"But he had already jerked straight round, stared, glared again, and seen but the quiet day. With the stroke of the loss I was so proud of he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss, and the grasp with which I recovered him might have been that of catching him in his fall. I caught him, yes, I held him-- it may be imagined with what a passion; but at the end of a minute I began to feel what it truly was that I held. We were alone with the quiet day, and his little heart, dispossessed, had stopped."

Clickety-Click.

I feel like this cold has crawled into my head, buried a warm hole for itself, and decided to nest in there for the winters.

In other news: Blackberry, Apple and now... Mango?

And flipping the bird at subtlety: This is both amusing, and an inside joke that 66.666% of me hopes, isn't understood.

As an aside: I fear that this blog has started to make too much sense, of late. Here you go. Problem fixed.

If that wasn't enough: I'm starting to believe that this man understood "all things macabre" better than any person who's ever lived. 

But then: There was this.

Etchings by Goya

Instituto Cervantes. 

Los Desastres de la Guerra

I shall not praise the exhibit. Instead, let me just say that what you would have read about, had you  read the piece to be found at the above link, I came unbearably close to experiencing.


Alas! 'tis true. I defiled it by clicking pictures with a cellphone camera. 

Strangely, I read that story after the exhibit, completely by accident. That very day. The Universe has been pulling an awful lot of tricks lately. Sometimes, I wonder. If a "god" did exist, he/she/it would probably be tinkering around with his/hers/its doll house (The Universe), playing out moments like these(and more elaborate ones) with his/hers/its little plastic dolls(us), just to get kicks out of the sheer mind****ing potential of it all. 

And if that still wasn't enough for you: Then you, my friend, are exactly the kind of reader this blogger is proud to have had (and hopefully, kept). Drop a hello, and feast your mind on this piece of work.

P.S. If you seek an explanation: I don't do cliffhangers. I lure with trails of candy and throw 'em right over. Trippy, yes. 

Cage III - Free Show

"The figure of Death presides over the front entrance of a carnival sideshow whose spectators watch performers undergo unspeakable degradations so grotesquely compelling that the spectators’ eyes become larger and larger until the spectators themselves are transformed into gigantic eyeballs in chairs, while on the other side of the sideshow tent the figure of Life uses a megaphone to invite fairgoers to an exhibition in which, if the fairgoers consent to undergo unspeakable degradations, they can witness ordinary persons gradually turn into gigantic eyeballs."

On Reality.

"What is meant by 'reality'? It would seem to be something very erratic, very undependable - now to be found in a dusty road, now in a scrap of newspaper in the street, now a daffodil in the sun. It lights up a group in a room and stamps some casual saying. It overwhelms one walking home beneath the stars and makes the silent world more real than the world of speech - and then there it is again in an omnibus in the uproar of Piccadilly. Sometimes, too, it seems to dwell in the shapes too far away for us to discern what their nature is. But whatever it touches, it fixes and makes permanent. This is what remains over when the skin of the day has been cast into the hedge; that is what is left of past time and of our loves and hates."

-Virginia Woolf

(A Room of One's Own)

Book Review: Never Let Me Go

Author : Kazuo Ishiguro

Genre : Dystopian Fiction

Rating : 7.5/10

 

"I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold on to each other, holding on as fast as they can, but in the end it’s just too much. The current’s too strong. They’ve got to let go, drift apart. That’s how I think it is with us. It’s a shame, because we’ve loved each other all our lives. But in the end, we can’t stay together forever." 

When you pick up a book that's been called one of the best of the decade, loved by critics and readers alike, and been praised to high heavens, there are only two ways to go about it. You either read it with a detached sense of skepticism, or with the uncritical acceptance that seeks only to experience, and not to judge. Whichever be the case, Ishiguro does not disappoint.

Based in mid-90's England, Never Let Me Go is the story of three students studying at a sheltered boarding school called Hailsham. Narrated by one of them, the novel describes their lives right from their childhood, to the fate that they came to meet eventually, as adults. Most of the story is bound through a series of flashbacks, chronologically depicting specific incidents in the said timeline. The narrative meticulously details the lives of Kathy, Ruth and Tommy at Hailsham, during their formative years, as teenagers, and thereon.

Given my fascination for all things dystopian, I had some very good reasons to give this one a try. However, by the time I read through half of it, I found countless more. Ishiguro is exactly the kind of literary talent that leaves you with a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, for days to come. The narrative unfolds bit by bit, layer by layer... gradually uncovering the horrifying truth that lies beneath. The subtle, understated manner of writing is almost conspicuous in its simplicity. The tone of it is actually more disconcerting than the content itself. 

Reading through the book, I found myself continually drawing parallels with Murakami's Norwegian Wood. Considering the ethnic background both authors share, I don't know if it's entirely coincidental that I found them to have a similar style of writing. The same understated elegance, simplicity that is noticeable only by virtue of its severity, and even the manner of character-development. Most of all, I was struck by how both books leave you with an overpowering sense of helplessness. It's like the story winds itself around you, pulling you in so deep that you become a part of it. Then, through its equally subtle twists and turns, leaves you positively devastated. And somewhere between the disturbing truth and the false hopes, the reader just might chance upon what the book truly is about - the realization of everything that is not what it could have been. 

