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/

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

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

The Black Prince by Iris Murdoch – A book review

I don’t know if I’ll believe in an autobiography ever again!

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.  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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

‘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!

My rating: 5 out of 5

Images copyrights:

Book cover:  https://www.amazon.in/Black-Prince-Iris-Murdoch/dp/0099589257

Iris Murdoch: https://quotes.thefamouspeople.com/iris-murdoch-1671.php

On beauty by Zadie Smith - A book review

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.

Has the title been chosen sarcastically then, for the absence of it?

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.

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.

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!

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,  while passionately and patiently hanging on to the simple contract one has with life. A good read.

My rating: 3 out of 5

Image copyrights:

Book cover – https://www.amazon.in/Beauty-Zadie-Smith-ebook/dp/B002RI9WLQ

Zadie Smith - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zadie_Smith

Villette by Charlotte Bronte – A book review

We have friends. We had friends. And we’ve had friends. And known people – different kinds, all kinds. 

And one of them most certainly has been the quiet one. An introvert.  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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

This is the first book I have read by Charlotte Bronte.  It hasn’t been quite an easy read; I’ve had to reread certain pages multiple times.  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.

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.

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.

My rating: 5/5

Image copyrights:

Charlotte Bronte: https://brontesisters.co.uk/Charlotte-Bronte.html

Book cover: https://www.amazon.in/Villette-Wordsworth-Classics-Charlotte-Bronte/dp/185326072X

Tomorrow by Graham Swift – A book review

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.

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.

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.

Often I ended up saying ‘You’ve mentioned that before.’ ‘Get on with it lady.’ ‘What’s the big thing about it?’

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.

MY RATING: 5/10

Image copyrights

Book cover - 

©https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/277532.Tomorrow

Graham Swift © https://www.theguardian.com/books/2020/may/18/here-we-are-review-breathtaking-storytelling-from-graham-swift

Warlight by Michael Ondaatje – A book review

The human mind is the most creative tool for deception.

It seeks peace; it creates wars.

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.

‘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.

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.  

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.

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,  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.

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.

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.

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?

Nathaniel: “What did you do that was so terrible?” 

Rose: “My sins are various.”

My rating – 8/10

Image courtesy:

Book cover - ©https://readingproject.neocities.org/BookReviews/Warlight_MichaelOndaatje.html

Michael Ondaatje - © https://manoflabook.com/wp/fun-facts-friday-michael-ondaatje/

Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy – A book review

I want to read the book all over again. And again. And again. But somehow I know more likely than not, I never will.

Oh what a tragic story; so beautifully told.

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.

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.

Tess’s devastating path is paved all the way, very cunningly, by Fate.  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.

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.

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.

We fall in love. We do. Fall.

Tess fell. Angel fell. And the rise is never devoid of sacrifice. And in Tess’s case, murder!

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.

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.

 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.

My rating – 10/10

Images copyrights:

Book cover - © https://oldbookdepot.in/product/tess-of-the-durbervilles-wordworth-classics-2-2/

Thomas Hardy - © https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/thomas-hardy

In a free state by V.S. Naipaul – A book review

‘When the student is ready the teacher will appear.’ - Lao Tzu

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.

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.

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.

The needless harassment of the tramp aboard the ship in the ‘Tramp at Piraeus’ 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 ‘One out of many’, 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.

‘Tell me who to kill’ 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?

‘In a free state’ 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?

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.

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.

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.

‘People are generally good till you cease to be the person they want you to be.’ – from an Omeleto video I watched recently.

My rating: 5/5

Images from:

Book cover - https://www.amazon.in/Free-State-V-S-Naipaul/dp/0330487051

V. S. Naipaul - https://www.looptt.com/content/remembering-vs-naipaul-5-things-know-about-author

A Winter’s Night and other stories by Munshi Premchand – A book review

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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.

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.

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.

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.

This is real history; unbiased, secular.  

Image courtesy:

Munshi Premchand - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premchand

Book cover - https://www.amazon.in/Winters-Night-Other-Stories-Premchand/dp/0143330381