David Mitchell - Ghostwritten

Ghostwritten is David Mitchell's first novel, and on finishing it, I've now read all his works, which pleases me greatly. Of course, the fact that this is a tremendous debut adds to the pleasure, albeit, I really do wish there was another Mitchell on my shelf, just waiting to be read. The sub-title of the book reads, "a novel in nine parts," and so it is. It could easily a collection of nine short stories, each told in first person by a different narrator, who seemingly have nothing to do with the previous narrator(s). However, six degrees of separation (or fewer) bind the characters together, through time and different geographical locations. The link between the characters isn't blatantly evident though, as one might come to expect from Mitchell, and at times, it's confusing as to how the characters come together, and to figure out if there is any kind of causal sequence. That said, one can't help but anticipate the revelation of the link, and then deliberate over it for a bit, which in turn means that one can't help but read the book, scrutinising almost every word to see where the link lies.

{note: there are some spoilers below, but I have tried to keep them to the minimum}

The first story, Okinawa, is inspired by the Sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway - an act of domestic terrorism. Quasar, a terrorist, is on the run after wreaking havoc on a train, as he imagines a world without the "unclean" - forgive the comparison, but similar to the way some pure-bloods (and Voldemort and his Death Eaters) fell about mud-bloods in Harry Potter. Quasar believes he can communicate with the leader of his cult telepathically, and while he hides out in Okianawa, waiting for things to quieten down, he gets the news that His Serendipity has been captured. While the locals rejoice, Quasar tries to get in touch with the powers that be, to figure out the next course of action. The password to get in touch with the powers that be is simply, the dog needs to be fed.

Cue the second story, and the shift in location to Tokyo, where a teenager works in a record store, specialising in jazz. One day, a group of girls enter the store, and he's instantly attracted to one of them, but they leave the store, and he is resigned to never meeting her again. A few days later, while he's closing up the store, he hears the telephone ring, and being conscientious, goes in to answer the phone. The voice at the other end simply says, it's Quasar. The dog needs to be fed. As fate has it, this slight delay leads to him meeting the girl again, and they immediately hit it off. End of the second story. Yes, the links are that random.

“The last of the cherry blossom. On the tree, it turns ever more perfect. And when it’s perfect, it falls. And then of course once it hits the ground it gets all mushed up. So it’s only absolutely perfect when it’s falling through the air, this way and that, for the briefest time … I think that only we Japanese can really understand that, don’t you?”

{end of spoilers}

Through the rest of the stories, the reader meets the Russian mafia, and a ghost that transfers from being to being by touch; a physicist involved with the Pentagon and a night-time DJ in New York; a tea shack owner at the Holy Mountain who laments as to why women are always the ones who have to clean up, and a drummer/writer in London who also works as a ghostwriter to pay the bills.

I couldn’t get to sleep afterwards, worrying about the possible endings of the stories that had been started. Maybe that’s why I’m a ghostwriter. The endings have nothing to do with me.

You know the real drag about being a ghostwriter? You never get to write anything that beautiful. And even if you did, nobody would ever believe it was you.

We're all ghostwriters, my friend. And it's not just our memories. Our actions too. We all think we're in control of our lives, but they're really pre-ghostwritten by forces around us.

The above quotes illustrate another prominent aspect of the book: the role of fate, of chance, of the chain-reaction. The sheer randomness of the stories, and the way the characters inter-connect is pivotal to the novel, and keeps the reader completely engrossed. Of course, the other side is, by the time the reader actually starts relating to the narrator or nodding in agreement with their sentiments, a new narrator is introduced and the old narrator a thing of the past.

And then there's sneaky little political comments just dropped, making the book a lot more relevant in today's day and age. The below snippet, for example, reminds me of the preamble to Iraq.

"Have you noticed," said John, "how countries call theirs 'sovereign nuclear deterrents,' but call the other countries' ones 'weapons of mass destruction'?"

It's an overtly ambitious work, with some fairly profound statements, that had me admiring the debut from the get-go. It was thought-provoking and massive - perhaps not as demanding as Cloud Atlas, but a hell of a ride, nonetheless, and one couldn't help but marvel at how it all unraveled.

