Howards End by E. M. Forster – a book review

A poor man is dead, a good soul is killed. But who killed him? Fright, Deception, Poverty, Helplessness or Belief/Trust? What led to his death probably was the gnawing at by each of them while Innocence only looked on and wasn’t of any help, but what killed him in all likelihood was Ignorance, not his though.

Is it dangerous to make others believe that from experience and being intelligent you know and hence are superior, everything you say and do is justified for there is always a valid reason standing erect supporting it. Who then is to blame if you err, if you inadvertently destroy someone by your error – the listener or believer who thinks they know you, who are awed by the persona you’ve presented to them, who are just lazy to dig deep to validate or the complacent you?

And who is more vicious for the poor and the needy – the condescendingly resolute rich who are not just happy keeping the poor at bay but are disdainful towards them, or the ones who think they care for them, even reach out to them, shoulder their cause but only for a bit till it amuses them and strengthens their thoughts that they are useful to society, till their own selves gain importance again, till their impetuousness sways them away from the ones they had promised to help, keeping them lingering and leaving them devastated, worse than they were before coz they were made to believe for a moment and had trusted that things would get better.  

Howards End is a story primarily about two sisters who have inherited wealth, haven’t had to work but have opinions, strong ones at that about society. They think they understand and read people very well. Howards end is a house – not theirs but eventually becomes theirs. How it becomes their possession is what the story is about – through strong will, deceit, gifted, destiny or is there an uncanny element? It is a beautifully written story disturbingly telling us how one’s thoughtless words and actions could not only unknowingly deprive someone of their livelihood or identity but also destroy them completely. It particularly urges us to stop and think when we are ready to offer a helping hand – is it the other or us that we are really helping, is it ‘they need help’ or ‘I want to help them’, is it for finding our identity more than to defend theirs and finally is the feeling here to stay or wear off under the weight of personal agendas. Sometimes it's better to let things be and not change the world, especially when you have neither the aptitude nor the needed will, more so when the world doesn't always come before you.

The classics are always a delight to read; they bring back the colourful times of the past in beautiful shades of black and white.

My ratings: 4/5

Image copyrights:

Book cover - https://www.bookfusion.com/books/138001-howards-end

E. M. Forster - https://www.thetimes.com/culture/books/article/how-times-readers-heartened-em-forster-mx6qzd22q

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel – A book review

650 pages later, as a I read the last line which ushers one towards a sequel, as if the 650 pages weren’t enough, I realise that the word ‘he’ has a new countenance, a new personality, is the replacement of a new name and surprisingly not the one who is nailed to the cross. ‘he’ is everywhere, his ubiquitous influence can hardly be ignored, he was the cardinal’s man, he is the king’s man, he is loathed, he is worshipped, he takes care of things, but he cannot be taken care of or so it seems, one better listen to him for the king does, he writes laws, he changes them on command, he makes wrongs look right and rights wrong, he’s a wise man but not a saint, he’s a saint but not god, yet he’s a god to the ones that belong to him; he was merely a lawyer, and now he’s (willingly or unwillingly) the most respected man in the king’s court; he is Thomas Cromwell, and he’s indispensable. It's almost as if he chooses not to be king. He’s the Dark Knight – It’s not who he is underneath; it’s what he does that defines him’.

How eccentric can men in power be, how obdurate can the comfort and weight of their thrones make them, and at that a throne gifted and not won, by just being born. In Henry VII’s court, it’s not who should listen to God but who should God listen to and abide by – the pope or the king? For God’s words are not to be and remain His, they’ll be altered to suit one or many. In the kingdom of the young despot, laws are made or abolished based not on what is right but on what the king thinks is right – and the two run parallel, never destined to converge. Whether you live or are allowed not to depends entirely on which ‘right’ you are with. So, marrying the dead elder brother’s wife isn’t wrong, consummating the marriage to produce a daughter isn’t wrong, however, when even after eighteen years, a male heir cannot be resulted, annulling the marriage declaring that nothing ever happened and all of it was wrong in the first place is nothing but fair. Huh! – you say? Is it logic you try to find like I did, like the many others would have? But have we forgotten that logic in the hands of Power is just clay; it’s moulded and remoulded as needed. So, the king desires a law to which the Pope disagrees, to show that his marriage never existed, so that he can marry the manipulative sorceress Anne Boleyn, who’s been twisting him around her little finger, whose father has been using her to gain position in the court, whose sister he’s been sleeping with – for a king has wants. He doesn’t care that the new law will turn his daughter into a bastard and his queen into a mistress; anything for a heir, anything for the legacy to continue. Selfish, stupid, both?

