tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14459342662709046382024-03-26T23:36:27.865-07:00A little bit of everythingarT, DeSigN, MusIC, mOthEr, LoVE, haTE, bOOks, sTOrieS, WiND, waTEr, eArTH, skY, rAin, PaIN, fLOyd, PurPLE, lePpaRD, aRRivINg, ArRivEd, gUItar, deStiNAtioNs, mOVies, wRItiNgs, ME...a lil bit of this...a lil bit of that...a lot of everythingcomfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.comBlogger90125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-52303917941920325662024-02-14T21:53:00.000-08:002024-02-14T21:53:39.208-08:00The Beach by Alex Garland – a book review<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3PUUsUSWWLynqYNmkaEXQHBt1EI4l2FgO65nTe7iER8nFa74orazDj7ZcuvAHCICkxnNN1ZtxJ_vTH1qUJbzw0LMD8cYN6tcG_-mjBHJkTvVs1LQyJG_v00s_2LK0pB-rUk4jWFKcdQN-hfuSt4dH201_bi6K0VRhWvjl6MEiLZNXxUc43YdTf66ncY/s1000/The%20Beach_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="604" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3PUUsUSWWLynqYNmkaEXQHBt1EI4l2FgO65nTe7iER8nFa74orazDj7ZcuvAHCICkxnNN1ZtxJ_vTH1qUJbzw0LMD8cYN6tcG_-mjBHJkTvVs1LQyJG_v00s_2LK0pB-rUk4jWFKcdQN-hfuSt4dH201_bi6K0VRhWvjl6MEiLZNXxUc43YdTf66ncY/s320/The%20Beach_Cover.jpg" width="193" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I picked up this book right
after I finished reading 1984 by George Orwell and what a contrast. Uncomplicated,
purely prose, just a little more than a travelogue. 440 pages were gone in no
time. Alex Garland’s first novel is about those who are not just seeking
adventure, but are tired of the popular and mundane ones; they really want to
get away from the crowd. They are impulsive – a much needed quality for the adventurous
and they’re ready to brave it out and face the consequences, at least they
think so, at least most of them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So, when a map of an unheard
of, undiscovered beach is thrust upon Richard, a young backpacking traveler in
Thailand, in inexplicable circumstances, he and a young couple from France who
he’s just met grab the opportunity and venture out seeking the place. Had I not
watched enough YouTube videos on adrenaline junkies undertaking absolutely
difficult extreme sports and making them look like a walk in the park, I would
have found Richard and his lot's risking their lives only to try something new and/or
get away from the crowd a little too incredible. But I respect the craziness of
the adventure seekers; they aren’t the convention, they aren’t the norm; crazy
is good, normal is boring. Easier said than done though.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">What shouldn’t have been
shared with him in the first place, Richard makes the mistake of sharing the
map of the arcane beach with a few others even before he sets out to discover
it. And that is a grave mistake. The story is about finding the beach that the
few inhabitants who have chanced upon it and have made it their home call Eden
or paradise. Rather it is their world for that's exactly what they call it, keeping no
contact with the outside world except for necessities. They have become hunters
and gatherers again, though evolved ones. Richard and his friends do find the
beach and the story extends with the narrating of their lives on the beach,
followed by uncalled for adventure and the unfolding of some truly gruesome
events that show that as humans, we never really let go of our flaws
completely, no matter where we are and how we think; they peep and poke when
the situation is grave and the consequences are dire. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5gb1QvSNlBjSEtIninm4Q-3ElKFBxhsGNoLkFEs_x8OyzrCTVYjVA2jRUxXmoRAmWPyHNOLtJyqfUAUe2HQ2DlI7Ujt4JZFTClFnwJWOr6I9IUsaFANpVcvikmLM7SQU2P2t5h0KGMVfRLm8v-lpUWBSYBRjqn_IOlT8kbPVyd-xB_BJF3eGw2cBRkA/s2048/Alex%20Garland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1329" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5gb1QvSNlBjSEtIninm4Q-3ElKFBxhsGNoLkFEs_x8OyzrCTVYjVA2jRUxXmoRAmWPyHNOLtJyqfUAUe2HQ2DlI7Ujt4JZFTClFnwJWOr6I9IUsaFANpVcvikmLM7SQU2P2t5h0KGMVfRLm8v-lpUWBSYBRjqn_IOlT8kbPVyd-xB_BJF3eGw2cBRkA/s320/Alex%20Garland.jpg" width="208" /></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I usually don’t read books
of this kind; don’t remember the last time I read one like this. However, it is an ideal pick when you’re travelling, a light book to read - no thinking, no analyzing, no
analogies, no allegories, just a following of one thing leading to another and
yet I don’t regret having spent time reading this adventure filled story. Quite
nicely arranged; no wonder, the plot was grabbed for a movie. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">My rating – 3.5/5<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Picture copyrights: </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Cover -</span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><a href="https://medium.com/@errolshakespeare_56411/exploring-desire-and-consequences-in-the-beach-by-alex-garland-5e6508400ac9"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://medium.com/@errolshakespeare_56411/exploring-desire-and-consequences-in-the-beach-by-alex-garland-5e6508400ac9</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">Alex Garland -</span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> </span><a href="https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0307497/"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0307497/</span></a><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-71537505141917273152024-02-08T22:08:00.000-08:002024-02-08T22:08:12.735-08:001984 by George Orwell – A book review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJHjijtyz9Z_ehODNYEQeX2Ad5Krlr8HTxvIoo9s69JzqIiw1G_H8IYncXpRmEhw2hMTqebdffL7ZxZgpJOUm2eZ-daJ1RbrSFaW_rShzWEQl01yrd_bEbTyYgwGXyTzfRdI-K4MYPNczWVFAwVmsQJGQIDvKpCjOqpJPMrgVAcUE81xgLJhy7sokUes/s270/1984%20cover%20pge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="187" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpJHjijtyz9Z_ehODNYEQeX2Ad5Krlr8HTxvIoo9s69JzqIiw1G_H8IYncXpRmEhw2hMTqebdffL7ZxZgpJOUm2eZ-daJ1RbrSFaW_rShzWEQl01yrd_bEbTyYgwGXyTzfRdI-K4MYPNczWVFAwVmsQJGQIDvKpCjOqpJPMrgVAcUE81xgLJhy7sokUes/s1600/1984%20cover%20pge.jpg" width="187" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Imagine imprinted forcibly in
your head a list of do’s and don’ts. And you can’t deviate and act otherwise because
there’s patrolling happening. Even though the keeping a watch on is external,
it feels like someone sitting in your head with a whip. You falter to comply
and your back is torn open by the crack of the whip. Not just your actions, but
your expressions and more importantly your thoughts are under surveillance.
Your lips are pulled back a little longer than needed for a smile and instantly
appears a rip on your skin – two banks created along a divide where droplets of
blood appear like perspiration. You look tired when you’re not expected to or
allowed to and immediately you’re jolted by a blow on your head; your
countenance lacks the amount of hatred expected of it and right away you are
taken to task. Follow sheep follow. Follow! Or suffer!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">This is probably the
scariest book I have ever read. George Orwell’s conceptualization of a place
ruled by an oligarchy and headed by a person revered as Big Brother, where war
means peace, freedom is slavery, and ignorance is strength depicts the
unconquerable and incredible extent to which the human mind lusts for power – a
power with an unfathomable distaste for thought. Thought, cognition, logic,
emotion – basic elements that make humans human is not curtailed but
annihilated; the slavery that is desired is more mental than physical, the
latter being more easily achieved.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">This book reminded me of a
movie (though nothing of the plot is similar, but the suppression and
oppression is) I had seen a long time ago, called ‘Hostel’ where a particular
affluent group bids and pays huge amounts to an organization that captures
random tourists in order for the group to enjoy inflicting pain in unimaginable
torturous ways on them and see, experience and be amused by their suffering. It
had seemed horrendous to me then until I read this book; at least in the movie,
the captives were finally killed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On further thought, why is
1984 so appalling, why was I so scared and shocked reading it? I just had to
open my eyes and look around. It is still 1984 and it is yet the very Orwell’s
world we are living in, in bits we understand and in bits we don’t, in what we
are given to know and mostly from being kept in the dark. Isn’t war a means of
feigning peace for most world leaders even today, a necessity to justify their
presence, their power more than anything else, a necessity to keep the masses
always wanting so they can’t rise beyond their basic needs and never rise to
question the situations inflicted on them. Make the arrangement for the next
meal more urgent and necessary than the missile strikes that can take away
them, their limbs, their family; show them you are the saviours, the guardians.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">If I don’t have my loaf of
bread or a handful of rice, if I don’t have enough water to drink, I won’t
think of and ask intelligent questions; I’ll not have thoughts beyond those.
I’ll listen to you then; I’ll steal and kill if that is what you want me to do
for that loaf of bread. I’ll sell myself for a cigarette. How can two and two
not be five when you tell me so? I believe it; I believe you, I have told
myself to because dying is not easy and living is even harder; not complying
with you will take away the little I have, it won’t grant me death but an
unendurable pain you’ll enjoy inflicting. Two and two ARE FIVE.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The rulers in Orwell’s story
have departments called the thoughtpolice, who ensure that people don’t think
beyond what has been regulated for them; they are constantly on the watch; they
don’t just peep but also live in people’s houses as tele-screens; they watch
their emotions, their words, their actions; they are there on the streets, they
are there everywhere. You are never left to be alone. They have employed
children to keep an eye on their parents, neighbours and society if it can be called
that. The children are the most diligent soldiers; they see a purpose, they
feel important, valued; their brains have been cleansed of innocence and fed hatred.
How easy it is to manipulate the little malleable minds and as I look around, I
see hatred being planted in these minds in the name of god and religion,
boundaries and cultures. I can never forget the most horrific scene I have ever
witnessed; it scared me to death – it was a documentary I think that I had been
watching on television. Around 20 five-six year olds sitting around a table,
all dressed in white (will stop with the description here), a book in front of
each, they chanting aloud in unison, as if in a trance, nodding wildly as if
possessed. It was not god but a devil I saw in each of them; devils being
brought to life to be nurtured. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Orwell’s world also has
institutions called the Ministry of Truth and the Ministry of Love. All in the
present that Big Brother and his associates think wrong is erased from the
present and past; the past is constantly altered. For example, let’s say the
Taj Mahal isn’t felt necessary by the government and so it destroys it, and
then the Ministry of Truth says it never existed; it erases its presence from
all past books and references. A few years later, one would naturally believe
it never existed because they don’t find it mentioned anywhere. What is red
today might be needed to be called blue if the Ministry of Truth said so and it
will always have been blue. A systematic erasing of history is carried out
according to convenience – non-followers are quietly obliterated not just
physically but from everything that they were associated with; after a point
no-one would know they ever existed. History is altered and created afresh
every day. Wonderful, isn’t it! More fabulous is the Ministry of Love. Gentleness
oozing from its name, only if it were veritably so. But it isn’t. Its love lies
in torturing the non-believers, the ones who have had the audacity to think,
the ones to not comply – even if the non-compliance is only in their minds. It
propagates hate and loves to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Orwell’s country is
incessantly at war – a necessity of the government. Whether it really is at war
or not, we know not and the citizens never will, but they believe they are. And
to wipe out an opposition – not the external one but if one does appear
internally, within the government or the country, the level of conspiracy
extends to creating their own make-belief opposition. The citizens are trained
and expected to do both – rejoice in the formidability and justness of the institution
in power and at the same time hurl insults and debase the opposition by terming
them as traitors. Heads I win, tails I win. And you only win if you lose to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I wonder if oppressors in
power in the past and present have picked up their thoughts and ideas of
tyranny from this book. Even more dangerous I found was Orwell showing us how
language and words can curtail thoughts. We’ve come a long way in terms of
language and have created words to express every single thing, emotion –
concrete and abstract and continue to do so, but imagine if these words were
suddenly taken away from you. You want to express hunger but don’t have words,
you feel delight but can’t express it as don’t have the words or can’t use
them. Gradually, the emotions will be lost on you and you’ll ignore them to the
point that you are convinced they never existed. Orwell’s rulers have reduced
the words that can be used to a bare minimum, so expression becomes devoid of
much emotion and thought is curtailed. You are free only as a slave.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">To have thought of such an
evil world in such detail and with such clarity, one can only do if some sadism
exists in them and it is no surprise then that George Orwell’s wife in a biography
describes her husband as a sadistic, homophobic and cruel person. It is also
claimed that she had written parts of 1984 much earlier but was never given
credit for it by Orwell. Anyway, I loved the book for how cleverly it was thought
and written. Simply amazing! I think it’s a must read for everyone who thinks
even remotely that governments manipulate citizens and their country; it will
open your eyes to the extent to which governments go and can go; to the extent
evil can exist in the hearts and minds of people. I think books like ‘1984’, ‘The
stranger’ by Albert Camus and ‘Cats in the cradle’ by Kurt Vonnegut Jr. ought
to be part of youngsters’ syllabus to help them be aware and think clearly and
pragmatically when thrown in contrivances, and more importantly to form their
own thoughts and not rely on borrowed ones in times of both war and peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Beware! Big Brother is
watching. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial, "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">My rating – 5/5</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjzlOZWgACU-NWaHwEXxjr0hgXVJflgSQtv1oeDu2j-IrLgbMzso7Ysg__QEugjLzY_y885eH7UbX10b4-bva0fhxEzvmGY15mNPleVTEDqe67EPOutSwJWwQze0pPunlzeYUaJh-gQ7b-TRl_oYgBrvY8ZpnhUxC6uLCXqJkAVJBkkM9Wl800-7kkGw/s416/george_orwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><b><img border="0" data-original-height="416" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQjzlOZWgACU-NWaHwEXxjr0hgXVJflgSQtv1oeDu2j-IrLgbMzso7Ysg__QEugjLzY_y885eH7UbX10b4-bva0fhxEzvmGY15mNPleVTEDqe67EPOutSwJWwQze0pPunlzeYUaJh-gQ7b-TRl_oYgBrvY8ZpnhUxC6uLCXqJkAVJBkkM9Wl800-7kkGw/s320/george_orwell.jpg" width="231" /></b></a><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Picture credits<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;">Cover page -</span></b> <a href="http://friendslibrary.in/books/detailedinfo/910/1984">http://friendslibrary.in/books/detailedinfo/910/1984</a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #38761d;">George Orwell -</span> </b><a href="https://study.com/academy/lesson/george-orwell-biography-books-facts.html">https://study.com/academy/lesson/george-orwell-biography-books-facts.html</a><o:p></o:p></span></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-21250703525857575662023-03-05T04:56:00.007-08:002023-03-05T05:10:51.043-08:00The Believers by Zoe Heller – a book review<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKmasZyd4mFHkbyMUhEI_BA-SnTwQ_g9dFAUWi5FDc2B8l2iw3y9qj-2Tz4W2BoHwhAbjUecJlsgcSYnw0toLPekVfu1iUFWQu4X0m0M9Szh6H74arCoijQ2Xtkt-Cl9wn2U_uFEZE9Q2SokIOQaDYpI2L7-Gontq0E4LkWX0oBtjgLsU5y4a0_jET/s2339/The%20Believers.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1524" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKmasZyd4mFHkbyMUhEI_BA-SnTwQ_g9dFAUWi5FDc2B8l2iw3y9qj-2Tz4W2BoHwhAbjUecJlsgcSYnw0toLPekVfu1iUFWQu4X0m0M9Szh6H74arCoijQ2Xtkt-Cl9wn2U_uFEZE9Q2SokIOQaDYpI2L7-Gontq0E4LkWX0oBtjgLsU5y4a0_jET/s320/The%20Believers.jpg" width="208" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What makes us into the people we become? Are we the Michelangelos
of our vulnerable cap shaped intestinally complex Davids, tucked safely and
guarded by the skull? Is it us who scrupulously chisel, plaster, fill and
colour the inevitably clingy, the invisible and interminable thoughts to design
our masterpieces? Or do we indolently leave it for others? And whatever the
final outcome of the design, is it ever final. No, I say, as nature and nurture
fight it out to add their own strokes to it – either to enhance or to scar it. And
the finest of sculptors have at times designed the ugliest pieces of art,
haven’t they?</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The Litvinoffs are who Zoe Heller writes about; a family of
believers whose ties are loosely bound but their individual beliefs in life are
almost non-negotiable, or so it seems. Mr. and Mrs. Litvinoff are a
supercilious condescending bunch; they would never bend their thoughts for
anyone; they wouldn’t think twice before imposing them on their children or
friends though. The daughters are a contrast, one having given up the struggle
to find answers and has been in an acceptance mode for a long time, the other
arrogantly seeking answers she doesn’t have questions for. An adopted drug
addict of a son is the only one Mrs. Litvinoff seems to care for; probably she
enjoys the dependence he has on her – so much for control.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As Mr. Litvinoff lands up in hospital and is in a coma, a
past is revealed. The story progresses smiling ruefully and mocking at the
strength the characters portray in their thoughts and attitudes. Like being
acted upon in a chemistry lab, Zoe Heller subtly immerses them in situations
and lets them react and transform. They resist, accept, fight, think, discover
with the other elements that are added to them gradually. And finally when they
are poured out, magically they are of a different colour and shape, they are
still believers, but changed ones, questioning their erstwhile beliefs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As <b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Pink Floyd</span></b> sung,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
lunatic is in my head<br />
The lunatic is in my head<br />
You raise the blade, you make the change<br />
You rearrange me 'til I'm sane<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">You
lock the door<br />
And throw away the key<br />
There's someone in my head but it's not me</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Mrs. Litvinoff reminded me of
Rupert from <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A Fairly Honourable Defeat </b>by
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Iris Murdoch</b>; though Rupert was not
a despot like Mrs. Litvinoff, yet he was unbending in his thoughts and views.
