “and on not hearing it” (29). The poem becomes even more existential, referencing the idea of “Death [as] a stagger in the rhythm” (29). The stanzas then speed through a life and “We come all this way to lose ourselves finally / and it’s family we find ourselves doing it in” (29). The poem becomes another meditation on language, “another language / an island the music moves / sweeps as if it had hands / and nearly comforts” (29). There’s a tension here between the power and futility of language. At the same time that language can sweep things away, it only “nearly comforts” — there’s an incompleteness even in this edifying feature of the human experience.

I have to admit that a number of Henderson’s poems are difficult to parse. They are expansive in their scope and, sometimes, it is hard to see how the pieces are connected. The focus is not as immediately obvious as some more imagistic poems. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy them, but it’s clear that to fully appreciate these poems, it requires time and patience.

That said, Henderson does not shy away from the imagistic. For example, the poem “The Hummingbird” is replete with specific images. The poem starts with the idea that “green lanterns of leaves cling / to their lifelines, / ragged with storm light” (45). Meanwhile, “The lake crashes over / lake-made dykes of the marsh / slewing sand / back over blades of yellow iris” (45). The scene unfolds in more rich detail, slowly introducing characters, an ambiguous ‘you’ and an ambiguous ‘I.’ ‘You’ is described as being undermined like the water maple by “incremental dynamite of surf” and toppling into the wet lap of a green torch being thrown away in slow motion. The ‘I’ of the poem reflects: “I have nothing if not this / forever unravelling shore” (45). I love that line because I love boundaries blurring and here the unravelling shore presents an image of flux, the “line between water and water” (45). This is the foundation for where the speaker stands. That image of tumult and instability and excess feels like an appropriate image for capturing a state of mind, consistent with how the speaker is “no longer sure / what direction forward represents” (45). Meanwhile, nature has a way: “Maple fruit torque through the wind, / propellers of future raining down” (45). I like that image; it brings back a childhood memory of watching the maple keys drift, but here the image is inverted as reflective of the future.

“Earth Ward” cycles through a number of these key motifs, as well. The poem starts with the idea of the “unfinished,” this time in the form of an unfinished “centre [that] still gathers / to scatter” (49). Henderson again returns to the idea of the incomplete and the unstable. I love the onomatopoeiac line that follows: “Bees unzip the tropic of afternoon” (49). It evokes Yeats’ poem “The Second Coming”—the center gathers to scatter, everything is unfinished, the world is being unzipped, coming apart. The poem then goes on to describe the “weaving heat lines” and “the ear thinks space” (49). It’s an image of summer and that sensory confusion of wavy lines on the road and the buzzsaw of summer. The poem later takes an odd turn where it is August and the speaker is “listening, listening / at the door of your house, / my ear to taut skin” (49). It suggests the house to be a living entity (indeed, Henderson describes “your human hearth”) but then once again shifts to the idea of an ear on “the wild of the heart” (49) and describes thinking as growing like a bud into wood into bone. This growth and solidifying of thinking is personified through naturalistic imagery. Like in some of the other poems I see as representative, there’s an insertion and identification of the speaker with a natural phenomenon.

This summer poem stands in contrast with a cold one: “February: Flash Point.” The role of memory is once again foregrounded: “the air / a continuous flash that forgets / everything it once knew” (44). The emptiness in the air is this time a more active forgetting. February is presented as a time of transformation: a forgetting of the old, and “like weather, you move over within yourself, / an adoration, and disown the / shapes you blow through” (44). I feel like I calcify throughout winter, so it’s interesting to suggest a freshness and newness in the height of a frozen season. Henderson continues, “You are gestating incandescence / whose shadow shortens / to that telling moment I can tell and / tell, and say nothing of” (44). I’m not quite sure how to process these lines. The idea of an incandescence growing inside sounds like an optimistic shift within the self. That said, “whose shadow shortens” reads ambiguously to me. The incandescence and the shadow seem to be in tension with one another. Like other references to language, the ‘I’ of the poem suggests additional telling and telling—more words—and yet “say nothing of” implies an inability to communicate. Ultimately, there is “strewing the ash of snow, a drift of selves / in the tiny creases of your landscape” (44). I love that idea of a number of selves drifting together. Especially when considering the uniqueness of snowflakes, here there is the suggestion that they are all components of a similar self. It’s a collective identity and “you are filled to your season / with others” (44). The image of snow drifting together and blending feels authentic to who we are as people: collective selves loosely linked together, and the poem leads to an engaging final two lines. We are filled to our seasons with others “welcoming us to the eye / of the blizzard” (44). This amalgamation is a lovely end to the piece, an optimism about what I consider the cruellest month.

Ultimately, Henderson’s poems are rich with perspective and layered with meaning. His core themes engage me: language, space, emptiness, change, amorphousness. There are a handful of poems that I felt I could latch onto, though I admit I was hoping for some more experimental pieces. These are all poems that take time. It’s not the easily accessible work of some other modern poets; it’s the work of someone thinking deeply and considering carefully how these words can create meaning or gesture beyond themselves. As readers, we have to consider his words just as carefully in order to latch on. Year Zero is a reminder that poetry is at its best when it’s slow.

Happy slow reading!