Don't Whiz on a 'Lectric Fence.

From the author of "When I am an Old Coot".

An anthology of such gems of wisdom as:

And,

Indeed, inanity is BACK.

"Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man's, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

(The Great Gatsby)

To Quote.

"I don't know whether or not we will meet again. I could, with an effort, look into the future, but the time is too short. I'd like you to know this: separation contains as much of a mystery as a meeting. In both cases a door opens. In meeting, it opens on the future, in separation on the past. It is the same door."

-Elie Wiesel

...and so, providence takes its cue from man.

A Farewell To Arms.

Author : Ernest Miller Hemingway

Genre : Historical Fiction

Rating : 7.5/10

"If people bring so much courage to this world, the world has to kill them to break them. So of course it kills them. The world breaks everyone and afterwards many are strong at the broken places. But those that it will not break, it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these, you can be sure it will kill you too, but there will be no special hurry."

The book surprised me. After what seems like ages of having read works with too much matter and too little art, too much to think about and too little to visualize, I had lost my patience for Hemingway. Particularly since my previous experiences with him have been limited to his short stories, which I am a fan of. Yet, those were all small doses. And I had lost my taste for prose that makes you hear the chirping of the birds, that compels you to imagine the color of the flowers and the chill of the breeze it speaks about. About little details like the bits of paper strewn around the sidewalk, the glint in the bartender's eyes, and the likes. But this brought me back. With it's rich narrative and almost a constant digressional strain, that drifts away from everything you would expect from a book written about the first world war. It took me a while to warm up to it, but once I did, I enjoyed it thoroughly. The ending surprises you with it's abruptness. It grips you by the throat and haunts you for quite some time. Which is great, because I never liked happy endings anyway.

Wicked : The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West.

Author : Gregory Maguire
Genre : Fantasy
Rating : 7.7/10

Though there is a lot to be said about this book, I will refrain from doing so. Mostly because only after reading it does one understand why it garnered vast measures of applause and criticism, equally. At any rate, both won it a fair degree of fame. This is one of those pieces that come along once in an odd while, to only be either loved or hated, with nothing in between. It is not a book that can be recommended, for it can only be discovered.

To draw a background, Wicked is the story of Elphaba- a green-skinned girl who grew up to be the Wicked Witch of the West. Yes, the one from the Wizard of Oz, which is probably the single most widely known cinematic product after The Sound of Music. It is about the entire convoluted series of events that lead up to her encounter with Dorothy. Her birth, her growing up into a young lady who would later attend Shiz University as a student, a wry and ingenious account of her days as an angst-laden, precocious youth,  the things that caused her to give up the course and the pursuit of a normal life, her experiences and experiments, and her eventual face-off with Dorothy. Through the course of the story, Maguire weaves a delightfully intricate tale binding all the previously known characters of Oz in a completely different manner. The characters are very well formed, and it all comes together through interleaved political allegories, social dynamics, the intricacies of family, and satirical constructs. If there is one thing the author has to be credited for, it is his impressive use of language and an imagination that leaves you in awe, on occasions far more than one.

Not all will pick up this book, few will finish it, and even fewer would like it. But the ones who do, would  find themselves with some very good reasons for doing so.

Heat and Dust.

Author : Ruth Prawer Jhabvala
Genre : Historical Fiction
Rating : 5.5/10

It's the Indian Connection. I am aware of how authors of the subcontinent seem to fascinate my contemporaries. But I have always found myself drawn to books written about India, by expat novelists. It comes down to the fact that I like to sneak a glimpse of the world through someone else's eyes. Someone whose sense of perception is completely different from mine, owning to vast degrees of separation in geographical location, cultural upbringing, schools of thought and social conditioning(or the lack of it). That, as opposed to being told how I could have viewed it differently myself.

Set as a contrast palette between pre and post-colonial India, Heat and Dust is the story of two women and their discovery of India, for all that it is. Olivia, the Schumann-playing, bored wife of an English civil servant posted in Satipur and the other, her step-granddaughter, who travels to the country in search of Olivia's story. Her story of days spent in monotony, stifled by the norms of propriety imposed upon her in a segregated society, and eventual elopement with an Indian prince. With several threads of discontent sewn in between, about and around. Held together through ruins, old letters and an almost-poignant narrative, the book weaves a tale of people and places, without quite capturing the protagonist's psyche. One expects more complexity of character, and is left wanting. Which is a pity really, considering how the storyline leaves no dearth of opportunity for the same. Page through page, depth is blatantly conspicuous by it's absence.