Like Murdoch, Zoe Keller shows us that there cannot exist a permanency in
formidability – not in a stone, not in a human. Time and life are obstinate,
relentless and ruthless forces; time and again they slacken the tautness of the
most formidable, to show who they really are – mortal specks and nothing more. And
when and in what form that happens, is the enigma called life; at times it's a discovery of being needed, like for Karla, at times it's a beckoning by religion, like for Rosa or at times being struck by an incident, questioning the very existence you've had for an entire married life, like for Mrs. Audrey Litvinoff. Keller’s strong
willed characters resonated very well with me; I have met a few like them myself,
only to know the ostentatious façade of will they build around them, to stay
protected in their fight to understand their existence. Only that they are as
strong and as weak as you and me. This is the second book by Zoe Heller that I’ve
read, the first one being ‘Notes on a scandal’. She truly knows her characters
and makes sure you know them as deeply as she does. Intelligently and subtly
written, I enjoyed it immensely. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">My rating: 5/5</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Images copyright:<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Book cover:</b> © <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Believers-Penguin-Street-Art/dp/0141024674">https://www.amazon.co.uk/Believers-Penguin-Street-Art/dp/0141024674</a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Zoe Heller:</b> © <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Zoe-Heller/e/B001H6NVYI%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share">https://www.amazon.co.uk/Zoe-Heller/e/B001H6NVYI%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSELzEBATMjowC1osOEN34yGVphwgpoTALB9KCvMATTMm-yCrCOT4rT0cvAVWnEfegRKraIQ9ZdDfOmtQPB5mX40kBHhnyK42FS_O75wB1Fnh5aVc5iztdKzsNfNQeibLhySmLlrR_grKcS9dDJdm0J3N_NCK70CPXRdAXReYYD2l4Rvm3jZl5_yKd/s315/Zoe%20Heller.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="315" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSELzEBATMjowC1osOEN34yGVphwgpoTALB9KCvMATTMm-yCrCOT4rT0cvAVWnEfegRKraIQ9ZdDfOmtQPB5mX40kBHhnyK42FS_O75wB1Fnh5aVc5iztdKzsNfNQeibLhySmLlrR_grKcS9dDJdm0J3N_NCK70CPXRdAXReYYD2l4Rvm3jZl5_yKd/s1600/Zoe%20Heller.jpg" width="315" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-29669941203556194072023-01-21T10:29:00.002-08:002023-01-21T10:29:49.855-08:00She<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3OtAqkJpOHpyArLxeoAJL8jt_SgGFeS6uVdUPcgugoN1Az4vgabmS3kkTKoxOcxTmEIwdNnh83pjhtA2fjjPNSbs4PskeT8jej1jMH29TiUnlJ6Kz5RMMBL130SZrtvqYrF5y10stgH7Lt8hGwMg-5CLznxnl25kZPjG3CFXVG6v4SD_lUKjBYYp/s1599/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-21%20at%2011.55.23%20PM.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1599" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht3OtAqkJpOHpyArLxeoAJL8jt_SgGFeS6uVdUPcgugoN1Az4vgabmS3kkTKoxOcxTmEIwdNnh83pjhtA2fjjPNSbs4PskeT8jej1jMH29TiUnlJ6Kz5RMMBL130SZrtvqYrF5y10stgH7Lt8hGwMg-5CLznxnl25kZPjG3CFXVG6v4SD_lUKjBYYp/w640-h480/WhatsApp%20Image%202023-01-21%20at%2011.55.23%20PM.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There’s a tree,<br />
Lining the shore of the sea,<br />
In the shade of the palms of that tree,<br />
Sits she</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The dusk is still a distant affair. It’s a clear blue sky
with a few white candy floss clouds lazily floating around; they are devoid of
any ambition. She has a book beside her she’s carried along but she never reads
it. Probably never will. She gazes into the horizon, lost, trying to find
herself, resting her chin on her knees. She listens to the sound of the waves; they
chant the same tune over and over again and the tune is in her head, the sea is
in her head now. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The wind rustles the hem of her skirt; it’s pink. She looks
lovely in pink; it blends with the hue the evening light has rendered to the
sand beneath her feet; she becomes the shore. She isn’t wearing any shoes. She invents
a game between her and the sea; she enjoys the playfulness of the waves as they
try to reach her feet and then as if embarrassed, coyly retreat. She teases the
retreating backwash ‘to touch me you’ll never succeed’ and yet yearns for the coolness
against her feet. For once, she wants to lose and knows she will. ‘What if I turn
into a mermaid’ she thinks and smiles, giving away a depression on her face she’d
tried to hide. The breeze is somewhere there; she tries to eavesdrop on its
conversation with the swaying leaves of the coconut tree she sits under. She used
to appreciate their language once but now scowls at the incomprehensible and conspiring
gibberish they speak. She can’t feel the breeze.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She realizes she hasn’t been like this in a long time. No
thoughts, no errands, no responsibilities – her mind and heart are at peace. She
stares ahead - Is that a ship in the distance on the horizon? The breeze and
the tree are still at it. She glances at the book beside her, yawns and closes
her eyes. She thinks of the story she’ll never read. What could it have been,
she wonders. She is beginning to drowse but is brought out of her reverie. A
wind, so strong, where did it come from? The sand rises in swirls, the sea
hitherto calm has become a formidable force. A wave rises and forgets to fall. The
sky, all of a sudden is a continuum of psychedelic hues. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She holds her hand to her eyes to keep the scattering sand
away. But none of it touches her, she realizes. She’s puzzled. Her chin is
still on her knees. But touched she is – by the wind. Her reverie is broken by
a murmuring; the pages of the book are fluttering. And rising from the pages, brought
to life are a multitude of colours, on exquisite wings they flutter. They recognize
the song, they dance to the tune; they dance for her. Lost in the enigma, she
knows not when the wave had reached her feet. She laughs and touches her feet
to check if she’s been transformed into a mermaid and smirks as she knows she
doesn’t need a tail to be one. She squints to look at the butterfly perched on
her nose and tries to touch it but off it goes. It goes and carries everything
along with it. The wind follows, the tall wave splashes without a sound, the
sand lies immobile as if it was never disturbed. The book is closed. She looks
up and wonders – there wouldn’t have been a sky in the dark without the stars.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She remembers she has to return, to the place where she
belongs, and do all she has to do to make her future safe and strong. She gets
up to leave; she is puzzled by the shoes on her feet. Had she worn them here, these
white shoes, she muses, one of them looks marked. She can now see the sea only by
the white splashes of the waves, by now they too are tired of the game. She
says something to the wind and takes a last glance behind. She’s still sitting
there but it’s not her. A smile forms on
her face as she turns back her head. It was nice to know you, she says.</span></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-20204892562143194602022-07-02T00:18:00.004-07:002022-09-06T05:42:20.653-07:00Astonishing splashes of colour by Clare Morrall – A book review<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7CwoKeHE5ke2p9RWGyr10uRpuynJz_Gq-LxcAt9AdjDuQyOmVrCyAip6gsabeXJmZwq3s9wNdL5vAyJjQy0CxJik_uVS4mMbfSoHH9DolxNpPETSWjclVjEBOVGgCMDPkcKI85mMICXK8o_ny7IWpnxI6HKSpalGLE6EMqWFs9YSFiRzjzU0lmj-6/s300/astonishing-splashes-of-colour.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="245" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7CwoKeHE5ke2p9RWGyr10uRpuynJz_Gq-LxcAt9AdjDuQyOmVrCyAip6gsabeXJmZwq3s9wNdL5vAyJjQy0CxJik_uVS4mMbfSoHH9DolxNpPETSWjclVjEBOVGgCMDPkcKI85mMICXK8o_ny7IWpnxI6HKSpalGLE6EMqWFs9YSFiRzjzU0lmj-6/s1600/astonishing-splashes-of-colour.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>In the very first blurb in the book, Professor John Carrey,
Chair of the Man Booker Prize praises the book - ‘An extraordinary, gripping
novel written with no sentimentality. …’</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Why that is praise I wondered – how can a piece of writing be
savoured and appreciated when written without sentiments; isn’t that exactly
what we look for in a good engrossing story? Well, it took me the reading of
the book to understand and appreciate firstly Clare Morrall for her brilliantly
written first novel and Professor John Carrey for his acute observation.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">From the first chapter itself, the story reminded me of the
tragic ‘The Waterland’ by Graham Swift, another most fascinating story. Kitty can’t
be a mother; her first attempt has failed and taken away with it the chances
for any more attempts. She can’t remember much of her mother either who died
when she was three. Her brothers and father won’t tell her much about her and
all of them have different versions. In her absent mother, she tries to find
her identity, when she being a woman, possessing the fortune of giving another
an identity, can’t. She’s in despair, going eccentric. How then would it affect
her when the dead mother is resurrected, to realize that things are not what
they have been for all of these years, the four loving brothers and father that
she calls family are not what they are; they have kept a devastating secret that
will make her lose the little balance she has.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What follows then is a tragic innocent crime, shocking, unpardonable
yet one one can sympathize with. Things won’t be the same for Kitty and her
family again. Yet again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And in all this, her unconventionally calm husband is always
with her. Two characters I liked immensely in this novel apart from Kitty are
James, her husband and her doctor, Dr Cross; I wish I come across them in real
life. One feels sorry for James though, for being taken for granted, for being
a pillar to rest on, write on, and lean on but to be easily forgotten too.
Although one can’t be cross with Kitty, I wish she had respected James a little
more than she did; pillars also need to draw their strength from others, to be
cared for.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">You should never trust quiet people like Kitty for their
tranquility or their quietude; they are most definitely lying, not particularly
to you though. They are quite loquacious in their heads – there’s a constant interminable
talking, rambling, musing going on. They’re fighting shouting accusing, arguing
– they’re talking, making conversations, playing many parts. They are
themselves and others; they are their rationalizations and perceptions; they
are the creators and actors – an unsafe environment, within and without. They are
constantly fighting with the world.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A trigger is all they need – a concerned look or touch, the right
pressure, the right words, the right gesture – and they’ll tell you their story
like uninterrupted flowing water. You’ll be surprised and shocked by their
ability to speak, emote, surrender; you’ll realize there’s more soul than flesh;
you’ll realize they have a point of view. Once you show them that trust, they
are unfailingly and vulnerably yours.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">On the last page of the book, I felt like watching the sun
set on a quiet secluded beach. The sound of the breaking waves, the salty
breeze, the changing colours made for a serene setting. My arm was around Kitty’s
shoulder as we were sitting there next to each other while she was narrating
her story – in the most beautiful manner.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was truly fascinated both by the story and the writing
style. I wish I had written the story.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The book was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize for
Fiction 2003.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Use this <a href="https://onboarding.speechify.com/?activate=false&help=false&isProfile=false&promo=REFER15&teams=false&via=soumen" target="_blank">link </a>to listen to the book on Speechify.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-large;">My rating: 5 out of 5</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDorBGq5oqoH7sjlSH06mOX_2ywIDyNy16bPUGuFAGbSgR0HHIQ-yKiwy76tSAFKE_q4fQZ5PmY3lcd8u7kev9Ok6YrZEIFuex1N1QAZyukIu0AgYW9njclFzx24lB63UphCKmcwaaHxdx20SwHVdur9Eq61Tktm6ylJXYPLtlq3YaWFr1fqRqbMVP/s300/Clare-Morrall-001.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="300" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDorBGq5oqoH7sjlSH06mOX_2ywIDyNy16bPUGuFAGbSgR0HHIQ-yKiwy76tSAFKE_q4fQZ5PmY3lcd8u7kev9Ok6YrZEIFuex1N1QAZyukIu0AgYW9njclFzx24lB63UphCKmcwaaHxdx20SwHVdur9Eq61Tktm6ylJXYPLtlq3YaWFr1fqRqbMVP/s1600/Clare-Morrall-001.webp" width="300" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #741b47; font-size: large;">Image copyrights:</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Book cover:</span> <o:p></o:p></span></b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>https://www.buchfreund.de/de/d/p/94968393/astonishing-splashes-of-colour</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Clare Morrall:</span> https://www.theguardian.com/profile/clare-morrall</span></b></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-89236043722878874482022-06-29T02:43:00.000-07:002022-06-29T02:43:34.804-07:00The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch – A book review<p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSEin7I7GtfLS3dkjsTAflf33CsrMNeaCHaKRjbwIiNMl37_AlHjs9pYV-utHo2n2d1NvP8kjb4luZTQW4_Mj6_gb9w22tuk6pPs7kblNc-U_9CDm-Y4iDpd3QL8Wlns1K_0A4mqIJ11r9luv52pstL5y_l1AwkJ12vdHD0aHoyPjtoX_WL9z3sLr/s1173/The%20Black%20Prince.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1173" data-original-width="760" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfSEin7I7GtfLS3dkjsTAflf33CsrMNeaCHaKRjbwIiNMl37_AlHjs9pYV-utHo2n2d1NvP8kjb4luZTQW4_Mj6_gb9w22tuk6pPs7kblNc-U_9CDm-Y4iDpd3QL8Wlns1K_0A4mqIJ11r9luv52pstL5y_l1AwkJ12vdHD0aHoyPjtoX_WL9z3sLr/s320/The%20Black%20Prince.jpg" width="207" /></a></span></b></div><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I don’t know if I’ll believe
in an autobiography ever again!</span></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">An ageing fifty eight year old writer, struggling with time,
space and inspiration to write a great piece of art is Bradley Pearson and he makes
himself to be the Black Prince in his own story. But his ranting and raving
about the writing of his book tires the reader as Bradley incessantly
procrastinates until the end of the story till you discover that this is the
very story that you’re reading. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
believe the poor old fellow though – I did; you sympathize with him, you pity
him, often you do relate to his actions and at times you applaud him for his
clarity of thoughts, his austerity and his relentlessness; he seems genuine. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Like most Murdoch stories, there’s philosophy and deeper
psychology at play here, there’s the attempt to understand, characterize and
explain love and life beyond their one sentence definitions. And Murdoch then,
almost instantly and urgently, mocks her own characters for this futile attempt
as they falter and deceive their own thoughts and morals, inadvertently falling
prey to the cunningness of desire, anxiety, pity and many such emotions that
seem to be within their control but often jump and cross the boundaries of the
thing we call love.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At times, you tend to become more excited about Bradley’s adventure
than he is; he most definitely is even though he tries to suppress it as a
reality of the norm. You urge him to take the next step; you try to prevent him
from his foolhardy actions. ‘Don’t do it, don’t do it Bradley!’ – you shout and
warn from own experience, an experience where you yourself had been reckless
once. And as he restlessly listens yet ignores you, you live it again – your
experience, and it almost seems like the rebuilding of a scene – yours – Murdoch’s
descriptions are so accurate, the feelings are relatable to the verge of being
felt yet again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For the characters she creates and the infidelities she
imposes on them, you’d think Murdoch was a wicked one. It seems her written
materials are a study, an attempt by her to extrapolate or argue about her
understanding of psychology, or to raise questions she never got answers for or
probably the answers were too many and most of them though grounded and
logical, could be easily discarded or overridden, even by the most casual of
characteristics – impetuousness when it came to love lust and longing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As you get engrossed and live the tale, at times you hate
yourself for being able to relate with their restlessness; it reminds you of
instances and incidents in the past when you were either Bradley or Julian or
Rachel or the others; how ridiculous it seems now but how uncontrollable an
urge it was then, how degraded it feels now; how right it felt then. You inadvertently
feel the weakness you felt then, when you allowed yourself and a few others to
demean you, imploring at the altars of the feeling of love. You can’t seem to
shake off the indelible scars they have made; the pain reminds it. Murdoch
explains perfectly through Bradley’s restlessness and delirium the madness that
is truly associated with love, the preposterousness in its actions driving one
insane – it probably takes the humanity off a human. And if Bradley is to be
believed, if his story is to be believed, then every character is a sufferer of
love. One is made to wonder if he was insane before he fell shamelessly in love
with Julian, a girl much less than half his age or did the act of falling make
him that?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Everything can be justified – you’ll surely want it to be true
if you’re in the wrong books, particularly socially. Acts of infidelity,
incest, petty theft, jealousy feel so wrong when committed by others but for
the infallible you, there is always a strong reason for having done it. And you
fail to understand why others fail to understand. Bradley feels so angry and disgusted
with his brother-in-law’s liaison with a younger girl but seems to be
empathetic when he is in a similar position. He then understands and believes
it all.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Do Murdoch’s books reveal anything about her? Why is
infidelity, incest, rebellion of the ages the common theme in most of her
books, whether it be the eccentric protagonist in ‘The sea, she sea’, or the
appalling incestuous relations of a failure of a priest in ‘The time of the angels’,
or the wickedness of power and influence in ‘A fairly honourable defeat’? For
sure, she’s been a rebel and a non-believer in the ordinary aspects of this
hated thing called love – and I love her for that. All her stories have at
least one intellectual or a philosopher, whether it is a priest, a writer or
just a thinker. I’m sure she must have known or come across a lot of
intellectuals in her life and laughed boisterously at the comfort and surety
they must have built around them with their stupid intellectuality and wisdom
on life and its intricacies – all talk, when there hasn’t existed ever any
rulebook of life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Having said all of that, what I find unreal in Murdoch’s
stories and this one is no exception, is the incredible mental strength and civility
the characters portray while countering each other even in the worst of
muddles. Even when encountering the most treacherous or heinous of acts, they
sit, have a drink, and talk, like ladies and gentlemen; they don’t jump across
to wring and break each other’s neck; they talk, they argue, they reason it out!
Murdoch clearly believes in the ends of the spectrum – at one end she creates
characters that can be really wicked, at the other end these characters are so
saintly in a discussion. Is it a cultural thing I wonder, especially when the tabloids
are filled with news of grotesque murders and attempts in case of infidelities.
It is unbelievable – this endurance and maturity; do such people really exist?