Integrity is a bugger, it really is. Lying can get you into difficulties, but to wind up in the crappers try telling nothing but the truth.

Of course, the other impressive thing was, how all nine narrators found a unique voice in the novel, totally disconnected from the previous narrator, similar to Cloud Atlas. Speaking of his most acclaimed book so far, two characters from Cloud Atlas also made an appearance in this book: Tim Cavendish and Luisa Rey - their occupations remain the same across the books, i.e. publisher and writer respectively. Not only that, but a character with a comet-shaped birthmark has a cameo role to play as well. I have to say, love finding old friends in new books!

Personally speaking, my primary complaint with the novel was that I didn't get a sense of closure or fulfilment on finishing the book. I enjoyed it, but I just didn't get the ending. I re-read the last "story" thrice, but to not much avail. I believe this book would benefit from a re-read, as there might have been a multitude of subtle hints that I missed - inadvertently.

Have you read David Mitchell's debut novel? Or, anything by him? What's your favourite? My unequivocal pick would be Number9Dream, but that might have something to do with it being the first Mitchell I read. I almost feel as though I have to re-read all his works in the order of writing, to truly appreciate the erratic wondrous world of fiction he has created.

Not a Rat’s Chance in Hell Challenge (or, Am I Inherently Masochistic?)

Sarah is hosting the Not a Rat’s Chance in Hell Challenge, and for some reason I signed up. Maybe it's because I am inherently masochistic, or maybe, I genuinely think it'll make me a better reader. I'll copy and paste the ten categories from her post, along with the book on my shelf that matches the description. Hats off to Sarah for coming up with this list.

1. A book that has been previously abandoned Irène Némirovsky - Suite Française or, Jane Austen - Mansfield Park
2. A re-read. Didn’t quite get it/thought there was more/made promise to self to re-read? Time to make good. Anita Brookner - Hotel Du Lac or, Harper Lee - To Kill A Mockingbird
3. A book that has sat on the shelf, like, forever. (Decades.) Philip K Dick - The Man In The High Castle
4. A book that paralyses one with dread. Oh my god. Umm, there is, Gravity's Rainbow and 2666, and being a masochistic, I recently purchased The Savage Detectives. It's got to be one of those! Or, Wolf Hall.
5. Investigate a canonical writer hitherto most shamefully overlooked. Thomas Hardy - Tess of the D'Ubervilles The Return of the Native
6. Seek out a book by an author who has earned ostracism by being so good that any further novel could surely never measure up…? J.D. Salinger - For Esmé – with Love and Squalor
7. And the opposite… That author who was supposed to be really good, but didn’t go down too well? Give him/her another go! I might be manipulating this single one in my favour, but something by Nabokov. I found Lolita too twisted, and couldn't quite finish it, but I loved his writing, so... Alternatively, Peter Carey's The True History Of The Kelly Gang. I can't even begin to describe how much I hated My Life As A Fake, so...
8. Take a chance. Read a book which you would rather not. For instance when the OH says ‘you’ll really like this’ and you’re thinking ‘no, I really won’t…’ Hmm... let's leave this one for now. Other than chick-lit, I'm a pretty open-minded reader, so, let's see.
9. A book from an unfamiliar genre. Isaac Asimov - Foundation
10. Ask a friend (preferably a person of impeccable taste, and definitely not someone who might have an axe to grind) to choose a book that you will, in their opinion, like. (This does not mean ask a dozen people until you get the right answer!) Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn - Cancer Ward

I'm not sure if I'll finish this challenge - think I'll come up one or two short, but hey! It's not called Not A Rat's Chance In Hell for nothing. I think at some sadistic level, Sarah actually expects us to come short... :)

I am actually really excited about this challenge though - I mean, there are so many contenders for some of the categories that the mind boggles. For example, on investigating a canonical writer - well, I've not read any Tolstoy, the Brontë sisters, Bolaño or Umberto Eco. It's actually quite embarrassing, if you think about it.

As for books sitting on my shelf for decades: I bought both, Tess of the D'Ubervilles The Return of the Native and Mansfield Park about eleven years ago, and they've sat pretty for all these years, probably (possibly?) judging me.