Occasionally, Prawer's impressive capabilities peak out of their shell and surprise you. But then again, they seem to possess an unfortunate love for playing hide-and-seek. An instance of the same may be cited here, for posterity:
"Fortunately, during my first few months here, I kept a journal, so I have some record of my early impressions. If I were to try and recollect them now, I might not be able to do so. They are no longer the same because I myself am no longer the same. India always changes people, and I have been no exception."

To be fair, it does draw to a magnificent close. The climax is superbly laid out. Striking as it is, it is typical for books of the genre to have their beginnings and middles carved out flawlessly like a marble sculpture, with their ends mildly disfigured and abrupt. However, with this particular one, one is left with nothing more to say. Except, that an ending as beautiful as this, deserves a better story to precede it.

The Gates Of The Forest.

Author : Elie Wiesel
Genre : Historical Fiction
Rating : 8.5/10

Once in an odd while, you happen to come across a book by sheer chance. You pick it up from a pile of unfamiliar and unpromising ones, place it in the more obscure regions of your reading list, and leave it at that. You expect absolutely nothing from it. It so happens(very rarely) that when you eventually get down to reading it, the very same book sweeps you off your feet with its beauty. With its understated brilliance and poignant narrative, "The Gates Of The Forest" was that book for me.

An old, frayed copy that I picked up in the lanes of Janpath. Partly, because I like old, musty books better than squeaky new ones. And mostly because I had nothing better to do there. Though I picked it up at random, I remembered later that Wiesel was known for his autobiographical "Night". I admit, at the end of a routine marathon-read weekend, when I had completely exhausted my entire supply of tomes, was when I finally picked it up. I couldn't put it down.

Coming from a Holocaust survivor, the book attempts to draw a balance between fact, fiction and the underlying theological manifestations of the two. It tells the story of a young man, and his journey through days of war. Abandonment, isolation, doubt. The story of his physical struggle and survival, perceptual evolution, and spiritual decay. The loss of faith, and the eventual reclamation. Winding through spells of time with such eloquence, that it leaves you wanting to stop, reread, and rethink it all time and time again.

This is probably the only book I fell in love with from reading the preface itself. Would recommend it to anyone who prefers more caffeine than sugar in their coffee, metaphorically speaking.

Concerning Cruelty and Clemency.

The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli - Chapter 17.

" [...] Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? It may be answered that one should wish to be both, but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, is much safer to be feared than loved, when, of the two, either must be dispensed with. Because this is to be asserted in general of men, that they are ungrateful, fickle, false, cowardly, covetous, and as long as you succeed they are yours entirely; they will offer you their blood, property, life and children, as is said above, when the need is far distant; but when it approaches they turn against you. And that prince who, relying entirely on their promises, has neglected other precautions, is ruined; because friendships that are obtained by payments, and not by greatness or nobility of mind, may indeed be earned, but they are not secured, and in time of need cannot be relied upon; and men have less scruple in offending one who is beloved than one who is feared, for love is preserved by the link of obligation which, owing to the baseness of men, is broken at every opportunity for their advantage; but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails."

"Returning to the question of being feared or loved, I come to the conclusion that, men loving according to their own will and fearing according to that of the prince, a wise prince should establish himself on that which is in his own control and not in that of others; he must endeavour only to avoid hatred, as is noted."

...................................................................................................
Written during the Italian Renaissance, by an eminent political theorist of the time, for Lorenzo de' Medici( ruler of the Florentine republic) , one may wonder what relevance this famed piece of literature might have today, outside of the odd historical references and footnotes. Loads, as I have learnt. Be it philosophy, sociological theory, ethics, epistemology and morality, all of which are just as crucial aspects of human knowledge as they were a thousand years ago, and will be for those to follow.

And if nothing else, think of all the things you could do with a how-to booklet for conquering and governing kingdoms.

Muahahaha! *evil laughter, for effect*

Summer Loves.

Owing to the daily perils that come as a part of the existence of an engineering student(to call it "life" would be most unforgivable) , I have had to sacrifice a great, torrid romance. The stuff that dreams are made of. Drama, thrill, ceaseless obsession, smiles, tears, sleepless nights.. all of it. But having known a love so complete, and having to go without it, is not easy. It's like something is missing. Something indispensable. Irreplaceable.

And now that summer is here, and what we techies get as an excuse for a vacation is on, I am going back to what still waits for me. In the face of nefarious, abominable evils such as summer training to be completed, and massive projects to be coded.. I will now have what I've yearned for, all this while.

I will read like there's no tomorrow. Like I'm a crazed lunatic. Like I'm a starved piece of trifle, and have just acquired a decade's supply of butter chicken. And I will know bliss. Amen.

P.S. The pretty things you can see in the picture, were what I brought home today. Original, pirated, second-hand, brand new. But then, I've always had a fascination for the "older" ones. *wink* Nothing beats the appeal of a slightly aged book. The musty, woody scent. The paper that gets a little darker at the edges. The delicate fraying. The tiny history it has of its own. There is much love to be found in this tiny,skewed world.