Should they? I fail to appreciate them.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">‘The Black Prince’ is a story full of restlessness and
deception; a deception that transcends the common types. Coincidences, accidents,
feelings, madness make it a tragedy of errors. And when you think you that you
have sympathized enough with Bradley, the incredible end claims you. You flinch
in disgust at what has happened to him. And as if that wasn’t enough, Murdoch trumps
you with the final post scripts written by four important characters of the
story and one by the editor. And you wonder if you have understood the
characters at all, there is a strong urge to read it all over again; everything
is left to interpretation. Brilliant!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">My rating: 5 out of 5</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6nTRWPi0IsACe8oVsKCsFAl1TdID0vrKJScb1VRQXLi9hJ3uw3RXcLBjBJblKXIQDrT06JI37rojwxvSjw7wbCnwKMvOuxqV8Igeh8K6lVugvcfgi1E4uosZDbh_LednvjDQ0YTa8BMZBhghmAnQ1rNWBq2lsp052X3aUVy3uoTOdzDVvvVQhFMk/s300/iris-murdoch-1.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; font-size: large; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="300" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg6nTRWPi0IsACe8oVsKCsFAl1TdID0vrKJScb1VRQXLi9hJ3uw3RXcLBjBJblKXIQDrT06JI37rojwxvSjw7wbCnwKMvOuxqV8Igeh8K6lVugvcfgi1E4uosZDbh_LednvjDQ0YTa8BMZBhghmAnQ1rNWBq2lsp052X3aUVy3uoTOdzDVvvVQhFMk/s1600/iris-murdoch-1.webp" width="300" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Images
copyrights:</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Book cover:</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>https://www.amazon.in/Black-Prince-Iris-Murdoch/dp/0099589257<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Iris Murdoch:</span> https://quotes.thefamouspeople.com/iris-murdoch-1671.php
</span><o:p></o:p></b></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-55363511593477419232022-06-09T01:55:00.000-07:002022-06-09T01:55:26.692-07:00The green road by Anne Enright – a book review<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPhSb1LK4v6f737bL967OAU3Iqn0y0ZC9TePJn4g8_Z66rQXwZXRLNDxTNy0zxX1m6ntBk0Ua-b9CV6xFY79Zoiuxog_VzNWyk9iy_gNTFnVoVUZapr40XMzCWOpt0zvc6XefcP6I8cgCBg2yqOKeC0khDYJgPcF4dFiWJBwym9QVLw19S19LK45x/s2339/The%20Green%20Road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2339" data-original-width="1540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPhSb1LK4v6f737bL967OAU3Iqn0y0ZC9TePJn4g8_Z66rQXwZXRLNDxTNy0zxX1m6ntBk0Ua-b9CV6xFY79Zoiuxog_VzNWyk9iy_gNTFnVoVUZapr40XMzCWOpt0zvc6XefcP6I8cgCBg2yqOKeC0khDYJgPcF4dFiWJBwym9QVLw19S19LK45x/s320/The%20Green%20Road.jpg" width="211" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Years later, old and withered, when you sit down to write
Christmas or homecoming cards for your flock that has flown away from the nest
and has been away for a long long time, what will you write to them, write of
them? Will you address him as the now besuited CEO, or will you remember and
remind your son of always being bullied in school; will you frown terribly or
have a happy smirk as you write of your daughter as the chubby grumpy child
who’d never stop following her mother like a lost puppy?</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What we remember is what we choose to remember – of people,
of things, of situations, of life. Sketches made and stored in our memory might
not necessarily resemble the muses; seldom are artists true and neutral; rarely
can they resist not adding or altering something in the name of creativity. Subsequently
and consequently the muse changes and that’s how we remember them thenceforth.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anne Enright’s eccentric Rosalene tries to bring together
her flock, probably for one last time, during Christmas. She feels neglected,
and she is; her children – four of them, have chosen to stay away from their
domineering mother for reasons they know best but she fails to understand. She
thinks she is a failure as a mother, she thinks they too have failed her as
children. Insecure, old, alone and lonely, having been deserted by a dead
husband too – a man who she thinks she married beneath her yet loves him even
today, a man who worshipped her but went quiet towards the end, the huge and
empty house gets to her and she intends to sell it. Attention and company is
what she seeks and yearns for, like a child.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Why do they want to stay away from their mother, these
children of her: Constance, Dan, Emmet and Hanna? Do they fear that like their
father; they too would eventually lose their voice and resilience and go quiet finally
to the grave? Is she that bad?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Divided into two parts, the first part of Anne Enright’s
story has one chapter dedicated to each child, as she eloquently sketches their
lives away from home and finally their mother’s. The second one is about their
homecoming. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Rosalene’s restlessness is apparent in each child as they
progress in their lives. Their struggles, though disparate, are the link they
carry. Though from the same womb, they’re distinctly apart in their thoughts and
doings, as if each fused in a different time and space from different sperm and
egg owners. Enright very adeptly and beautifully presents their lives, the
disturbances in them. Her ramblings through her characters seem to be her
highlight; it reminded me of ‘The Gathering’ – the first one of hers that I’ve
read. She subtly puts across the hundreds of thoughts, emotions that go
unnoticed in each life lived, some of them so beautiful yet never conveyed, or
understood, or possibly even ignored. The interminable chatter in the head, the
struggle to push beyond yourself to do what you know is right when the only one
who prevents you is you; these struggles are not just Emmet’s and Dan’s as much
as they are yours and mine. We define our ideals and when we discern that we’ve
drifted away from them, frustrated we fight or give in, but there is never a
full acceptance of the defeat, of ourselves. And the ramblings only grow, some
words are blurted, some are not, some emotions are let out, some smothered; we
become different versions of ourselves, for the world, for the acceptance of us
by them. In an interview for one of her other books ‘Actress’, Anne Enright
said<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,
<span style="color: #0b5394;">‘As a writer, your problems are your solutions.’</span></i></b> So true, not only for
writers, but for all of us, I believe! </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-qJKOqdmE0-nqwcjtx6DQSzy3NEEjEh8vmQJ7CiTXf0gGtNDwJ7xYlDLX0GmK6q8bbf_YCDXq8YXo849eOGTWwN21-6kICAHR6FN_CFwYvpnRzIA12aI27jAlOwhxWRX__rRAfr6L-2DSxqmbKd2l2haE3ETilwI-1cfPK6phs8FoD4-24OswE96/s1440/Anne%20Enright.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="958" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz-qJKOqdmE0-nqwcjtx6DQSzy3NEEjEh8vmQJ7CiTXf0gGtNDwJ7xYlDLX0GmK6q8bbf_YCDXq8YXo849eOGTWwN21-6kICAHR6FN_CFwYvpnRzIA12aI27jAlOwhxWRX__rRAfr6L-2DSxqmbKd2l2haE3ETilwI-1cfPK6phs8FoD4-24OswE96/s320/Anne%20Enright.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I loved Anne Enright’s matter-of-fact way of presenting her
story; I’d probably want to read it again. I wish everyone finds their green
road to walk upon, a place that gives clarity to the mind and subdues the noise,
even if to some extent. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">My rating:
4 out of 5</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #741b47;">Picture copyrights:</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Anne Enright –</span> </b><a href="https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/anne-enright-as-a-writer-your-problems-are-your-solutions-1.4161408">https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/books/anne-enright-as-a-writer-your-problems-are-your-solutions-1.4161408</a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Book cover –</span><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span><a href="https://www.amazon.in/Green-Road-Anne-Enright/dp/0099539799">https://www.amazon.in/Green-Road-Anne-Enright/dp/0099539799</a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /> </span></o:p></b></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-58442212479157767022022-06-03T07:24:00.000-07:002022-06-03T07:24:13.863-07:00Top Gun: Maverick – a movie review<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgRNn2EiKowqo23QRyu8zuBx-LNhLgNiUCIICalN5btGWHhmZ3u7WAqPpdEYeuBGI7mY0iq1dTu9lMUguL3Y4TYUdOIx6352bv564YAhRPW26mWO_tBo39cBFMZ7PiLO4bbGSBlknrAiU3b5bZMDrZ6eTfEVtfCRPIEvFmXRWcJBazvKsYHOKd-Ra/s1280/cB72iWDzSBFB7E2d8SJdu6YHP2K.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="870" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgRNn2EiKowqo23QRyu8zuBx-LNhLgNiUCIICalN5btGWHhmZ3u7WAqPpdEYeuBGI7mY0iq1dTu9lMUguL3Y4TYUdOIx6352bv564YAhRPW26mWO_tBo39cBFMZ7PiLO4bbGSBlknrAiU3b5bZMDrZ6eTfEVtfCRPIEvFmXRWcJBazvKsYHOKd-Ra/w436-h640/cB72iWDzSBFB7E2d8SJdu6YHP2K.jpg" width="436" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I sit myself down with bated breath after the national anthem has been played. At 9 o’clock there are a few people sitting, at three, there’s a couple. I only hope that the chirpy teenagers at five don’t continue with their garrulity. And then … then, Mayday Mayday, we are hit, we are hit. Ah, no distress, pure excitement and adrenaline rush as the original Top Gun anthem is being played. Every time I hear it, in my mind I see aviator sunglasses, patched leather jacket, a roaring Kawasaki, the hurried landing and take offs of sleek man-made birds, the trained and practiced gestures of men in uniform on a naval ship. Thank you Harold Faltermeyer and Steve Stevens for this piece of passionate riveting music causing the listener, even if for a few seconds to be possessed and think themselves to be charming striking handsome naval aviators.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Exactly identical to the original till the names of the
actors and crew were being displayed, I would have been so delighted if the
original had been played instead of the sequel. I’ve never had the opportunity
to watch the original on a big screen. In fact, I had watched Top Gun much
later than when it was released, and when I did, I instantly fell in love with
everything about it – the adventure, the gear, the dashing confidence, the
dialogues, the script, the discipline, the rebellion, the characters, the
music, the every bloody thing.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Why then was a sequel required? Before the movie begins, Tom
Cruise answers this by saying that for years fans have been asking him for a
sequel. I wish he hadn’t listened to them. And I’m also glad that he did!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Maverick hasn’t changed. He still goes after what he sees;
still rebellious, still buzzes towers, has taken a step ahead from his circus
stunt fly-by’s. As Iceman had once said, he’s unsafe and dangerous every time
he goes up there. He’s deliberately still a captain, soon to return as an instructor
to Top Gun. Goose is dead; he was the only family he had. Maverick often
reaches out to him though, “Talk to me Goose, talk to me.” However, you won’t
miss Goose much as Rooster, his son, is a spitting image of him. Surprisingly,
there’s no mention of Charlie; she’s disappeared and Penny Benjamin, who is
only mentioned as a passing reference in the original one is brought to life
and takes her place, played by my favourite, the beautiful Jennifer Connelly. Val
‘Iceman’ Kilmer, another favourite actor, is a pleasure to watch too.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It seems the movie makers wanted the viewers to feel
nostalgic about every scene from the original. And in an attempt to do so,
they’ve created an over the top, fanciful, larger than life, not so easy to believe
movie and moments. Most of the scenes seem contrived, the characters - the way
they speak and act portray a feigned attempt to be cool. They go out of the way
to be Goose and Iceman and Slider, and hence to me it came across as not very
natural. In fact, I found ‘Cyclone’ trying very hard to act like the austere ‘Viper’
was in the original. Overall, I felt, they’ve struggled extensively to be like
the original and that struggle shows. So, there are the 4G inverted dives that
had so much surprised Charlie in the original, Mav suddenly being called to Top Gun, introduction
of Maverick as an instructor to his pilots is similar to Charlie’s introduction
in the original, pilots not knowing of the instructor's identity as they play
along with him, going below hard deck scenes with Viper and now with Cyclone, the
‘Talk to me’’s, the competition for who’s the best fighter pilot, the game on
the beach, Rooster’s rendition of ‘Great balls of fire’ just like Goose’s and
so on. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Am I complaining? No, no, no and even then just a little
bit, yes. Give me the original any day. As I write this, I know I’m going to go
and watch it a second time on the big screen. You should too – for Cruise, for
Goose, for Tony Scott – as an ode to the original. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>Alright gentlemen we have a hop to take!</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: arial; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRVoIDKUNwIS1AFoHrXUgrQvBvcXZF_62SPDz3V2bINo3a58mfM3hQ2B4hkd5OjagQEovUAUxUx-DVErEJUL5tIPjyOWDRnZBaaMcdJSusLyh41zFlYUG0sECMNSDsUjthx5i9jhgAJtbRdvNrHfEEhqrnvByOXnJjl_1hliMpMIHSkMsQMa9r8bUm/w640-h426/Top%20Gun%202.webp" width="640" /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Revvin' up your engine<br />
Listen to her howlin' roar<br />
Metal under tension<br />
Beggin' you to touch and go<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
Ride into the Danger Zone<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Headin' into twilight<br />
Spreadin' out her wings tonight<br />
She got you jumpin' off the deck<br />
Shovin' into overdrive<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
I'll take you right into the Danger Zone<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>You'll never say hello to you<br />
Until you get it on the red line overload<br />
You'll never know what you can do<br />
Until you get it up as high as you can go<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Out along the edges<br />
Always where I burn to be<br />
The further on the edge<br />
The hotter the intensity<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 6.45pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
Gonna take it right into the Danger Zone<br />
Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
Ride into, the Danger Zone<o:p></o:p></b></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Highway to the
Danger Zone<br />
Gonna take it right into the Danger Zone<br />
Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
Ride into the Danger Zone<br />
Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
Gonna take it right into the Danger Zone<br />
Highway to the Danger Zone<br />
Ride into the Danger Zone<br />
Highway to the Danger Zone</b></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #38761d;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>Danger Zone –
Top Gun soundtrack</b><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Songwriters:
Giorgio Moroder / Thomas Ross Whitlock<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Danger Zone lyrics © Wb Music Corp.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>Picture
copyrights:</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.cbr.com/top-gun-how-goose-died/"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">https://www.themoviedb.org/movie/361743-top-gun-maverick/images/posters</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://www.military.com/off-duty/movies/2021/02/17/tom-cruise-fully-committed-july-2-release-top-gun-maverick.html"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">https://www.military.com/off-duty/movies/2021/02/17/tom-cruise-fully-committed-july-2-release-top-gun-maverick.html</span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-44170460616745387342022-05-29T00:46:00.003-07:002022-06-30T05:47:58.283-07:00On beauty by Zadie Smith - A book review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRH5kFn87nC2ZBPZ8UNZf_gz-qKoCbHRouzjExyQtFfUB-tc2Lvcg1GQUfJlzruo1JV50W8mPaNHCnQXNA7cPqRYG8abBLb2_x86bQF6BwQ9NmTVZ1XrHXP10uWEIsHO_uzCeF3ilDWZDaUm4D8lUlbYv1V_VLHqLVTtWLe2lNxKyNiBsdL67aIl4/s500/51dDrLgYnxL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="324" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaRH5kFn87nC2ZBPZ8UNZf_gz-qKoCbHRouzjExyQtFfUB-tc2Lvcg1GQUfJlzruo1JV50W8mPaNHCnQXNA7cPqRYG8abBLb2_x86bQF6BwQ9NmTVZ1XrHXP10uWEIsHO_uzCeF3ilDWZDaUm4D8lUlbYv1V_VLHqLVTtWLe2lNxKyNiBsdL67aIl4/s320/51dDrLgYnxL.jpg" width="207" /></a><span style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What on beauty does this book describe, reveal? Beauty in
relationships – I’d be sarcastic to say yes; not a single relationship in the
story comes close to be called or deemed beautiful. On beauty of the mind and thoughts?
Hmm, let me think! Almost every character has strong thoughts – about
themselves, about others – though finally revealed to be cynical, not
beautiful. On beauty of words then? – Naaa, nothing poetic here, literally or
otherwise, except for Levi, one of the teenager’s gangsta rap, a form of music
which anyway doesn’t go well with me. Finally, on physical beauty? Negative
again – except for Victoria’s and Zora’s booties being lustfully mentioned, no
other arresting attributes have been really described to substantiate beauty.</span></span></div></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Has the title been chosen sarcastically then, for the absence
of it?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The story involves two families, the Kippses and Belseys, in
confrontation with each other due to the conflicting thoughts of each influential
male parent, both being renowned professors. The lives of their children intertwine
inadvertently, as both children and elders make ugly choices, ones that hold
the power to destroy their relationships and lives. Most of the story is also
about the mental and emotional struggle for existence of black families in the
white world and this is effectively portrayed through the thoughts of different
ages, gender, peer pressure and intellectual capabilities of the multiple
characters.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is one of those books I find difficult to comment on,
so let me think aloud what I felt or didn’t feel while reading it. I didn’t
feel bored for sure at any point in time. Was I eager to know about the
characters – yes. Could I empathize with them – not really! And that’s probably
what has had that disoriented feeling while reading the book.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The book subtly touches upon the cynical nature of humans;
no matter how well one resolutely deceives others with their so called unshakeable
intellectual thoughts or morals and values, what one fails to realize, rather finds
it immensely tasking to own to is the vanity of the self over these very
thoughts. And this vanity is so inordinately ludicrous and deceptive that the
rules are defined stringently for others but not so for the maker. One advertently
or inadvertently gives concession to oneself and calls oneself only human to
having broken the very rules one sets, but comes down strongly upon the others
when they are guilty of similar dishonesty – my mistake, your crime!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It is also about the beauty and monstrosity of love; a
feeling that is always more painful than healing. My feeling is that Zadie
Smith, through Kiki Belsey, highlights the beauty and strength in accepting –
oneself and other, things that have happened and are happening, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>while passionately and patiently hanging on to
the simple contract one has with life. A good read.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">My rating:
3 out of 5</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdM8fBa4N0i3R8ZDn9DgU_ZPfNFnvKBrs68tAE4O7GT_qahC1WB2ebEnf1QLGvvgpQgn7nWbiCaSbXFCmbCy9KfUL-NL_7KQ4Oefs4U5R6tdN23fRw2EJiGgUxHA-0rdhXv41fZfCBV_iVKErlKOQy4lawgs1QTTXxH1M3A210BIKMYH3mOxPIu6O/s1500/1200px-Zadie_Smith_NBCC_2011_Shankbone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFdM8fBa4N0i3R8ZDn9DgU_ZPfNFnvKBrs68tAE4O7GT_qahC1WB2ebEnf1QLGvvgpQgn7nWbiCaSbXFCmbCy9KfUL-NL_7KQ4Oefs4U5R6tdN23fRw2EJiGgUxHA-0rdhXv41fZfCBV_iVKErlKOQy4lawgs1QTTXxH1M3A210BIKMYH3mOxPIu6O/s320/1200px-Zadie_Smith_NBCC_2011_Shankbone.jpg" width="256" /></span></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Image
copyrights:</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Book cover – <a href="https://www.amazon.in/Beauty-Zadie-Smith-ebook/dp/B002RI9WLQ">https://www.amazon.in/Beauty-Zadie-Smith-ebook/dp/B002RI9WLQ</a><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Zadie Smith -</b> <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zadie_Smith">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zadie_Smith</a></span></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-82928502464933383582022-03-13T23:06:00.004-07:002022-03-13T23:06:53.983-07:00Villette by Charlotte Bronte – A book review<div class="separator"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Lato","sans-serif";"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6xwcS35Dc7Dr7gQwf9mHMjTbTeCbcAs1u1ZK500xXfrPT_Hsl8Q3AwWKwdLKXRbBdOr-odXcTzv0vvqZPP9bXkbXlmylXLidbTGgv5QFo8NtLo-FMxugZoc9ZzaHrYEcVlrFC8KGzCWo6f1kcpw6v1MlNYcIhKYFTprZqPjbUPta960uYgv8canni=s2342" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2342" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6xwcS35Dc7Dr7gQwf9mHMjTbTeCbcAs1u1ZK500xXfrPT_Hsl8Q3AwWKwdLKXRbBdOr-odXcTzv0vvqZPP9bXkbXlmylXLidbTGgv5QFo8NtLo-FMxugZoc9ZzaHrYEcVlrFC8KGzCWo6f1kcpw6v1MlNYcIhKYFTprZqPjbUPta960uYgv8canni=s320" width="205" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We have
friends. We had friends. And we’ve had friends. And known people – different
kinds, all kinds. <o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And one of
them most certainly has been the quiet one. An introvert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Probably an observer. The one of few words,
though not so few with the trusted ones or the ones liked and loved. A pupil in
a classroom the teacher hardly notices, inconspicuously blending with the
tables and chairs than with the mirth and melancholy of the living, not a
prominent colour, rather a fading shade in the continuum. Yet, not a chameleon,
not a manipulator but manipulated. Not there to hide, nevertheless remains
hidden; plainness and simplicity are hardly ornate conspicuous virtues.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Disdained by a
few, sympathized by others, they are always the ones expected to understand, yet
not worthy enough to be spent time on to be understood. A strong shoulder for
others’ woes, a cheek softened by others’ tears; not needing it, yet
sympathized. Not meant to love, to be loved, yet to be talked to about love,
yet to be asked to about love; their sensibility is accepted, their sensitivity
is ignored. They are probably the ones one would be most comfortable with,
would like to share with the most, but when a social event is to be organized, theirs
are the names easily forgotten or thought of the last. One would expect them to
comply, never say no to the many things hurled at them as a friend, but the
same ones would never have the time, effort and energy to remain and return the
favour when it is their turn. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Is it
diffidence then that moulds them? No, no, no! They are the tested, they have
endured and though they fight formidably the inexplicable battles of life that
once surprised them, but not any more owing to its regularity and familiarity,
they have long ago thrown down their arms and surrendered to Fate. The
resilience stems not from a weakness then, rather a solidity derived from the
lessons of an unprivileged life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">We pass so
many of them; they are the multitude; they seldom are granted a second look. But
they are needed, essential gifts for the privileged. And we need a Bronte to
tell us that they, not just survive but see, feel, cry and laugh like others;
at least they have the ability to. They do live too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Charlotte
Bronte presents us the journey of Lucy - an English teacher in a French
establishment, hardened by the eccentricities of life, and still nurturing a
softness within; a candle which will burn a long time, inevitably changing
shape but not the intensity of the flame within; her strength is her character:
simple, pure, resilient. God bless Lucy. God bless M Paul Emanuel more for
seeing, recognizing and applauding with a sincere heart another one that others
couldn’t. But then which God – Lucy’s or M Paul’s?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is the
first book I have read by Charlotte Bronte.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It hasn’t been quite an easy read; I’ve had to reread certain pages multiple
times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then poetry has never been
easy to comprehend, the unseen lines between the printed ones, once scribbled, are
the ones that delight and carry the depth. And it is the unseen, the
unexplained, the implied that makes a thing, a person, a thought more
beautiful. Bronte’s words are a stamp of her genius. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One of my
favourite paragraphs from the book – Lucy, struggling by herself, trying to
write to Dr John Graham Bretton, an acquaintance from her childhood who’s
surfaced again in her troubled youth, and who has managed to invoke in her
feelings hitherto unfelt, unrecognized, unknown by the validation of a mere
letter written by him to her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">To begin with Feeling and I turned
Reason out of doors, drew against her bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread
our paper, dipped in the ink an eager pen, and with deep enjoyment, poured out
our sincere heart. ….. nobody ever launches into Love unless he has seen or
dreamed the rising of Hope’s star over Love’s troubled waters) – when , then, I
had given expression to a closely-clinging and deeply-honouring attachment that
wanted to attract to itself and take into its own lot all that was painful in
the destiny of its object; that would if it could, have absorbed and conducted
away all storms and lightnings from an existence viewed with a passion of
solicitude – then, just at that moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt
and bar would yield, Reason would leap in, vigorous and revengeful, snatch the
full sheets, read, sneer, erase, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct, and
send a terse, curt, missive of a page. She did right.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">My rating: 5/5</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">Image copyrights:</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Charlotte
Bronte: <a href="https://brontesisters.co.uk/Charlotte-Bronte.html">https://brontesisters.co.uk/Charlotte-Bronte.html</a><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Book cover: <a href="https://www.amazon.in/Villette-Wordsworth-Classics-Charlotte-Bronte/dp/185326072X">https://www.amazon.in/Villette-Wordsworth-Classics-Charlotte-Bronte/dp/185326072X</a></span><span style="font-family: Lato, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKvFwKCnDIhCNBgzQ7eWRNNoa5Jr_ws6uOyNsmGcHvpKU257nKCkIf5f4EbABKyv5a0gbhfyZCvNgSDXH3OD31_Xao1aJbYP74DKifoTNi_qT0ZYqsJ4U3A3tP9cOvj_EffbgxlhBIihkIXXWkgIpp7ie8kEVv2IoBgV8McJ4qGFw_RzwL8JCBvcoy=s194" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Lato, "sans-serif"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="194" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKvFwKCnDIhCNBgzQ7eWRNNoa5Jr_ws6uOyNsmGcHvpKU257nKCkIf5f4EbABKyv5a0gbhfyZCvNgSDXH3OD31_Xao1aJbYP74DKifoTNi_qT0ZYqsJ4U3A3tP9cOvj_EffbgxlhBIihkIXXWkgIpp7ie8kEVv2IoBgV8McJ4qGFw_RzwL8JCBvcoy=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></p><p></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-10870299629226730662022-01-10T22:28:00.010-08:002022-01-10T22:39:30.276-08:00The glimpses of the moon by Edith Wharton – A book review<p><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXcMQd8Z8kKdFVnEH1muioMX99Kgq30y-dX-x6zHmFVwAzKuVG_I_iydlaAktpjGAZO6pIon5AyI8YBGJdUIdf_CDnXxwFFPR0yUIIclEdwWSVanjmdoTuYmUVRX4DHaD1rgOukvNncg0--WLhwfpaHPO05FnmL1ZKg8zmQZZebKBkTNyuUqsXgFey=s1000" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1000" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXcMQd8Z8kKdFVnEH1muioMX99Kgq30y-dX-x6zHmFVwAzKuVG_I_iydlaAktpjGAZO6pIon5AyI8YBGJdUIdf_CDnXxwFFPR0yUIIclEdwWSVanjmdoTuYmUVRX4DHaD1rgOukvNncg0--WLhwfpaHPO05FnmL1ZKg8zmQZZebKBkTNyuUqsXgFey=s320" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: times;">I begin the year with matters
of the heart – not bad!</span></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Edith Wharton’s
romantic novel starts with two lovers enjoying a moonlit night. The moon – a
romantic orb, a lover’s muse! Lovers make of the moon what they want to – a
comparison, a resemblance, a poem, a sonnet. Its beauty is safe at a distance –
an object to marvel and awe upon, guarded from a likelihood to lose its luster
from proximity and accessibility. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Ediith Wharton is one
of those writers I have come to respect a lot because of her comprehension of
people’s hearts and minds and for her effortless
articulation of subtleties in their thoughts, words, behavior and mannerisms.