It isn’t surprising then that these are the kind of people who attacked and reigned most of the world at a time – ruthlessness has its rewards. And what do the citizens think about such a king? How does it matter? Not in the entire book or the reign of the king, does one seriously come across a concern for the citizens – the subjects. What he decides for himself is for their benefit, is the right thing, isn’t it? What the people and his courtiers think about the king, the now rejected queen or the about to be queen is immaterial, what matters is those who agree with him and those who have the ability to make others agree. The king has Thomas Cromwell, and Cromwell has everyone.

And God has been given a role too. What’s heresy, what’s sacrilege and what’s not has been decided. He is not to be accessible to everyone; only the chosen few are to have access to him, to be able to read his books, to be able to interpret his language. And so, when his book, is tried to be made available in the common man’s language, the perpetrators are tortured to death. And what creative ideas are thought of for the public executions, for setting an example. Throughout history, man has always made God so dangerous – manipulating and killing freely in his name.

Veritably 650 pages of this absurd historical fiction weren’t enough. All the characters in the book are real even though Mantel has presented her version of Thomas Cromwell and how he might have been and would have done. Her witty style of writing reminded me of Oscar Wilde. Mantel seems to have a soft corner for Cromwell, seems to adore and respect him. She thinks he manipulates but for the greater good, for people to understand that they need to survive and holding on to their values won’t allow them to survive; they need to relent to break their values or their bones would be broken. She somehow accepts shamelessly that he’s spineless, without morals when it comes to that but that is what has worked for him, got him recognition and has gained a safety cushion for him and his family. Mantel’s sarcasm is evident and entertaining, her presentation of facts and history is lucid yet cunning, her characters have a story to tell. I thoroughly enjoyed her writing and am looking forward to reading the sequel.

My rating – 5/5

Picture copyrights:

Book cover - https://www.amazon.in/Wolf-Hall-Shortlisted-Golden-Booker/dp/0007230206

Hilary Mantel - https://www.npr.org/2022/09/23/1124682328/hilary-mantel-author-wolf-hall-dies

The Beach by Alex Garland – a book review

 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

My rating – 3.5/5

Picture copyrights:

Cover - https://medium.com/@errolshakespeare_56411/exploring-desire-and-consequences-in-the-beach-by-alex-garland-5e6508400ac9

Alex Garland - https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0307497/

1984 by George Orwell – A book review

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Beware! Big Brother is watching.

My rating – 5/5

Picture credits

Cover page - http://friendslibrary.in/books/detailedinfo/910/1984

George Orwell - https://study.com/academy/lesson/george-orwell-biography-books-facts.html

The Believers by Zoe Heller – a book review

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?

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.

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.

As Pink Floyd sung, 

The lunatic is in my head
The lunatic is in my head
You raise the blade, you make the change
You rearrange me 'til I'm sane

You lock the door
And throw away the key
There's someone in my head but it's not me

Mrs. Litvinoff reminded me of Rupert from A Fairly Honourable Defeat by Iris Murdoch; 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.

My rating: 5/5

Images copyright:

Book cover: © https://www.amazon.co.uk/Believers-Penguin-Street-Art/dp/0141024674

Zoe Heller: © https://www.amazon.co.uk/Zoe-Heller/e/B001H6NVYI%3Fref=dbs_a_mng_rwt_scns_share

She

 

There’s a tree,
Lining the shore of the sea,
In the shade of the palms of that tree,
Sits she

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Astonishing splashes of colour by Clare Morrall – A book review

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. …’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I was truly fascinated both by the story and the writing style. I wish I had written the story.

The book was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize for Fiction 2003.

Use this link to listen to the book on Speechify.

My rating: 5 out of 5

Image copyrights:

Book cover: https://www.buchfreund.de/de/d/p/94968393/astonishing-splashes-of-colour

Clare Morrall:  https://www.theguardian.com/profile/clare-morrall