In her stories, she gently rips apart veils of correctness and exposes the
endless lines of scruples. The ‘Age of innocence’ and ‘House of mirth’ are two
of my favourite books. She is as articulate in this one, laying bare the
confusions and distortions in the heads and hearts of both sexes but somehow I
didn’t find it as captivating as the earlier two reads.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">It is probably because the characters, for
what they are and definitely not for the way they are penned down, didn’t quite
appeal to me. Rather, it won’t be untrue if I said I despised most of them. The
protagonist couple Suzy and Nick Lansing, living off the affluent, privileged
and elitist society, is not the kind I really look up to or hold in high regard
– I’d rather reason out for a murderer. And it becomes preposterously tedious
when this parasitic appeasing lot, sponging on high society, reveals a moral
spine and a mind of its own. Nothing wrong with having your own values,
whatever they might be, but it takes an ugly form when one attempts to be the
head and the tail at the same time, to one’s benefit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Suzy and Nick have
lived their separate lives in such proud servitude and now when they each have
found the rebellious other, they enter into a frivolous marriage – a
contractual one, a pact unshackling the tethers the institution of marriage is
generally associated with. Their elite friends have decided to help the couple
live off their fortunes for a year and make their houses available to them in
turns.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">But there are no free
lunches, there never were, especially with the rich, especially for the not so
rich – the dependents. The privileged need playthings to while their time with,
to feel important, to have them listened to and at times to hide their dirty
laundry, and the poor appeasers are obliged to keep their secrets for them – a
payment in kind for the privileges they are bestowed upon with. Not everyone
thinks it to be an obligation though, not Nick! And when he finds his wife
think of her conniving with her benefactor to keep the benefactor’s illicit
affair an obligatory repayment, he is appalled by the thought and loses no time
to abandon her with an urgency, in the very second month of their marriage.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">What follows, as they
go back to blending into the rich colours of the elite society, is their
individual struggles to find out if it was love in the first place and a series
of events that allow them to question themselves about their values and actions
in the midst of a society marked by money, privileges, selfishness and
authority. Can one have the best of both worlds? – the cunning and shameless
can, I suppose. But do Nick and Suzy continue with what they think is right or
what is right? And what is right, anyway? To own up has never been easy – to
own up your love, your mistakes, your immoralities, your imperfect thoughts
because we twist our values to what suits us at that point in time; we convince
ourselves of it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: times; font-size: large;">The story also
highlights the fact that in a demanding situation, most of the times one ends
up thinking and acting for the other person – speaking is an option but it
often turns into an onerous task and the silence, open to a multitude of
interpretations, ultimately makes it even worse. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">In the end, I did
soften a lot towards Suzy. I would have shaken hands with them both for what
they finally did and the way they did it. A little unbelievable, but then
that’s romance for you. Half way through the book though, I was only pleading out
of impatience and boredom – okay tell me the end, let’s just finish this
quickly, whichever way it goes; I had started caring less for the characters. </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: large;">My rating: 6/10</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYZmsoc_HX_l9yYujze8jXAXkE7nnrRcJjwUL0tcnBEoyVG80OXd9IdMrNGileYeaDuavdjAURxr9FWCVye1Lyvs11AZJNrRdTITraBbAojcCTeDn0zLPtjOAYeVFMVGU74gE15q7YMfDRDi9bbIthiJ6HncxehebLUzhDKUxxsdokztIaUCqnU8e3=s620" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="363" data-original-width="620" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgYZmsoc_HX_l9yYujze8jXAXkE7nnrRcJjwUL0tcnBEoyVG80OXd9IdMrNGileYeaDuavdjAURxr9FWCVye1Lyvs11AZJNrRdTITraBbAojcCTeDn0zLPtjOAYeVFMVGU74gE15q7YMfDRDi9bbIthiJ6HncxehebLUzhDKUxxsdokztIaUCqnU8e3=s320" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #274e13;">Image copyrights:</span><span style="color: #073763;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Book cover -</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">
</span><a href="https://www.raptisrarebooks.com/product/the-glimpses-of-the-moon-edith-wharton-first-edition-rare/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">https://www.raptisrarebooks.com/product/the-glimpses-of-the-moon-edith-wharton-first-edition-rare/</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">Edith Wharton -</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">
</span><a href="https://www.famousauthors.org/edith-wharton"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; line-height: 115%;">https://www.famousauthors.org/edith-wharton</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-50521463646692212472021-08-17T05:16:00.002-07:002021-08-17T05:16:26.719-07:00David Copperfield by Charles Dickens – A book review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Twh_x5ZY3c8xNCDCZiIfycdK8PKiLBUr4UTUmYSXD9zoxeUBLgC8IvfTSz0O_fJ-rOHWlv7KiuslZ8skYdL7PewUtYD-3U4svF3jMY6XvGk9DVgfYuGZvCXKEv7gLQnUmqRr55x_htI/s499/David+Copperfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="325" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Twh_x5ZY3c8xNCDCZiIfycdK8PKiLBUr4UTUmYSXD9zoxeUBLgC8IvfTSz0O_fJ-rOHWlv7KiuslZ8skYdL7PewUtYD-3U4svF3jMY6XvGk9DVgfYuGZvCXKEv7gLQnUmqRr55x_htI/s320/David+Copperfield.jpg" width="208" /></a></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Regardless of it being acknowledged or not,
one has a favourite child, if you have borne children of course. Charles
Dickens mentions in the introduction that of all the books and characters he’s
written about, David Copperfield was the closest to his heart. And one can only
fully comprehend why after having read this mammoth of a book and smiling with
pleasure while reading the last few pages offering a final account of the
multitude of characters that form David Copperfield and his eventful journey.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Our education system often introduces ‘Morals and Ethics’ as
a subject, separately, with a few case studies thrown our way every now and
then, to render an elaboration or explanation. I personally believe, our human culture
would benefit more from a book like this were it to be a part of the
curriculum, if not entirely it. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Most of Dickens’ stories are the rags to riches kind, and
David Copperfield is no exception. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
in the sustenance of a humility, strongly clasped to, and the simplicity they
hold on to with a giant’s unyielding embrace, no matter how puny their
exteriors, that most characters in this story make believable the arduous
journey and explorations of their lives, in turn stimulating the reader. The
story is replete with patience, firmness, goodness, acceptance,
afflictions, endurance and many more such attributes closely associated to
life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Oh, how I would have loved to have an eccentric aunt like Betsy
Trotwood, a coconut in human form, benefitting equally from her austerity as
much from her softness. And a friend like the less privileged Thomas Traddles,
a paragon of simplicity, a connoisseur of the simple pleasures of life, a
retainer and caretaker of mirth arising out of them. And what joy would it be
to have an elderly companion like Mr. Pegotty, a rustic venerable creature who
has a heart bigger than the ocean he rides on. And Agnes! To think of her as a
goddess could be acknowledged as a rightful thought, but to treat her as one
would only be imprecise; it would rob humanity of the embodiment of what is truly
human. Many more, many more. These fine characters choose or desire to choose
the right kind of privileges that life offers and they aren’t money, status,
property or vanity; it’s more of finding permanence in the temporary. And the story
isn’t lacking in unscrupulous figures and elements, in case you were wondering.
</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I say I would have loved to have the people in David
Copperfield’s life, but then, do I deserve them? We all have had or come across
our Betsy Trotwoods, Traddles, Agneses and Pegottys in one form or the other but
did we recognize them, hang on to them, or let them vanish? That has defined
our lives and will continue to do so. Though, I claim that this story has
highly influenced me, what I do with it or am able to do with it is all that matters.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">‘What you seek is seeking you’ said Rumi. David and Agnes’s
story and relationship is a realization of this quote; things, feelings and
people we yearn for lie right before our eyes and yet we travel far and further
seeking them, inadvertently overlooking.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Every page of David Copperfield’s struggle to find himself
and his destiny is worth it; I wouldn’t raise an alarm for it being superfluous
if hundred more pages were added relevant to the sublimity of the story. Every
word is a lyrical fit in the entertaining Dickenson language, if I may call it so,
a defunct linguistic glory that twists and turns in its dialogue of words for
the right meaning and effect. The era of respect and respectful language has
diminished over the years and has changed form drastically and what we are left
with now is a boorish platter of expressions in most current day literature.
That’s why Charles Dickens and his contemporaries are important; the classics
are essential; their task is to remind us of what we were and (being optimistic)
of what we could be. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The only discontent I felt was in the neglect of Ham. Had
David Copperfield or Charles Dickens been alive, I would have been tempted to
ask a few questions about him. Marked by simplicity, loyalty and care, his
character, even when wronged, receives nothing more than mere sympathy. Even in his
death, Dickens through David’s account, writes little of him and more of the
despicable flamboyant Steerforth, whose perished body lies beside Ham’s. I
guess it is Dickens’ way of portraying an unfair life with even the virtuous of
characters giving in to the formidable unfairness of it? We ultimately return to
the chess box, but what we do before that defines us.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A must read for anyone who likes a good story, a tale well narrated.
Highly engaging and influencing. Highly recommended.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #38761d; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>My rating: 10/10</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Image copyrights:</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Book cover - </span></b><span style="color: #0b5394;">©</span><span style="color: #0b5394;">
https://www.amazon.in/Copperfield-Vintage-Classics-Charles-Dickens/dp/0099511460</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #a64d79;">Charles
Dickens - </span></b><span style="color: #0b5394;">© https://www.britannica.com/biography/Charles-Dickens-British-novelist</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0A592ohADooTQGqDTogAG_qu6dAQgg6hz0HYX6YYaGhkmRZaj7QD_m96vmcrt2cszTUwf3p6-P4Y8m08Lo5LiJsezu_kkgHrSh4_KlXg2mONvfZUHWe48pswRNtBTKZDBmYlaN-woKEo/s400/Charles-Dickens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0A592ohADooTQGqDTogAG_qu6dAQgg6hz0HYX6YYaGhkmRZaj7QD_m96vmcrt2cszTUwf3p6-P4Y8m08Lo5LiJsezu_kkgHrSh4_KlXg2mONvfZUHWe48pswRNtBTKZDBmYlaN-woKEo/w400-h300/Charles-Dickens.jpg" width="400" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-90509237545022531252021-08-12T04:07:00.002-07:002021-08-12T04:23:32.903-07:00The Lighthouse by Alison Moore – A book review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67HGxAqt4GGcKk7U-ASDSe2z0T7l8oMRxNqYZmbugXlTv7X27XLOfgoLrxa2FI3UwWfPaBR25zRyTScKiDaR1Nw7M0SZurRgbUlNPtPNAb6klrjLoa7qCKZRAJUCogSsAICiFSjVgYAQ/s2048/the-lighthouse-ebook-cover-9780857869968.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1334" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj67HGxAqt4GGcKk7U-ASDSe2z0T7l8oMRxNqYZmbugXlTv7X27XLOfgoLrxa2FI3UwWfPaBR25zRyTScKiDaR1Nw7M0SZurRgbUlNPtPNAb6klrjLoa7qCKZRAJUCogSsAICiFSjVgYAQ/s320/the-lighthouse-ebook-cover-9780857869968.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>Language
Teachers often make their learners read a text and ask them to summarise it or
provide a gist; the reading sub-skill is called ‘Reading for gist’. The Lighthouse
does exactly the opposite, if you ask me. The epigraph more or less provides
the gist and then Alison Moore expands it to create her story.</span><span style="color: #073763;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She became a tall lighthouse sending out kindly beams which some
took for welcome instead of warnings
against the rocks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #274e13;">- Muriel Spark, ‘The Curtain Blown by the Breeze’ - Epigraph</span><span style="color: #073763;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alison
Moore’s story, long-listed for the Man Booker, is an allegorical tale about
Futh, a middle-aged man recently separated from his infidel wife Angela. Futh thinks a
walking holiday will help and hence he travels to Germany from the U.K. He’s
been on a walking trip once as a child, with his father. The infidelity of his wife and her deserting
him are not the only painful thoughts running on his mind. He hasn’t had the best
of childhoods and has seen duplicity and adultery in abundance as a child. All
the thoughts of his mother leaving his father and him, of the adulteries of his
father, of Gloria – the lady neighbor, of Kenny – the only friend he talks
about and of Angela of course – a girl he always looked up to and looked out
for, only to be ignored, and is now his wife and soon will cease to be. Apart from the emptiness, he always
carries with him the silver lighthouse, a perfume bottle, which wasn’t supposed
to be his.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
remember what my father had once said when I was a child and a moth entered
through our window and was desperately buzzing against the tube-light. I had wanted
to drive it away, but my father said “Leave it alone; it’s come to die.” And I
did find it lying dead on the floor the next day. I have encountered many moths
and other insects since then, devoted and obsessed with the light, being wasted
to the same fate, either eaten by the slimy tongue of a predator or restlessly tiring
themselves to death. The moths, and other such nocturnal insects, it is said, seek
to travel by the shining light of the moon, by a method called transverse
orientation (just like humans keep the North Star in a certain position to know
where they are). And the electric illumination confuses them. Stupid insects.
Just like stupid humans – we only think we are intelligent until proven wrong
by an upper hand. We seek lighthouses to save us; we travel to our end!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And
Ester is the other character Alison Moore freely writes about. She’s the owner’s
wife, of a hotel that Futh has booked as part of his travel holiday. Another moth
that has chosen the light-bulb instead of the moon. Coincidences and misfortunes
then ensue and you see Futh, and sometimes Ester, inadvertently being enticed by
the shining light of the allegorical lighthouse, fluttering desperately against
the light without being aware of any dangers lurking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alison
Moore’s symbolic writing renders an uncanny feel to her story. Like the moths
and lighthouse, Ester’s Venus Flytraps too allude to a mystery of alluring, capture
and doom. I liked this simple novella; the language is simple but the meaning
is full of allusions, hinting at, building implicitly layer upon layer of a
suspense of misfortune that you earlier ignored or overlooked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So, does
Futh ultimately receive a welcome or does he, not realizing, ignore the
warnings against the rocks? It is ultimately Futh’s silver lighthouse that
substantiates the epigraph – finally literally. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Next
time I see a moth, I know what I'll call it.</span><span style="color: #073763;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><b>My rating: 4/5</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><span style="color: #4c1130;">Image
Copyrights:</span></b><span style="color: #073763;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>Book
cover -</b> © https://canongate.co.uk/books/2041-the-lighthouse/<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><b>Alison
Moore -</b> © </span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/04/books/review/alison-moore-the-lighthouse.html"><span style="line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/04/books/review/alison-moore-the-lighthouse.html</span></a><span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJ2rvWS_pEgNm34lI96z5tF7R5_ShHTUB_AXKi4q1sljpN9yOljkDLJ4DXuTHGzWjZ6Q5zeGwNps7xtYuZmVkDr0Ds7qs_cT2q5vsEUajrUug5XzNu12yfTWs0ui2WiAWq8W3DRK5taE/s1600/10MCCARTHY-1504030464295-videoSixteenByNineJumbo1600-v2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: arial; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyJ2rvWS_pEgNm34lI96z5tF7R5_ShHTUB_AXKi4q1sljpN9yOljkDLJ4DXuTHGzWjZ6Q5zeGwNps7xtYuZmVkDr0Ds7qs_cT2q5vsEUajrUug5XzNu12yfTWs0ui2WiAWq8W3DRK5taE/w400-h225/10MCCARTHY-1504030464295-videoSixteenByNineJumbo1600-v2.jpg" width="400" /></a></p><p></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-31292803326467805762021-06-07T05:54:00.014-07:002021-06-07T06:09:17.099-07:00Death by Water by Kenzaburo Oé – A book review<p><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDMKq2BHSI3WY0_2Iozm80ePpwLIXDKpTEDsBBGavwnhsLpbejWzhcaiP3fThgBH2M7nPGPYZGrs2myE2W3lhtlv4GFWChy0qf_bcA5hCI95q7c_9PD50JJ271QP8RWG4meobSKOG118/s2048/91JFsnpEm0L.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1340" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibDMKq2BHSI3WY0_2Iozm80ePpwLIXDKpTEDsBBGavwnhsLpbejWzhcaiP3fThgBH2M7nPGPYZGrs2myE2W3lhtlv4GFWChy0qf_bcA5hCI95q7c_9PD50JJ271QP8RWG4meobSKOG118/s320/91JFsnpEm0L.jpg" /></a>Kogito Choko is a renowned Japanese author (like Kenzaburo
Oé) and most of his books have been turned into plays by Masao Anai, a theatre
virtuoso. Choko has been longing to
write a novel about his long dead father but not before accessing a red leather
trunk which his father had carried along to his mysterious and controversial
death by drowning. He has a recurrent dream from witnessing the scene when his
father ventured in the middle of a storm on a small boat to his death. Kogito’s
imaginary doppelganger Kogii who no-one else can see was on the boat too. This shadowy
Kogii, who had been his only real playmate during his growing up years departs
mysteriously too. Kogito feels trapped
in the blurring lines between reality and dreams.</span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">The novel’s main theme revolves around these lines from
T.S.Eliot’s poem ‘The Wasteland: IV – Death by Water’ which feature in the
novel repeatedly.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;">‘A current under sea<br /></span></i><i><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell<br /></span></i><i><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;">He passed the stages of his age and youth<br /></span></i><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Entering the whirlpool.’</span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">Kogito doesn’t get access to this elusive trunk for about
three decades or more until his mother dies and when he does lay his hands on
it, to his dismay, he finds that most of the materials he had supposed could
give him more details of his father have been destroyed by his mother.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Masao Anai and his theatre cadre, for his next play, are
heavily depending on Kogito Choko writing the much awaited ‘Drowning Novel’ which
is supposed to be an apt summation for Choko’s earlier novels and characters.
However, to everyone’s dismay, Choko abandons the idea after the disappointing
revelation of the contents of the red leather trunk. And then the story hops
from one hackneyed subject to another such as the troubled relationship with
his brain-damaged grown-up composer son Akari (Oé has a developmentally disabled
son named Hikari who’s a composer too), the Occupation war, the end of an
emperor’s era, the plight of farmers in the countryside, references to the
spirit world, and finally meandering to other serious social issues like rape
and abortion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">There are many ways to kill a person. You can spend a bullet
and shoot him in different parts of his body, strangle him, stab him a few
times, even choke him under water. And then you can also use a harmless looking
weapon and batter someone to death, beat him to a pulp and keep doing so even
after the soul has left him. Kenzaburo Oé seems to strongly approve of the
latter.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Imagine this:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Me telling you – I bought khaki coloured shorts today.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">My brother telling you – Do you know he bought khaki
coloured shorts today.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">My mother telling my father – He bought khaki coloured
shorts today. They look good.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">My father telling me – You bought khaki coloured shorts
today from that shop.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Neil Armstrong telling Edwin Aldrin – That man bought khaki
shorts today. Amazing, isn’t it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">WHO telling the world, an earthworm informing a centipede, a
spider whispering to a fly – SOMEONE BOUGHT KHAKI SHORTS TODAY.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Did you not wince every time you heard about my khaki shorts
after the first mention? I did too – badly, every time I heard about the red
leather trunk and the ‘drowning novel’, then at the hackneyed mention of an
experimental yet irritating (I really thought so) ‘tossing the dogs’ concept of
drama, and then reading/listening to ten different people telling each other
how badly Choko had behaved with his son Akari, and then about Meisuke’s mother
and the insurrection! Oh, and did I forget to mention witnessing Choko’s father
on the night of the storm aboard a small boat with the red leather trunk and
his doppelganger Kogii. It’s like Jackie Chan teaching ‘The Karate Kid’ each move
a zillion times so it is ingrained in the brain and is sort of automated when it
is to be executed in real life. Oé treats each theme in a similar fashion;
particularly the drowning of his father is a tiring leitmotif in the novel. The
author should have known that it is a story we are reading and not an art we’re
trying to master; the reader must have the freedom to remember or forget, and
not be battered by hackneyed descriptions of the same subject.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">I don’t normally quit a book midway, but there were times I
almost shouted out ‘One more mention of the red leather trunk and I’m going to take
a devilish pleasure in painting each page red; one more time someone describes
the scene of his father’s death and I’m going to tear out each page and sink it
into the bucket.’ Death by words, by banality!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Nonetheless, a few things from the novel stood out strongly
for me and I realize they are to do with culture. Firstly, I felt the Japanese
culture’s acceptance of death is sublime. In a way, it seems they ready
themselves for it, which to me is an extremely brave thing. Throughout the book, different characters including his wife,
sister and daughter talk openly and elaborately about Kogito’s death in his
presence and he listens calmly, a death that isn’t known when it’ll come. All
throughout the book, family members and other characters blame Kogito Choko for
not preparing or readying Akari, his son for Akari’s death when it comes. They
are quite comfortable, rather happy having morbid discussions. In contrast, in
the Indian culture, from where I belong, people don’t like talking about it;
they generally fear death and inadvertently fight for life till the last gasp.
I’m sure in both and most cultures, life is valued as much. And the acceptance
of suicides is also daunting. Yes, there’s not much you can do but accept it
eventually but the peaceful acceptance and the glorification of it made me uncomfortable.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">The other prominent feature I experienced was the act of being
straightforward; it’s exaggerated to a new dimension. Even if one has committed
a stupid act, one wouldn’t be comfortable or stolidly be a mute audience when
reminded repeatedly of the unpleasant behavior. In most cultures, it would come
across as rude. Tolerance and patience probably derive their meanings from the
phlegmatic characters of this book and this richness is definitely a lesson to be learnt if one can and is willing to.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Kogito Choko in one of the chapters, when talking to Unaiko,
the new theatre virtuoso, says why he doesn’t write fantasy – probably because
he’s not capable to do so; so he relies on imagination which has some basis in
reality. Kenzaburo Oé takes a lot from his real life and refers freely to his
previous novels.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">T.S. Eliot’s lines are echoed in the few lines written by
Kogito’s mother and completed by Kogito:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #38761d;">“You didn’t get Kogii
ready to go up into the forest<br />
And like the river current, you won’t return home<br />
In Tokyo during the dry season<br />
I’m remembering everything backward<br />
From old age to earliest childhood.”</span><span style="color: #990000;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">And all characters from then on find comfort in repeating
these lines and stating the same meaning to each other like a chant. Probably,
through repetition, they keep things alive in their minds and maybe strive to
find new and different meanings.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;">It would have been a much nicer story had the author been
harshly concise with it. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: x-large;"><b>My rating: 4/10</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: x-large;"><b>Image copyrights</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b>Kenzaburo Oe -</b> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">©</span>
https://groveatlantic.com/author/kenzaburo-oe/</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b>Book cover -</b> ©
https://www.amazon.in/Death-Water-Kenzaburo-Oe/dp/0857895486</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: right;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbEXQ019BJTYVOOc8hsBgTU5KulGTi3IobrueTQIfJcpwsa2cu9ZAjsAjgp9xvmdLp5pv1Zl1ynOxGoMjGEtCFhoYjNP0FPDtAZCip0vkFaMOGIfDwbSK3XApgdmNKXH5eZqz_nep1ZI/s471/Oe-Kenzaburo-Photo-Credit-Asahi-Shimbun-crop.jpg" style="font-family: times; font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmbEXQ019BJTYVOOc8hsBgTU5KulGTi3IobrueTQIfJcpwsa2cu9ZAjsAjgp9xvmdLp5pv1Zl1ynOxGoMjGEtCFhoYjNP0FPDtAZCip0vkFaMOGIfDwbSK3XApgdmNKXH5eZqz_nep1ZI/s320/Oe-Kenzaburo-Photo-Credit-Asahi-Shimbun-crop.jpg" width="320" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-31946401858062340362021-05-13T03:17:00.001-07:002021-05-13T03:17:54.264-07:00Tomorrow by Graham Swift – A book review<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgboWVJsutA0au1vWhKXEjNJy82CIhlo0Mbx1XBcDVROqH2It_I2H37ZMj2HHPkrfDHPE2Cw0lAXxuMfAcdoLXpqJOS3VfEbCu8eJqY-YvFYxV5uK9bRVJboNtlnjHSIzKLedGNSjG3LaE/s316/277532._UY316_SS316_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: times; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgboWVJsutA0au1vWhKXEjNJy82CIhlo0Mbx1XBcDVROqH2It_I2H37ZMj2HHPkrfDHPE2Cw0lAXxuMfAcdoLXpqJOS3VfEbCu8eJqY-YvFYxV5uK9bRVJboNtlnjHSIzKLedGNSjG3LaE/s0/277532._UY316_SS316_.jpg" /></a><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Tomorrow is going to be a big day for Paula and her family,
especially for her husband and her teenager twins. A revelation is going to be
made; it could have a devastating consequence or pass off as an acceptance,
not altering the togetherness they share.</span></span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Paula lies awake the night before the revelation,
reminiscing about her entire life, the choices she made, the choices they made
as a couple, the memories of the arrival and growing up of their children. She
is mentally readying herself for the questions that are likely to surface
tomorrow. A secret is going to be revealed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Reading the initial pages, I felt happy about the book and
the writing. I liked the suspense Graham Swift had created for the reader; I
liked the way each chapter ended in an exclamatory manner. I like ramblings,
the way writers like Swift and many others are able to articulate the mental
agony and jubilation that goes on inside the heads of a few. However, when
Paula’s adventures and musings had just started to amuse me, I felt she just
kept rambling about the same things again and again. Her hackneyed musings felt
like a senile old person’s ranting, which she isn’t; which I’d hoped Swift
wasn’t. Probably, that was Swift’s precise motive to give it a natural touch
but honestly, after a certain point, Paula’s memories came across to me as mere
fillers and there wasn’t much to hold on to. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Often I ended up saying ‘You’ve mentioned that before.’ ‘Get
on with it lady.’ ‘What’s the big thing about it?’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;">Definitely not the worst of books but surely not the best of
Swift either. I laughed when I read a few reviews after completing the book;
some even mentioned they have a new ‘Quit’ shelf after they read this one.
Well, I wouldn’t dismiss it as that; a good attempt I’d say. Nonetheless, I
couldn’t sustain my interest for Paula’ ramblings for long; I ended up not
feeling much or strongly for her. And what I also felt missing was the father’s
point of view, just like he’s missing on the front cover of the book and is
seen alone on the back cover although the picture is one of togetherness. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>MY RATING: 5/10</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvDKOQexF91vupEpJkVW4BXMx0NN6YF2je_ISihY2nRH_z0Sg7izImE6ceUPUxuDMOKXBUEKW_qUMH4pc1xa-NTJ5oMvru20bFjMhuHOo7Yy6APc6WRDNvGtKWb9LNVdHp7LqXYNWufY/s890/5247.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: times; font-size: large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="890" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvDKOQexF91vupEpJkVW4BXMx0NN6YF2je_ISihY2nRH_z0Sg7izImE6ceUPUxuDMOKXBUEKW_qUMH4pc1xa-NTJ5oMvru20bFjMhuHOo7Yy6APc6WRDNvGtKWb9LNVdHp7LqXYNWufY/s320/5247.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Image copyrights</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Book cover - </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">©https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/277532.Tomorrow</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: medium;"><b>Graham Swift</b> </span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">©</span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;"> </span><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/may/18/here-we-are-review-breathtaking-storytelling-from-graham-swift" style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/may/18/here-we-are-review-breathtaking-storytelling-from-graham-swift</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-64960958991194981732021-04-27T03:50:00.011-07:002021-04-28T10:17:04.653-07:00Warlight by Michael Ondaatje – A book review<p><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50S6XIzmjGZ5fL3QPPYXBJ6HZml5QFa7zJZh5rf2wo16sYViy1xbJpV9Nl9eauHHBFNy4vFaihyphenhyphenjm1FiuZONT7YDdaNjtsXBumPLeK6nPN93RoaYG8XXmVyA6h3CEilER5SDHlwA7Kyg/s473/Warlight_MichaelOndaatje.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="295" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh50S6XIzmjGZ5fL3QPPYXBJ6HZml5QFa7zJZh5rf2wo16sYViy1xbJpV9Nl9eauHHBFNy4vFaihyphenhyphenjm1FiuZONT7YDdaNjtsXBumPLeK6nPN93RoaYG8XXmVyA6h3CEilER5SDHlwA7Kyg/s320/Warlight_MichaelOndaatje.jpg" /></a>The human mind is the most creative tool for deception.</div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">It seeks peace; it creates wars.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">And you can’t escape it. Some comment, some fight, some flee.
A few have names; a headline, a picture, a medal hanging on the wall or tucked
beneath neatly folded clothes. Others are silhouettes, the ghosts of war, not
to be identified. They are the breeze and the wind, only their actions cause a
rustle marking their existence.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">‘Warlight’ sees Nathaniel pursue the identity of his
parents, particularly his mother as they lie and abandon them in the hands of
curious caretakers. Michael Ondaatje’s story places each foot on two taught
ropes; one - a secret loyalty to one’s country in wartime, and the other - a
presence for one’s family. The distance only widens and the characters make a
choice.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">But the choice they make, inevitably and apparently isn’t
only for them. They risk and give in to being misunderstood and even hated by
the ones they belong to. Forgoing all expectations of a normal life, as they
carry on their clandestine operations, the line between right and wrong is
blurred in the attempt to follow orders. Few children will understand and
respect the almost impenetrable fortress built around them for their safety, if
their parents themselves are not in it with them; often a convincing look or
nod or the warmth of a hand held in assurance is safety enough for a child. Or just
being there. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">The outcome is a failed distorted childhood, robbing
Nathaniel and his sister of the ability to trust, to value as they live around
personalities that walk in and out of their lives, characters that are flesh
and blood yet about whom they know very little and have little inclination to
find about. When everything seems to be a farce, one tends to give up trying to
understand not just the bigger picture but the presence and absence of the
distinctive roles others tend to play in their small lives. Living in the
moment then becomes the truth and aimlessly is the direction it takes. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">I wonder if it was also Ondaatje’s scheme to subtly question
the depth of loyalty against individualism or was it just me. Is it the strong
craving in a few for adventure, an endeavor to find purpose in chaos, a fetish
for self-flagellation in reclusion, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that
weighs more and disguises itself in the name of patriotism. Will they ever be
able to cope with what is termed the la la land of a normal life when they get
one? And does it make any difference at all if the end justifies the means? There
are no ends really, only justifications and they don’t really mean anything;
they are forgiven or forgotten, and in most cases not. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">I simply loved the second part of the book where Rose (for
those who aren’t aware a Viola exists), Nathaniel’s mother expresses herself
and lets us in on her journey, thoughts and feelings. Poetry, sheer poetry in
the lines of Ondaatje depicting a sacrificial tenderness and intimacy between
Rose and her distanced lover, The Gatherer - Marsh Felon who has selfishly
chosen her for living a dual life. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Is the memory of that one kiss, that particular touch, the
yearning for more, the reassuring warmth of that one night enough to live a
lifetime? It is, for some. Memories. Acceptance.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Michael Ondaatje ushers us effortlessly in a dimmed warlight
to discover secrecy, pain, longing, strength and devotion and you feel more
than see in the dark labyrinths of his words. How much can one stoically accept
and endure?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><b>Nathaniel: “What did you do that was so terrible?” </b></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"><i><b>Rose: “My sins are various.”</b></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #660000; font-size: x-large;"><b>My rating – 8/10</b></span></span></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylX2hsRNj7DeJSnfCsEZ-RC6-a9MDfSb1LwtY9CPjGM67OzZbsiXJYjLLJqR3ooJOWr0xfP-bLAoPFqhuysBIKTWlszeC3a4e0n-SYaXmldnm59k7lX_JilZeQZhQDY6CuK9MwiEuldA/s516/Fun-Facts-Friday-Michael-Ondaatje.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: times; font-size: x-large; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="516" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylX2hsRNj7DeJSnfCsEZ-RC6-a9MDfSb1LwtY9CPjGM67OzZbsiXJYjLLJqR3ooJOWr0xfP-bLAoPFqhuysBIKTWlszeC3a4e0n-SYaXmldnm59k7lX_JilZeQZhQDY6CuK9MwiEuldA/w400-h241/Fun-Facts-Friday-Michael-Ondaatje.jpg" width="400" /></a></p></blockquote></blockquote><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b>Image courtesy:</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b>Book cover -</b> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">©</span>https://readingproject.neocities.org/BookReviews/Warlight_MichaelOndaatje.html</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #20124d; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><b>Michael Ondaatje -</b> ©
https://manoflabook.com/wp/fun-facts-friday-michael-ondaatje/</span></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-79385324292951238172021-03-22T22:52:00.003-07:002021-03-22T22:52:46.841-07:00Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy – A book review<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh68PbNVhR_GATaPX3Sx6NeMt4Twl59anicbSBADZDX_jI4j2UyTlxrpmv20XONVjbRnPeoKw1F0pLP8h6zpi7NbuBDqx2-f8tDU5Jw0yl9JfbbTOsJpPg_pveRApcAwtnvyEhXibrZaws/s279/Book+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="279" data-original-width="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh68PbNVhR_GATaPX3Sx6NeMt4Twl59anicbSBADZDX_jI4j2UyTlxrpmv20XONVjbRnPeoKw1F0pLP8h6zpi7NbuBDqx2-f8tDU5Jw0yl9JfbbTOsJpPg_pveRApcAwtnvyEhXibrZaws/s0/Book+cover.jpg" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">I want to read the book all over again. And again. And
again. But somehow I know more likely than not, I never will.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Oh what a tragic story; so beautifully told.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Tess, O dear Tess, only if I had found you, discovered you
before anyone else did! If only I could be the one your beautiful eyes sought, only
if I could be the breeze you enjoyed the intimacy of, only if I was the reason
not for your misery but for your miserable loving heart, only if I could live
up to the purity of your soul… only if … only if. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">This is probably the only story that had me empathizing with
the female character fully. I’ve read many, attempted my best to understand the
emotions and acts, probably even understood some, but the acceptance of them, I
guess has been beyond my intellect. I’ve never really liked the word ‘empathy’
though; it sounds so farcical. I can only imagine but not actually feel Tess’s
pain and agony even if I want to; how can I? No-one could have lived Tess’s
life, her sacrifices in love but her. So strong in character yet so weak and
vulnerable in love.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Tess’s devastating path is paved all the way, very
cunningly, by Fate. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Manipulated by Alec
d’Urberville, a player, her life changes for the worse as she unwillingly
graduates to be a woman from an innocent teenager, without chancing upon and enjoying
the imperfection of ladyship. But then, I hold her imbecile and selfish parents
more responsible than Alec for her plight; one cannot send Hansel and Gretel
out into the forest without the fear of being eaten up, no matter how optimistic
and needy they be. Poverty, shame and self-respect guide her on to the path of
a dairy in another town and as a dairymaid. Fate brings her to encounter Angel
Clare, a rebel with a cause, a man of meaning and virtues, of character and
strength, knowledge and passion, a gentleman; a vessel of innocence
commensurate with that that of Tess’s.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">And they fall in love, naturally like the wind and clouds,
like the night and stars. Try as much as she can, Tess fails to reveal her past
to Angel and when she does, on the night of their union; the revelation is as
much a disaster as Fate. Angel, clouded by his morals and the stringent path of
his thoughts and righteousness, can’t place her as the one he fell in love
with. He abandons her – a punishment as severe to him as to her. What transpires
later is more tragic and as Fate, yet again leaves its marks cutting through
the flesh, pricking the soul; one wonders if pain is innate in some; inseparable,
necessary, like the torso, the brain, the heart and other organs one is born
with. What time heals, time brings back again and it’s futile to ask or reason
out the mockery.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Allow me a little exaggeration as I have shouted out a
number of times reading those paragraphs of mental turmoil, separation and
despair, pleading with Angel to reconsider, not abandon her, not despise her, trying
to convince him that Tess is pure, as pure as his thoughts. But Angel Clare isn’t
Chaucer’s Troilus, another soul so full of love, so pure in love, an apt match.
But who really knows, perhaps Troilus would’ve reacted just as Angel did; alas
we are guarded, controlled and manipulated by the fortuities of providence.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">We fall in love. We do. Fall.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Tess fell. Angel fell. And the rise is never devoid of
sacrifice. And in Tess’s case, murder!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">There’s innocence in the story, an innocence to be cherished
in its plainness. Not just the characters, but the description of the
countryside, the scenery, the expanses of the fields, the rivers and pathways,
the horse-carts transport you to an era devoid of technology (how much I’ve
hated to use this word here), to a life of minimalism and free of the cacophony
of hurriedness.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Throughout the story, I visualized a known face to Tess’s, I
morphed it to hers. I sought comfort snuggling myself in the elfin cave on her
face shaped with every smile. I took her hand and walked the countryside. But I
had to remind myself that it’s a story; Tess isn’t a face, a body. I wonder if a
Tess ever existed. Does she? Do you Tess? I hope you do.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have put Thomas
Hardy on a pedestal; this book has been my introduction to him and I only want
to get acquainted more. The writing is so clean, devoid of pompousness, with so
much respect to the characters and the reader. There’s something about the
classics; there’s something about Charles Dickens, D.H.Lawrence, Thomas Hardy;
there’s honesty and innocence.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: times; font-size: large;">My rating – 10/10<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Images copyrights:<o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Book cover - <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">©</span>
https://oldbookdepot.in/product/tess-of-the-durbervilles-wordworth-classics-2-2/</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Thomas Hardy - ©
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-hardy</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWVxSvS4mbHe2HEQTLiva0amY9M_UfB39VdSn7jopu5qm0w2AMjWxYDhnxKSVozlEe9To3YaaK2_rrsWdWJokJSdvGFltmHHfT79Ml66_OU3m6qNRVo_ArxduqO2fXh707qa7O4RUU8s/s1936/Thomas+Hardy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1293" data-original-width="1936" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvWVxSvS4mbHe2HEQTLiva0amY9M_UfB39VdSn7jopu5qm0w2AMjWxYDhnxKSVozlEe9To3YaaK2_rrsWdWJokJSdvGFltmHHfT79Ml66_OU3m6qNRVo_ArxduqO2fXh707qa7O4RUU8s/w400-h268/Thomas+Hardy.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-22983362455551381822021-02-02T10:30:00.014-08:002021-02-02T21:18:52.444-08:00Sacred Games by Vikram Chandra – A book review<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyPKHYc-1I16eb8FGUkf98bJWgVecvA2HlgiYOvZohrNMoZC4scyPtHDj7a_F0DacU-GOcRrM220lzOAkBZqtAmRGGknJbNeUOBk3CwgmYsMRfyZLkJYHMHu4-Nn8pbREVQAkJU3JoL0/s283/download.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyPKHYc-1I16eb8FGUkf98bJWgVecvA2HlgiYOvZohrNMoZC4scyPtHDj7a_F0DacU-GOcRrM220lzOAkBZqtAmRGGknJbNeUOBk3CwgmYsMRfyZLkJYHMHu4-Nn8pbREVQAkJU3JoL0/s0/download.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: x-large;">947 </span></b><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">pages in small print. 947 pages about the rise and fall
of a ruthless gangster and the lives revolving around him.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Perceptions matter and perceptions differ. So I’ll speak for
myself and the multitude like me in Mumbai who have if not directly encountered
gangsters, politicians and the film industry, have definitely not been free of
or able to escape their tangle of power, ruthlessness and glamour. How can one,
if it’s in one’s face every day; when one has news reporters enthusiastically
bleeding their ears and eyes with accounts of the unsafe world one lives in,
ruled by these handful despots yielding power. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Ganesh Gaitonde is one such despot and the story is about
him and his addiction to power. How I wish every such horrendous creature was
nipped in the bud, eliminated, annihilated when they committed their first
monstrosity. But this isn’t our world though like imbeciles we believe so; we
are only acting our parts in someone else’s play. And like you and me, every
Ganesh Gaitonde is a part of this play whether we prefer him or not.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">There’s a tree called Manchineel found in the mangroves of
South Florida, the Caribbean, Central America and northern South America. Resembling
a small green crabapple about 1 to 2 inches wide, its sweet-smelling fruits can
cause hours of agony – and potentially death – with a single bite. (source: <a href="https://www.treehugger.com/why-manchineel-might-be-earths-most-dangerous-tree-4868796">Why
Manchineel Might Be Earth's Most Dangerous Tree (treehugger.com)</a>)
Nevertheless, it exists, grows. Nature nurtures it with the needed sunlight,
water and conditions to survive, just like for any other tree but unlike
others, it dubiously produces poison and that’s what it has to offer. Our
gangster is nurtured by the police, politicians and the crowd that seeks refuge
and money and willingly enslave themselves to this gory power and in return he spits venom.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">The story takes you through the meandering filthy lanes of the
underworld. If you have watched enough gangster movies and witnessed
contrivance and connivance of these manipulative soulless hyenas of control and
dominance over the years, Vikram Chandra’s story then becomes just a rendering
of facts beaded together by instances of treachery, immorality, fanaticism and
more gruesome tales of betrayal; a colourful script for another movie reeking of inhumanity.
The indubitable power of money securing ammunition, control, flesh,
friendship, religion litters across the pages. There’s a tacit agreement to
these acts, in fact an attempt to justify as well. This reminds me of probably
one of the most popular dialogues of yesteryear films, <i>‘Koi apni maa ke pet se
bura paida nahi hota, ye duniya use bura banati hai’ (no-one is born a bad
person in the mother’s womb; the world turns them into a bad person)</i>. And I go
‘Yes, yes, I can only imagine what a world it'd be had every oppressed person thought this way and turned out to be like this.’</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">So the mentioned men of law whether it be our hero Sartaj Singh, or Katekar, Parulkar or Kamble, work hard but also take bribes, take pride in
their infidelity, use their influence to bend and break the law, team up with gangsters,
kill for them, kill them, are shamelessly epitomes of lawlessness but are supposedly justified; we are to feel sorry for them.
Women like Jojo, Zoya or Kamala Pandey and many others who not reluctantly but
willingly contrive for their dreams of a better life, sell themselves for fun, popularity and
power are meant to be justified; we are supposed to feel for them as well. A self obsessed megalomaniac like Ganesh
Gaitonde who kills at will, offers his own men who trust and idolize him as bait, ravages women just because
he can, feeds on virgins for strength, manipulates and contrives to the lowest
possible levels is glorified. But there’s always an eagle lurking for a snake.
So, there’s a guru that Mr.Gaitonde believes in, trusts and this guru has a
plan for mankind and the plan isn’t particularly conducive to your or my safety, happiness and well-being. I
guess we need less gurus and more heroes like Batman to save the world; who
have no jurisdiction but are truly good. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Have you read ‘Inferno’ by Dan Brown? Just asking.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Have you read ‘Shantaram’ by Gregory David Roberts? Just
asking again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">I wouldn’t say I disliked the book but too much of prose (minus
any poetry) probably got to me. Just another gangster movie story I'd say heavily influenced by Bollywood.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Just like the Glocks and AK47s mentioned, the bulk of the
book could kill one if it were to fall from a shelf above. 947 pages done with.
And what do I feel now? Well, I’m only happy to move on to reading another
book; I’d rather go for Dickens or Iris Murdoch this time.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><b>My rating: 5 out of 10</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;"><b>Images copyright</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Book cover - <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">©</span><a href="https://www.amazon.in/Sacred-Games-Vikram-Chandra/dp/014306360X">Buy
Sacred Games Book Online at Low Prices in India | Sacred Games Reviews &
Ratings - Amazon.in</a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #351c75; font-size: medium;">Author - <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">©</span><a href="http://jaiarjun.blogspot.com/2006/08/conversation-with-vikram-chandra.html">Jabberwock:
A conversation with Vikram Chandra (jaiarjun.blogspot.com)</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09KaJjXZLsZG42oPleUEjSsqJBzyFamyC-XLFmEZYMtukq5Q2KqqkQYg-QvVoqijAu62uj1mQ22saDygIkHdmB_Q2_fLZ24-Ub-3eP28hAVzosmDg7dgZdiSyx1uHFXFwxcvbODWzkA8/s255/Vikram+Chandra.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="255" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj09KaJjXZLsZG42oPleUEjSsqJBzyFamyC-XLFmEZYMtukq5Q2KqqkQYg-QvVoqijAu62uj1mQ22saDygIkHdmB_Q2_fLZ24-Ub-3eP28hAVzosmDg7dgZdiSyx1uHFXFwxcvbODWzkA8/w400-h311/Vikram+Chandra.jpg" width="400" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-50913174465495054452020-09-04T23:54:00.003-07:002020-09-05T00:16:10.948-07:00In a free state by V.S. Naipaul – A book review<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdxgLUPkndQcuNrfOQF9V2tPj6fruXt1mDJaWfc-hE1XjYUU6AR71g6P8mSxdpFk6b31_PZobnzJus1ONSFJ8Vb6R21E0TlHewtJfe5eutrKBf0VlAWdpuHBWADQKZUeQAdZGTKdUYOU/s499/In+a+free+state.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="321" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxdxgLUPkndQcuNrfOQF9V2tPj6fruXt1mDJaWfc-hE1XjYUU6AR71g6P8mSxdpFk6b31_PZobnzJus1ONSFJ8Vb6R21E0TlHewtJfe5eutrKBf0VlAWdpuHBWADQKZUeQAdZGTKdUYOU/s320/In+a+free+state.jpg" /></a><b><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;">‘When the student is ready the
teacher will appear.’ - L</span></span></i></b><b style="font-family: "times new roman", serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">ao
Tzu</span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">This is only part of
the quote and it’s got great depth. However, in this case, the teacher did
appear but I realize I wasn’t really ready when I attempted to read this book
for the first time. This time around I seem to have a better understanding of
its brilliance and feel educated. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">The theme is
displacement and it makes its presence in the primary characters in the
stories. Mr. Naipaul is an eloquent genius who I think doesn’t believe in
packaging; the reader sees the characters as they are because they are
precisely as they have been written about. This is prose of immense depth. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">These are sketches of
people away from their homes in different countries, inadvertently, compellingly,
adamantly or consciously trying to adjust and blend in the labyrinths of a new
life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">The needless harassment
of the tramp aboard the ship in the <b>‘Tramp at Piraeus’</b> shows how uncomfortable
unconventionality can make us; how ruthlessly it can anger us, how easily we
can yield power where it is possible not where it’s necessary. The discovery of
himself and his existence in a foreign land, Washington in <b>‘One out of many’</b>,
tells the wonderful story of a house-help from India, Santosh. Dumbfounded by
the newness of everything, sleeping in a closet, his world is as enclosed and
confined as the closet or his master’s room. You give a child a colourful
beautiful toy and then take it away – the child is confused, lost; the crying and
tears only come later. In this new country and city, Santosh discovers a toy he
never had – his identity, his face, himself; he realizes he’s not just a servant,
but a person, an individual. But it’s lost – this toy, this identity, soon
after its discovery and what remains is just another brick in the wall, a
compulsion for compromise. Like an institutionalized slave, struggling for
freedom, he doesn’t know what to do with it when it has been achieved; he’s
lost.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><b>‘Tell me who to kill’</b>
is about hatred. A disorientated and resentful youngster from a village,
envious of his uncle’s social façade of a status and embarrassed by his own
family’s sends his brother abroad to study and follows in tow to check-up on
him. But once he’s there, he cannot leave; he’s caught in the mad rush of
earning money and giving his brother a better life. A sense of pride is crushed
with the indignation he feels towards everyone; a crime is committed and a life
is wasted. Who’s to blame?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><b>‘In a free state’</b> is
the longer story and I liked it immensely. A drive through the landscapes of
Africa by two office bearing foreigners, whites in a time of political chaos
doesn’t remain just a journey on the road; it’s a journey into the conflicting thoughts
of these individuals about this country they are in now and its people. A
fracas in their heads is out in dialogue when difficult questions are asked and
answered by the two about their purpose and perceptions in this foreign land. The
conversations pinch you in the right places as they question the basic thoughts
of human nature, of seeing things and people in a new state. You realize
there’s a huge difference between what one says, what one believes and what one
has made himself/herself to believe in and these conflicting thoughts are
convoluted over time and undulating between them every now and then, one finally
acts in a totally mismatched way. Should one act like Romans when in Rome? But
it depends on who that ‘one’ is, probably the dependency is also on the colour
of one’s skin, his or her social status, the privileges that one enjoys over
others. The conversations and thoughts show how easily one can be judgmental
when one is privileged. This is a contrast to the other stories as here the
outsider seems to have an upper hand, condescending on the bearing and conduct
of the locals. What gives them this right to intrude? Who has invited them to
do so – to feel and act superior?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">I remember a long time
ago a good friend of mine and I were having a discussion about nihilism among
other things. Deep into the conversation, I felt and shared with her that these
are thoughts of the privileged and she agreed; a poverty ridden society or even
a strictly basic one and its people have no time to think about these
anthropological jargons. There are people who are ashamed to speak the local
language in their own country but are happy to learn a foreign language to
impress; there are narcissists who take pride in telling everyone around them
how to behave, eat, talk, and dress among other things. The natives didn’t
invite these foreigners; they are intruders in a way even if they hold a post
in their society. And these intruders are happy to see naked savages perform a
cultural dance and entertain them but the delight is limited to that; beyond
that the inhabitants turn into ugly, disgusting aboriginals who are to be
looked down upon, who need to be taught culture, who need to be despised
because that’s what they are worthy of; lions in a zoo or circus are safer to
look at, or when they are tranquilized - one can even stroke it’s mane but they’re
oh so dangerous in the wild. It’s like visiting someone’s house uninvited and
trying to play God. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">It took Satan and an
apple from the forbidden tree to make Eve and then Adam be aware and embarrassed
of their nakedness; it takes an outsider to make the natives feel so – to be embarrassed,
to feel wanting, to feel the darkness of their colour, to appear stunted in
their esteem, to fall in a hole that wasn’t there. Condescension is an art and
who better than the privileged to act it out; it takes great mental skills to
make people content with their lives show what’s missing in their lives and
then offer help, and then intrude on their privacy and lives, and then to yield
authority, and then to transform or wipe them out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;">Naipaul’s characters
and their thoughts are those of the individuals in a foreign land and these
individuals make people and these people constitute a society or culture. These
stories are essential.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #3d85c6; font-size: large;"><i><b>‘People are generally
good till you cease to be the person they want you to be.’</b></i></span><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"> – from an Omeleto
video I watched recently.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #274e13; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">My rating: 5/5</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;">Images from:<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;">Book cover - </span><a href="https://www.amazon.in/Free-State-V-S-Naipaul/dp/0330487051">https://www.amazon.in/Free-State-V-S-Naipaul/dp/0330487051</a></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-size: large;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;">V. S. Naipaul -</span> <a href="https://www.looptt.com/content/remembering-vs-naipaul-5-things-know-about-author">https://www.looptt.com/content/remembering-vs-naipaul-5-things-know-about-author</a></b></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrY9dqICFVXwhWawSCYl4duBkQ1gewagodsOD6QsagW9M8sBOVeG6_5yCHSk88JLWlOkXkkcsQeJhTfqq7OrwJXUK1K30FeUTHvAEqgqTl8wpZjPvRuey0NColu7yIP6AEK_cDEASa-U/s900/V+S+Naipaul.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="900" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrY9dqICFVXwhWawSCYl4duBkQ1gewagodsOD6QsagW9M8sBOVeG6_5yCHSk88JLWlOkXkkcsQeJhTfqq7OrwJXUK1K30FeUTHvAEqgqTl8wpZjPvRuey0NColu7yIP6AEK_cDEASa-U/w400-h225/V+S+Naipaul.jpg" width="400" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-44169587410863002032020-08-28T05:05:00.001-07:002020-08-28T05:05:30.518-07:00A Winter’s Night and other stories by Munshi Premchand – A book review<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #073763;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBEvafgTXd-ju43KYzEW5tj6OSUiKu58t5VBGi5ZKao2NJ8NZY9UyLz7lbTtQIiU_YPxaqnWfxwDT93xxw2YHCu6ODTYrWu_kEcYtuEMHRH1Ch9C8sdawN7Ha7eucqYBlFfIno4Cvh8Y/s500/A+Winter%2527s+Night+and+other+stories.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="361" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBEvafgTXd-ju43KYzEW5tj6OSUiKu58t5VBGi5ZKao2NJ8NZY9UyLz7lbTtQIiU_YPxaqnWfxwDT93xxw2YHCu6ODTYrWu_kEcYtuEMHRH1Ch9C8sdawN7Ha7eucqYBlFfIno4Cvh8Y/w231-h320/A+Winter%2527s+Night+and+other+stories.jpg" width="231" />T</a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: #073763;">There’s short yet useful information provided at
the end of the book about the author’s life and an introduction by one of India’s
greatest poets Gulzar. Stories from Premchand have been part of textbooks; he
was known as the ‘Upanyas Samrat’ – the emperor of novels though mostly in
North India. It was surprising and a revelation to read that his early
education was in a Madrasa, under a maulvi and his initial stories were written
in Urdu.</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #073763;">This book is a
collection of short stories and it is from a bygone era, an era from which
India has evolved. More specifically it is from the villages of India, it is
from a time India was engulfed by the caste system, the British rule, and hence
poverty. It transports you to the villages in India, with wells accessible only
to the elite, women drawing water from it, people in their traditional
clothing, cattle working in the fields, lands and mortgages; no tractors, no
high rises, no smart phones, no televisions – yes, a world still existed then. Though
the settings have changed and life and India have moved on, the characters and
their plight is believable. The forms have changed - the forms of oppression,
the forms of sacrifice, the forms of love and belonging; replace a zamindar
with one of today’s politicians, replace the moneylender with the big loan sharks
of today and you have a new revised version of these stories.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #073763;">The brilliance of these
stories lies in their simple narrative. A story writer needs to be a good
observer and Munshi Premchand was brilliant. In each story, he captures the
innate capacity of individuals and the brazen thoughtless acceptance of a
divided society at large. The lives in these stories are clearly divided
between the oppressor and the oppressed. Stories like ‘The salt inspector’,
‘Kaki’, ‘A quarter and one ser of wheat’ and ‘The price of milk’ clearly
portray this divide. Readers will relate with the laziness and shamelessness of
drunkards in ‘The Shroud’ even today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #073763;">I believe these stories
are pieces of history that children of today must be made to read if they are
to know where their grandfathers and their grandfathers came from; they are as
important as stories of Shivaji and of mutinies and of independence; they are
stories of behavior, stories to ponder upon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #073763;">This is real history;
unbiased, secular. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b>Image courtesy:</b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Munshi Premchand - </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premchand">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premchand</a></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #073763;">Book cover - <a href="https://www.amazon.in/Winters-Night-Other-Stories-Premchand/dp/0143330381">https://www.amazon.in/Winters-Night-Other-Stories-Premchand/dp/0143330381</a></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3isnOnKaUdO8Q6srTtg5U_bC3aO7uAwSQRWai8ZoEPhjjVyNYLrCK-RNJnIyqo2gWW8yyiMOp2ZlPOnqvUwzdhhxQzNoSLipMZySgU6fU7El7coaGSFyWCwSqXsd-Nyr4HhHm1l7OdoQ/s476/Premchand_1980_stamp_of_India.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="354" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3isnOnKaUdO8Q6srTtg5U_bC3aO7uAwSQRWai8ZoEPhjjVyNYLrCK-RNJnIyqo2gWW8yyiMOp2ZlPOnqvUwzdhhxQzNoSLipMZySgU6fU7El7coaGSFyWCwSqXsd-Nyr4HhHm1l7OdoQ/w283-h381/Premchand_1980_stamp_of_India.jpg" width="283" /></a></p>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-51265638314217512172020-08-19T09:25:00.002-07:002020-08-28T04:57:35.305-07:00Snow by Orhan Pamuk – A book review<p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhn-VcuzcofAHW4_bn3LPH80oTZAS7B7YL7KbTKrOb_D47t4291PwZZgEaO1saMyAYaDFXb2QnJ_RQ7jlGc4_4IF5ezcdvd3OVEQ03oAhM9Tkf_0_rm3juJxUo1kjEDb0Ahy9olNIyaw/s683/Snow.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="435" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvhn-VcuzcofAHW4_bn3LPH80oTZAS7B7YL7KbTKrOb_D47t4291PwZZgEaO1saMyAYaDFXb2QnJ_RQ7jlGc4_4IF5ezcdvd3OVEQ03oAhM9Tkf_0_rm3juJxUo1kjEDb0Ahy9olNIyaw/w209-h328/Snow.jpg" width="209" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Lately I’ve been
inadvertently reading a lot about God. Graham Greene’s God, Iris Murdoch’s God,
Jordan Peterson’s God and now Ka’s and Kars’s versions of God. Yes, versions.
Kars is a city in Turkey and Ka is a Turkish poet and this is their story.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">For some reason the
story and its people have left me irritated. I don’t like them. At all!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And not ‘for some
reason’; I know, I know why. They aren’t simply flawed in their beliefs like
most beings are; they are ugly in their narrow minded thoughts and uglier in
their actions; they want to see the world burn in the name of religion and God.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Ka’s Kars is a city you
probably didn’t know about and when you do know, you don’t want to know anymore
about. Nothing really happens there except for snowing. Nothing constructive, I
mean. And yet people are so obsessed there with their beliefs. And when it
thaws, and people are out of their frozen inertia, the ugliness drips with the
thawing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The kind of
fundamentalism mentioned is so tiring - towards God, towards religion and yet
it exists. And these so called fundamentalists and their beliefs in God and
religion in their created capacities, in fact strengthen your thoughts that
they are the creations of men. Created capacities for sure because God is a
veil they hide behind, a convenience for their immorality and disgusting
fanatical thoughts and acts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">God is a favourite of
the idle and the disturbed; he, not He, has nothing worthwhile to do. The hard
working person, the intellectual doesn’t need to talk about God all the time,
he too needs assurance but he knows He’s there, if you do believe at all. All
about the people of Kars is ‘Us and Them’; us is them and them is the West. And
the West for them is a world of intellectuals and infidels, and intellectualism
is atheism. Says who? Says they. And yet they are so concerned that the West
disparages them, laughs at them, and finds them to be nobodies. Grow up you
wonderful people of this wonderful city; probably the West doesn’t even know
you exist! And why are you so insecure and unhappy when you so strongly believe
in your God; why should what the West think of you matter? It’s a farce, it’s a
farce!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I guess this hypocrisy
stems from the basic needs of humanity not being met, from Maslow’s pyramid of
human needs. The city of Kars and its people are in poverty, a jobless dump
where the youth and adolescents are idling their time away; what better thing
to do than to fight for God then and to kill and destroy in his name. And not
just kill thy neighbor, annihilate the world if possible – spread the word of
God! I’ve come to realize that the things you hate are actually the things you
most love or crave for. And most of the characters have an insidious affinity
for the West but just can’t be them because they’re not supposed to, allowed to,
because you are not allowed to love something you detest. And the internal
conflict in their heads, a strong hatred emerging from helplessness creates
their own inferno and they don’t want to burn alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Movement in this story
by Orhan Pamuk where he himself writes about his friend Ka after his death,
starts and ends with the changing laws of girls’ suicides in Kars and around for
not being allowed to wear a headscarf. It took me a while to actually
understand what the big deal of a headscarf was and how it was related to the
girls’ suicides and then I realized. And it was a wow moment!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">As a character in the
book says; the world will grow in leaps and bounds and make technological
advances while we are stuck with head-scarves and religion. Thinking logically
or intellectually is an abuse in such a society where everyone knows everything
about religion and God and good and evil and what you should do and more
importantly what you shouldn’t; probably more than the God they believe in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">They are all
shamelessly naked and exposed and yet they care about the wearing of a
headscarf. Your religion, your religious books and your God don’t really
advocate infidelity, deceit, hatred, do they? Ipek, a divorcee, who Ka is
madly, rather lustily in love with, who he considers and portrays as nothing
less than Aphrodite herself, sleeps with her husband’s friend whom he reveres.
Her sister vies for the same man, is sleeping with him as well. And this man is
a terrorist who thinks he has all the answers. They call him Blue and the
sisters think he’s is truthful and heroic and just and doing the work of God.
Just! Work of God! What’s that? Satiating envious vying blood sisters at the
same time while their imbecile of a father is busy talking about politics – Is
this the call for freedom? And freedom from what? And though the story tries to
flavor a woman’s plight, I don’t see Ipek as anything but a selfish woman.
She’s cunning enough to make love to Ka even though she’s not in love with him;
she just wants to mislead him, she’s still in love with Blue. And these girls
have opinions on wearing and the removal of head scarves! A fundamentalist, a
fugitive sleeping with two sisters at the same time; how does your God allow
that? God is your convenience and nothing else.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And then there’s Sunay
Zaim, the theatre virtuoso, a crazy artist who’s ready to die for his art and
beliefs and he does, yet not before deceitfully and ingeniously causing a
military coup in the snowy city. He dies like the suicide girls; for pride they
say. Pride for what you worthless creatures, for what? It’s a puzzle you don’t
want to solve; just want to throw the pieces away and not think again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">“Don’t write what you
see about us in your book”, a character tells Orhan while he’s leaving the
city. Why not? Why aren’t you comfortable in your skin? Why don’t you act the
way you want to be then; why hide behind this shroud of the unknown? Why do you
need someone else’s assurance? If you yourself have so many conflicts within
yourself, then how come you have such strong opinions about God and religion?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Just believing and
trusting in God isn’t enough in Kars; you have to prove it every day else you
are termed an atheist. You might be a rapist, a murderer but if you climb the
cemented or stone steps of the house of God, you’re a believer. Here God isn’t
important anymore but what you think of God takes precedence. No wonder they
make such heartless terrorists. Kars doesn’t need God; it needs jobs and things
to keep themselves busy. They need to clean their houses and city first before
trying to build the Garden of Eden.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I’ve got to confess. I kept
reading the book till the end because I derived a sadistic pleasure from hating
them. Not healthy, I know; probably that shows my current state of mind.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-large;">My rating: 6/10</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Image sources:</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Book cover</span> - <a href="https://www.thehindu.com/books/review-snow-by-orhan-pamuk/article24592316.ece">https://www.thehindu.com/books/review-snow-by-orhan-pamuk/article24592316.ece</a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Orhan Pamuk - </span><a href="https://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/orhan-pamuk-says-he-misses-turkeys-good-old-days--100243">https://www.hurriyetdailynews.com/orhan-pamuk-says-he-misses-turkeys-good-old-days--100243</a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9XLhq5xZpcpri9Bkw03ckl0SygJzfIppVGuQrhM1gQokmFNPEm6J06dMvMv8EwPO2c-yorOqFbSQbQPEayLj5nxgI4SXuqf-QpciDtbh5_TYrvYKEWdNEjy8gdWl7RCdQw6tSfbvalw/s626/Orhan+Pamuk.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="626" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9XLhq5xZpcpri9Bkw03ckl0SygJzfIppVGuQrhM1gQokmFNPEm6J06dMvMv8EwPO2c-yorOqFbSQbQPEayLj5nxgI4SXuqf-QpciDtbh5_TYrvYKEWdNEjy8gdWl7RCdQw6tSfbvalw/w401-h209/Orhan+Pamuk.jpg" width="401" /></a></div>comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-34335919259650375412020-06-22T02:10:00.017-07:002022-09-06T05:37:34.197-07:00The blind assassin by Margaret Atwood – A book review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhhhj9jawE2R3dswX-RaxyRlc1iQIRHrOj70f4Z9CcXrAYjNhg9UKVX32YpPZ1Y0YBrFUGk5LnRQOzJOiVOARtWCveqFtcBoXyrZhhEbm6-UAf9eNZcfRe30YOuXjUjHXLw6vq_2imis/s1600/9781860498800-blind-assassin_g.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwhhhj9jawE2R3dswX-RaxyRlc1iQIRHrOj70f4Z9CcXrAYjNhg9UKVX32YpPZ1Y0YBrFUGk5LnRQOzJOiVOARtWCveqFtcBoXyrZhhEbm6-UAf9eNZcfRe30YOuXjUjHXLw6vq_2imis/s320/9781860498800-blind-assassin_g.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://onboarding.speechify.com/?activate=false&help=false&isProfile=false&promo=REFER15&teams=false&via=soumen" target="_blank">Use this link if you want to listen to the book on Speechify.</a></span></span></span></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">‘I look back over what I’ve written
and I know it’s wrong, not because of what I’ve set down, but because of what I’ve
omitted. What isn’t there has a presence, like the absence of light.</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">You want the truth, of course. You
want me to put two and two together. But two and two doesn’t necessarily get
you the truth. Two and two equals a voice outside the window. Two and two
equals the wind. The living bird is not its labeled bones.’</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Two balls of yarn. Two
colours. Take your pick. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Margaret Atwood calls
them Iris and Laura. They are the Chase sisters. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">If not careful,
entanglement and a mess are inevitable; with each other, within each other.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And Atwood hasn’t been
careful!</span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">‘But in life, a tragedy is not one
long scream. It includes everything that led up to it. Hour after trivial hour,
day after day, year after year, and then the sudden moment: the knife’s stab,
the shell-burst, the plummet of the car from the bridge.’</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Laura drove a car of a
bridge. Died. She killed herself. Was it an impetuous act? Her mind killed her.
But who killed her mind. Laura Chase was born with a black and white cognition;
dismissing the grays. She wouldn’t, rather couldn’t read between lines. She saw
the literal world in the literal sense; the abstract was too abstract for her.
Iris was the elder sister, entrusted with always taking care of Laura.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The book is the story that
a contrite Iris writes in remembrance of Laura for her disappeared and estranged granddaughter Sabrina; to tell her the truth. Spanning across generations, the
story of her life has devastating secrets, infidelity and complicity. As
Laura’s shade gets paler, Iris’s ball of yarn grows darker and darker;
unknowingly, deliberately, self-imposed, thrusted. As she herself is pushed
gradually into a deceitful marriage, the helplessness and sedation brings out a
vulnerable numbness that doesn’t thwart her from finding solace in the one
person she shouldn’t have.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">And there’s a gory
story within the story; a story that is published posthumously as Laura’s but
isn’t. As Iris, the wife of a wealthy and prominent person in society, and her
insouciant lover, a fugitive, knit this parallel bizarre fantasy tale during
their pangs of furtive and passionate love making in rented rooms, another act
of treacherous adultery is altering their lives. Who are these characters in
the story they create; why does it bear a striking resemblance to them?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Is she the muted girl
in the story the lover saves and elopes with; her tongue pulled out; quietened?
Is she really being saved? And is the lover the blinded one; an outcast rebel
turning a blind eye to the atrocities of life and the people in it with an urge
for destroying? Who has orchestrated this affair between a blind and a mute;
the lover or her, or both together, but does love need an orchestration, any orchestration?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Iris has answered for
herself. At a dying age, will her contrition be accepted? Laura didn’t die of
the abuse, of helplessness, she died from the snatching away of one thing that
was never hers but always hers.</span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">‘How could I have been so ignorant?
she thinks. So stupid, so unseeing, so given over to carelessness. But without
such ignorance, such carelessness, how could we live? If you knew what was
going to happen, if you knew everything that was going to happen next – if you
knew in advance the consequences of your own actions – you’d be doomed. You’d
be as ruined as God. You’d be a stone. You’d never eat or drink or laugh or get
out of bed in the morning You’d never love anyone, ever again. You’d never dare
to.</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">Drowned now – the tree as well, the
sky, the wind, the clouds. All she has left is the picture. Also the story of
it.</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">The picture is of happiness, the
story not. Happiness is a garden walled with glass: there’s no way in or out.
In Paradise there are no stories, because there are no journeys. It’s loss and
regret and misery and yearning that drive the story forward, along to its
twisted road.’</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Most of Atwood’s
characters are furtive; she’s imposed them with secrets they need to bury; a
few can and a few fail. Crafted vividly, Atwood has given us a patchwork of two
stories fused in one. Very well written; a compelling read! Would have liked to
read more about Laura – she was different; she had an innocence that comes from
simplicity. Predictable, vulnerable yet not boring.</span><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">‘”Laura, what are you doing?” I
said. “That’s the Bible.”</span></span></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">“I’m cutting out the parts I don’t
like.”</span></span></i></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">I uncrumpled the pages she’d tossed
into the wastebasket.; swathes of Chronicles, pages and pages of Leviticus, the
little snippet from St. Matthew in which Jesus curses the barren fig tree. I
remembered now that Laura had been indignant about that fig tree, in her
Sunday-schooldays. She’d been furious that Jesus had been so spiteful towards a
tree. “We all have our bad days” Reenie had commented, briskly whipping up egg
whites in a yellow bowl.’ </span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #e69138;">‘The sun declines, the shadows of
the curtains move across the bed. Voices on the street outside, unknown
languages. I will always remember this, she tells herself. Then: Why am I thinking
about memory? It’s not then yet, it’s now. It’s not over.’</span></span></i></b><br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">My rating – 9/10</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Picture courtesy:</span></b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Book cover -</span></b> © </span><a href="https://www.unitheque.com/the-blind-assassin/virago/Livre/140224"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://www.unitheque.com/the-blind-assassin/virago/Livre/140224</span></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Margaret Atwood -</span></b> © </span><a href="https://thegentlewoman.co.uk/library/margaret-atwood"><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://thegentlewoman.co.uk/library/margaret-atwood</span></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6x5b6Pkee9jC8dczVVYN6lRSOIreiEZluKbcolFYn8hsMhUukgUzMfZhnRAqA5YRZyR5q7FSIAbgE24zmKDfeHZwShH_KWOzCfS6obXIwgVZzbrn_14-BiHKLWIUMc81hjg7mE3xMit4/s1600/margaret-2.jpg" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1150" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6x5b6Pkee9jC8dczVVYN6lRSOIreiEZluKbcolFYn8hsMhUukgUzMfZhnRAqA5YRZyR5q7FSIAbgE24zmKDfeHZwShH_KWOzCfS6obXIwgVZzbrn_14-BiHKLWIUMc81hjg7mE3xMit4/s320/margaret-2.jpg" width="245" /></a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-28146045244821532502020-06-10T07:46:00.001-07:002020-06-10T07:46:17.480-07:00Je raate mor duar guli - my ramblings on a beautiful song by Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRDxe2dGsFK60U9toghE79kcG96nQBR_pdhS_ayBMC7wp10mvae1wB-qwdh4d7CuWhDHWF1wtd635hyphenhyphenBbPxf5z5MOrWATRaa5U7impwcBDu1d_gJfTqRfTV32fvmNyDN-fWfdrFEvQaeQ/s1600/71bRDDD2cGL._SY550_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="388" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRDxe2dGsFK60U9toghE79kcG96nQBR_pdhS_ayBMC7wp10mvae1wB-qwdh4d7CuWhDHWF1wtd635hyphenhyphenBbPxf5z5MOrWATRaa5U7impwcBDu1d_gJfTqRfTV32fvmNyDN-fWfdrFEvQaeQ/s320/71bRDDD2cGL._SY550_.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">From the time I first listened
to this song, it has kind of haunted me. Not an expert in Bengali, rather far
from being one (though it’s my mother tongue), I had to take help from a friend to understand the lyrics (Thank you Shonali Bhattacharjee). </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Like all Rabindranath Tagore songs, this one
too has a mesmerizing effect and like I’ve always felt with his songs, open to
different interpretations.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">Here’s
the version of the song I’ve been listening to by ‘Somlata and the Aces’</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xCA-JAHZRM"><span style="color: #073763;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2xCA-JAHZRM</span></a></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Transliteration and
translation of the song</span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Je
raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare,</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Jaani
naai to tumi ele aamar ghare.</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Je
raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare,</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">(The night
when my doors were broken and destroyed by the storm,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">little
did I know that it was you who came to my house.)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Sab
je hoye gelo kaalo, nibe gelo diper aalo,</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Aakash
paane haat baaralem kaahar tare?</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Jaani
naai to tumi ele aamar ghare.</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Je
raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare.</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">(Everything
turned to darkness as all the lamps’ lights went out,</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">I
stretched my hands to the sky, don’t know who I sought<br />
little did I know that it was you who came to my house<br />
the night when my doors were broken and destroyed by the storm,)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Andhokare
roinu pore swapono maani.</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Jhar
je tomar jayodhwaja taai ki jaani.</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Sakalbela
cheye dekhi, daariye aachho tumi e ki,</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">Ghar
bhora mor shunyotari bukero pore.<br />
Jaani naai to tumi ele aamar ghare.<br />
Je raate mor duar guli bhaanglo jhare.</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; word-break: break-all;">
<span style="color: #073763;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">(I
lay there in the darkness thinking it was a dream or illusion,<br />
that the storm was your war flag, I was unaware,<br />
As I looked around in the morning, I saw you standing there – your illusional
presence even in your absence,<br />
the emptiness of my abode, lay heavy on my chest<br />
little did I know that it was you who came to my house<br />
the night when my doors were broken and destroyed by the storm,)</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghvy5U_GlDIXqwbMjSUAGwQOkOeW14DAdNMjTCmVUqGm9JTrLDyu3PyObUJczlPmX4zw-x4RsYzmUZytzJ-do_dT9JZMP6w6nUzVccvIOj0mWyByNp3M5ZqTC9Lk-bwKRLL2KUsm9IB8I/s1600/75844081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghvy5U_GlDIXqwbMjSUAGwQOkOeW14DAdNMjTCmVUqGm9JTrLDyu3PyObUJczlPmX4zw-x4RsYzmUZytzJ-do_dT9JZMP6w6nUzVccvIOj0mWyByNp3M5ZqTC9Lk-bwKRLL2KUsm9IB8I/s400/75844081.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/kolkata/super-cyclone-amphan-190km-away-from-kolkata/articleshow/75844078.cms"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/city/kolkata/super-cyclone-amphan-190km-away-from-kolkata/articleshow/75844078.cms</span></a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Here’s
my interpretation and extended ramblings of this dark yet beautiful song.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #990000;">Disclaimer: These are my thoughts and not be
considered a translation of the song.</span></span></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">It
was just another day. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">I saw
a beautiful woman sleeping in the shade of a tree. Careful scrutiny revealed
that she was hurt but there was a motherly calm and peacefulness on her face in
spite of the pain. Her children lay besides her playing, oblivious rather
overlooking the pain; her body their playground. They looked hungry and play is
all they could in the absence of food.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Passersby
noticed her too. Some called her wretched, a few derided her thinking she was
one of those, others thought she was diseased and left there to die, a few
poked her to see if she was alive. She seemed worn out, impervious to these
disparaging remarks and gestures.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">A
bizarre thing happened next. The children, her children, fatigued by their play
and famished sank their teeth into their mother. They seemed to relish every
bite they took of her flesh. A miasma spread in the air and eerily beckoned
scavengers to the feast. Like maggots attacking decay, the passersby soon
overpowered the children to devour the woman, ripping her flesh with their uncannily
developed canines. A gruesome fight ensued for chunks of flesh as the
two-legged monsters snarled at each other like laughing hyenas, blood trickling
from their bared teeth, lips and chins.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">The
woman winced; finally. She opened her eyes and all there was in them was
disgust; an abhorrence that could be felt strongly. Like a plant giving energy
to itself, she woke up and grew; she let out a scream that terrified even the
wind. She looked around ferociously as she grew and grew; all her torn flesh replenished.
It was her turn now and she didn’t stop when she started.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">An
insatiable hunger radiated from her bloody eyes and she picked up and gobbled
each of the terror-stricken creatures trying to escape her wrath. Not once did
she wince as she devoured her children too. Madness reigned; it wasn’t hunger
anymore. She ran shrieking hysterically when the last one disappeared, her hair
and insanity let loose. The pregnant grey clouds complicit with the gloomy dark
sky burst deliberately it seemed its bag of waters. Darkness and raging tempest
engulfed as she grew and paced chomping on and ravaging everything and everyone
that came in her way; she spared none.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 20pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #990000;">What I create, I can destroy!</span></span></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-UHjMAH1LC8hudAoV-iJOQ_yHbMRFcMiXTxKfB47jeuG9lM1Y4B7hFCgr_luVu4cU4KMe05lINdyMVdCLf-CgcaxnQ1-iMpwzuBQIrLly0uQn3wUUlxYrtdREfAVOvOa3m4JKWGd9EA/s1600/23ae545569cbe38b38bdbd6f5538a401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1216" data-original-width="837" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk-UHjMAH1LC8hudAoV-iJOQ_yHbMRFcMiXTxKfB47jeuG9lM1Y4B7hFCgr_luVu4cU4KMe05lINdyMVdCLf-CgcaxnQ1-iMpwzuBQIrLly0uQn3wUUlxYrtdREfAVOvOa3m4JKWGd9EA/s400/23ae545569cbe38b38bdbd6f5538a401.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pin/525162006538642442/"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/525162006538642442/</span></a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Do we
want to know her when she takes this form? Do we recognize her when she is like
this? Can we accept her in her horrendous devastating appearance? Do we have a
choice?</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">And
have we loved her really; unconditionally? The garden wasn’t ours; she let us
play in it. And we let weeds grow, in her garden, in our minds. She pleaded,
she showed us her wounds, our given, but we furtively looked elsewhere,
occupied in our superficial intimacies. Like with all mothers, we took her for
granted. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">She
wasn’t ever weak; she was only patient and forgiving. And so we ignored her
though we were just a speck in contrast. She still gave us importance and all
we had for her was neglect. Like a cruel and ruthless child we went on
relentlessly blackening and destroying the coulourful picture she had created,
all that she had given us.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Should
we be startled then when she comes on a war footing, leading a cavalry,
mercilessly to avenge? Howling gales, hurricanes, and thunderstorms ride with
her, armed with the ghastliest and most powerful weaponry. The angry war flags
are like wild unforgiving storms, flapping wildly, outlines of red against the
pitch darkness of the extinguished lights; all lamps blown out.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">As
the silhouettes grow in the ruins of every house, we look up at the sky stretching
our hands begging for forgiveness. We fear and lament. For what, why? Who do we
pray to now? We bow down now in the emptiness; helpless, beaten, in despair. We
give in to her strength in sorrow; something we should have done in happiness.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Will
we love her now, unconditionally; will we listen to her after this veritable
reality check? A child slapped hard, we either hold and carry the anger or
realize the unconventional love behind it.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">Like
a mother, hopefully she’ll forgive us yet again and let us thrive. Hopefully, the
morning will bring a new beginning.</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">‘What
fabrication they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into,
crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit
ourselves – our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies.’</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;">- The
Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood</span></span></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></span></i></b></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_mA3YE_1Ly6rwOpplqw2aqEB6STWVi0Q8V5Z1H70OubOCKeS4L-s9BGnWPPuJBdCr6c1yhEyBZVEj7axqzKjJLNPEEGsKXV9j9R_zJ4Noa_FKw8d-2G3s2w1ZGRXwgD2a3WF6TTxOb8/s1600/IMG_20190714_055954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_mA3YE_1Ly6rwOpplqw2aqEB6STWVi0Q8V5Z1H70OubOCKeS4L-s9BGnWPPuJBdCr6c1yhEyBZVEj7axqzKjJLNPEEGsKXV9j9R_zJ4Noa_FKw8d-2G3s2w1ZGRXwgD2a3WF6TTxOb8/s400/IMG_20190714_055954.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>
Thank you Shonali for helping me with the translation</div>
<div>
Shonali and I</div>
<div>
© Soumen</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcB-OsBn1KL4wiJqwvitVUnRPHjm7XOV7moit0MuNnyaIxAcT8kkda9RD8IolQlJ61X7e7PyTkn45VBgZGS2g8GPrBTWRMxlOGWhEu3ybXNsc4eypWFOGyB_As9nUajHpvj3zVsuFJvjI/s1600/_112410160_damageddambanglaafp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcB-OsBn1KL4wiJqwvitVUnRPHjm7XOV7moit0MuNnyaIxAcT8kkda9RD8IolQlJ61X7e7PyTkn45VBgZGS2g8GPrBTWRMxlOGWhEu3ybXNsc4eypWFOGyB_As9nUajHpvj3zVsuFJvjI/s400/_112410160_damageddambanglaafp.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-52765962"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-india-52765962</span></a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVDH3e5S00mx9Ed_gtkCB4wEInkFQ6lI773aOER7hkOn0DLklIyX1CJzz6SNXRIk2DQWdyNCZsYI_Q0fIA9A-ESWM-qdP5pkTwgZqJrM7GdlHw5eiXDsO_WwOuDcN7bmoENmPbK1LLna8/s1600/forest-fire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVDH3e5S00mx9Ed_gtkCB4wEInkFQ6lI773aOER7hkOn0DLklIyX1CJzz6SNXRIk2DQWdyNCZsYI_Q0fIA9A-ESWM-qdP5pkTwgZqJrM7GdlHw5eiXDsO_WwOuDcN7bmoENmPbK1LLna8/s400/forest-fire.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© <span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://horizon-magazine.eu/article/swarming-drones-could-help-fight-europes-megafires.html"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">https://horizon-magazine.eu/article/swarming-drones-could-help-fight-europes-megafires.html</span></a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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<b><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">Picture copyrights:</span></b><br />
Rabindranath Tagore - © <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.amazon.in/Tallenge-Vintage-Photograph-Rabindranath-Tagore/dp/B076VGJ5K9">https://www.amazon.in/Tallenge-Vintage-Photograph-Rabindranath-Tagore/dp/B076VGJ5K9</a></span><br />
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comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-21178534940294537222020-06-02T12:02:00.001-07:002020-06-02T12:02:31.243-07:00Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf – A book review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Reading Mrs. Dalloway was
like attending Virginia Woolf’s art class. The sitters Mrs. Clarissa Dalloway
and Septimus twin bodied, differently dressed sit there, striking a
pose like failed mirrored images of each other; one joyful, the other in misery;
which one is which is for you to decipher. The lighting is perfect for the
darkness; their shadows are one. There are others in the frame - Peter Walsh,
Richard, Sally Seton and a few others with expressions that need explaining.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And that’s exactly what
Virginia Woolf does. Instilling a passion for the muse, she ushers us into
comfortable seats yet the comfort is but only for a moment. As she beckons for your
rapt attention, and elaborates each expression, like the demented Septimus she
goes on an interminable rambling of eloquence. Her stress on every impression
of shade and shadow isn’t effortless but fastidious. You realize that her
honesty in revealing the inherent lives behind these faces and bodies is so
urgent that it leaves you breathless just like she is, from the unabating flow
of words.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The story, set in London, is
a day’s affair. It starts and ends with Clarissa’s party - an ostentatious
affair, rightly so as she’s always been ever so boringly practical, with her
head in the right place and not to mention, her heart too. In the arrangement
of this gathering, others tread in and out like thoughts and the past mingles
with the justifications for the present. Interceding for the characters,
Virginia Woolf presents the generally happy and impervious Clarissa, a flower
in a vase, wilting by the day but strongly safeguarding the exterior.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The flutters in the
disconcerted mind are what Ms. Woolf plays with. Must the show go on, one
wonders, as Clarissa’s party blots out the pain of Septimus’s suicidal death;
an innocent life to be mourned or frivolous ones to be celebrated? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ms. Woolf’s work hasn’t been
an easy read; not for the story or depth but for the manner. It’s been hard to
stay with her and not digress in the long decorated sentences. Often I had to
read them twice, at times more to recollect what it started with in the first
place. This is the first of Ms. Woolf’s work I’ve read and I’d like to read
more of her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;">My rating - 6/10</span></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><b><span style="color: #990000; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></span>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">Image copyrights:</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Book cover -</b> <a href="http://kafkatokindergarten.blogspot.com/2012/08/mrs-dalloway-by-virginia-woolf.html">http://kafkatokindergarten.blogspot.com/2012/08/mrs-dalloway-by-virginia-woolf.html</a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Virginia Woolf -</b> <a href="https://www.thoughtco.com/the-modern-essay-by-virginia-woolf-1690207">https://www.thoughtco.com/the-modern-essay-by-virginia-woolf-1690207</a></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCD1E2h9GneYHOFiXM0vTtXDRMH5YDuX3MnBz5GKfMnaSTz20BC882lF-34v5nHPzbvv3E58EsjUo62gpM57qts97TaLMBK_XdfTxe_2njvDqjpcIDzE2DMRyBXXJCMGF6YTeM2UKVAMk/s1600/Virginia+Woolf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCD1E2h9GneYHOFiXM0vTtXDRMH5YDuX3MnBz5GKfMnaSTz20BC882lF-34v5nHPzbvv3E58EsjUo62gpM57qts97TaLMBK_XdfTxe_2njvDqjpcIDzE2DMRyBXXJCMGF6YTeM2UKVAMk/s320/Virginia+Woolf.jpg" width="320" /></a><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
comfortably numbhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09769031000442517211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1445934266270904638.post-23163097949250880362020-05-28T04:31:00.000-07:002020-05-28T04:44:35.723-07:00Just another massacre!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3c6EKm_QVFntjiG5IOkUGP3vSXaZRXWCUUZ1g8Frp_eoVa8GGFhXnVZGX2ibtHV0UT6oGUmPvZPic3AoPPxn-UcicXoVEOFH5KAqWTzic4wlL6t7slnZvTA1NyzjFS379gevE5HYKlsk/s1600/thequint_2020-05_adcac6d0-a556-44cc-95dd-421652bfc88d_2020_5_img26_May_2020_PTI26_05_2020_000200B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1018" data-original-width="1600" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3c6EKm_QVFntjiG5IOkUGP3vSXaZRXWCUUZ1g8Frp_eoVa8GGFhXnVZGX2ibtHV0UT6oGUmPvZPic3AoPPxn-UcicXoVEOFH5KAqWTzic4wlL6t7slnZvTA1NyzjFS379gevE5HYKlsk/s640/thequint_2020-05_adcac6d0-a556-44cc-95dd-421652bfc88d_2020_5_img26_May_2020_PTI26_05_2020_000200B.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Our country has always been the ground for atrocities. We
have accepted it, have become immune to it. We call ourselves resilient. Yes we
do recover, but weaker and distorted; resilience has become shameful more than
a matter of pride.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Be it the Mughals or the British, the Dutch or the
Portuguese, India and Indians have been razed and ruined time and again. We’ve always
been easy prey to devouring vultures. World history is replete with gory
stories of Hitler but few other than historians and people who have
lived that era know about Churchill and his obliteration of races, an
abominable rapist who not just snatched every ornament from the beauty of our
homeland but defiled it mercilessly and left it there – mutilated, burnt,
broken, dying.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And today, as I watch the television in this lockdown, another
equally inhuman event comes to mind – the Jallianwala Baug massacre.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBP4lFBIA85LHruLb0XGJlm97ZlB8QWUyNzVBB1irIbTtpksuqXj9w4ikz8iVEnvSmkD9CjIR5qm2-k-Umr6QBBc-RJ5UtGNpMduBPhvrI6BXgyHlzyq9k7hr8LKDv9nEVwqhSQt_bVM/s1600/806572-article-lopdcxteuu-1460528200.jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="1200" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixBP4lFBIA85LHruLb0XGJlm97ZlB8QWUyNzVBB1irIbTtpksuqXj9w4ikz8iVEnvSmkD9CjIR5qm2-k-Umr6QBBc-RJ5UtGNpMduBPhvrI6BXgyHlzyq9k7hr8LKDv9nEVwqhSQt_bVM/s640/806572-article-lopdcxteuu-1460528200.jpeg.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="background: white; font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";"><span style="color: #990000;"><b><br />On
Sunday, 13 April 1919, Acting Brigadier-General </b></span></span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif";">Reginald
<span style="background: white;">Dyer, convinced a major
insurrection could take place, banned all meetings. This notice was not widely
disseminated, and many villagers gathered in the </span></span><span style="text-decoration: none;">Bagh</span><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> to celebrate the important </span></span><span style="text-decoration: none;">Indian</span><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"> festival of </span></span><span style="text-decoration: none;">Baisakhi</span><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">, and peacefully protest the arrest and deportation of two
national leaders, </span></span><span style="text-decoration: none;">Satyapal</span><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">
and </span></span><span style="text-decoration: none;">Saifuddin Kitchlew</span></b></span><span style="background: white;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #990000;"><b>.
Dyer and his troops entered the garden, blocking the main entrance behind them,
took up position on a raised bank, and with no warning opened fire on the crowd
for about ten minutes, directing their bullets largely towards the few open
gates through which people were trying to flee, until the ammunition supply was
almost exhausted. The following day Dyer stated in a report that "I hear
that between 200 and 300 of the crowd were killed. My party fired 1,650
rounds".</b></span></span> – Source: <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jallianwala_Bagh_massacre#Before_the_massacre">https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jallianwala_Bagh_massacre#Before_the_massacre</a></span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The audacity, the shamelessness, the inhumanity!</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But they were others, not countrymen; these monsters.
Centuries have passed, power has shifted hands but have things changed? Do we
need Dyers and Churchills anymore? No, we have our own power hungry,
intelligence devoid, indifferent special squad.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I’m sure you would have watched these on television many
times, but take a few seconds to watch them again before you read further.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-852f1PXBo" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-852f1PXBo</span></a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jq0tj5IYhL4" target="_blank"><span style="color: #38761d;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jq0tj5IYhL4</span></a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Don’t hold it back – let go as you witness the biggest Corona
virus <b><span style="font-size: large;">immunity</span></b> test that’s been happening in Mumbai, the financial capital of
India over the last few days? Hordes of migrants being stuffed in tempos, buses;
thousands lined up outside railway stations flaunting the best examples of
social distancing – I can see the Corona virus grinning! Thousands of BEST
buses stand unused in the bus-depots, probably cringing to help but they can’t;
they need permission. The elderly, children and everyone else have been invited
to the circus. Hungry, poorer, unemployed, they stand there in hope, like
sheep, herded, probably to death, probably to freedom. And all they want is to go
home and be with their families. Some will get on a train, some will wait, and
others will be forced to leave in the hope to come back the next day. Virus carriers? Who cares?</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">A perfectly organized and managed circus; acrobats falling
from their swings to their deaths, the skilled knife thrower not missing his
mark and killing the girl with a knife right between her eyes, the lion
chomping on the trainer’s bones – its salivating teeth red, the joker laughing
but not the audience. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Ghalib had said:</span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="border: 1pt; font-family: "ink free"; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">ye ishq nahin asan itna hi samjh liije</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="border: 1pt; font-family: "ink free"; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">ik aag ka dariya hai aur duubke jaana hai</span></span></b><span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">That’s a thing of the past Ghalib miya; let’s make it relevant to the present.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="border: 1pt; font-family: "ink free"; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">Ye ghar jaana nahi asan itna hi samjh liije</span></span></b></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="border: 1pt; font-family: "ink free"; line-height: 115%; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: #38761d; font-size: large;">Corona aur politics ka dariya hai aur duubke jaana hai</span></span></b></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="color: #cc0000;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;"><b>If not a massacre, what is this?</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"></span><span style="color: #cc0000;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOFnv5F8gy8S6fJccGFjvIUU_K55RHNcTgCTGEfZlhBvZhNqODXfessVx_8kfH0hqOAlRHyOw5AWWlLm0TfTYiagATzXAjMeCdaGJJaIjL4vjcZzqIUbN7bIo7Fv_qVa1Emt6sRRO8rE/s1600/27BMSTATION.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: left; color: #0066cc; float: left; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="290" data-original-width="435" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFOFnv5F8gy8S6fJccGFjvIUU_K55RHNcTgCTGEfZlhBvZhNqODXfessVx_8kfH0hqOAlRHyOw5AWWlLm0TfTYiagATzXAjMeCdaGJJaIjL4vjcZzqIUbN7bIo7Fv_qVa1Emt6sRRO8rE/s640/27BMSTATION.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b>Picture copyrights:</b></span></span><br />
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