So, are you tempted to join in? The more the merrier, and all that? What would you choose in each of the categories, IF you were to join?

More importantly, have you read any of the books? Is it going to be a smooth or extremely bumpy ride? Looks like a really tall climb though...

Edit #1: I pulled out Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native instead of Tess, so edited the post to reflect the same. Ooops. Sorry!

An Assortment Of Bookish Links

Everything you need to know about life, you learn from Jane Austen - a feature in the Huffington Post. Including quotes from Pride and Prejudice ("Humiliation is the fastest way of growing up.") and Emma ("Listening to people's stories is the nicest thing you can do for them."), I did smile - wryly - at the chosen quotes. The movie for Ender's Game (announced last year) is going to start shooting early next year. However, they are planning on converting it to a youth-oriented franchise. Uh-oh...

...and another uh-oh moment: Superman has renounced his American citizenship to be a citizen of the world. Truth, justice and the American way - will that morph to truth, justice or the American Way? Sorry! Couldn't resist...

A link which I re-discovered recently (it's an old old link), while cleaning up my bookmarks: Khol decides to prove Steve Jobs wrong, by reading more than a book a month. Fair enough, but - since then, the iPad's come out, and the considering that iBooks is an integral part of it.... Don't get me wrong, I am a big Apple-o-phile (or Mac-addict), but this did surprise me, as I'd completely forgotten the way Big Steve dismissed the Kindle/e-reading.

Jamie Lee Wallace discusses the ten ways journaling makes one a better writer. Have you ever kept a journal? Do you think it makes you a better writer?! I maintained my journal for about twelve years (since I was ten), but I barely write anymore. I need to return to it.

And finally, read this article at the Harvard Crimson that I can so relate to, because honestly - I could have written it! I've always said that it's because of mum that I'm into reading, and she's the reason why I love books. However, when I was about fifteen, our literary worlds took different paths, and now, she and I read very different books. She still hasn't forgiven me for recommending Never Let Me Go, and I haven't forgiven her for singing high praises of The Kite Runner. Of course, there will be times when both of us will reach for the same Nabokov or the same book by Rohinton Mistry, but... How about you? Have you ever felt the same way?

Michael Chabon - The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay is well - amazing. Not only does this book celebrate the "great, mad, new American art form" and pays a tribute to the spirit of Americana in the 1930s, it simultaneously depicts the despair in Europe during the second World War, and how incredibly disconcerting the war was - both, for the people who had to live it, as well as the people who managed to escape it. Eighteen year old Josef Kavalier flees Prague in the golem's coffin, leaving his family behind, and ends up in Brooklyn, New York, where he's forced to bunk with his seventeen year old cousin, Samuel Klayman (Clay). The cousins, both aspiring artists, hit it off immediately, and Clay introduces Kavalier to the wonderful world of comic books - in an age where Superman has just hit the stands, where the comic book obsession is rampant, and where there's big bucks to be made, the cousins decide to create their very own super-hero to rake in the money.

And so, The Escapist is born, inspired by the boys' fantasies of freedom and liberation, in the face of the Holocaust and their admiration for Houdini. With Kavalier's artistic talents and Clay's plot-building  genius, The Escapist kicks-off and is a massive success, followed on with radio episodes, TV and merchandise. Time and again, they send the Escapist to battle against Attila Haxoff (a fictional character meant to represent Hitler), and the "Razis". Kavalier saves enough money to bring his family to America, and spends most of his time hating the Germans and brooding and introspecting about the situation he is in, while dreaming of the day he will be united with his family. His creativity is inspired by his circumstance, and he makes no effort to tone it down:

There were just two principals, the Escapist and Hitler, on a neoclassical platform draped with Nazi flags against a blue sky. [...] His [The Escapist's] musculature was lean and understated, believable, and the veins in his arm rippled with the strain of the blow. As for Hitler, he came flying at you backward, right-crossed clean out of the painting, head thrown back, forelock a-splash, arms flailing, jaw trailing a long red streamer of teeth. The violence of the image was startling, beautiful, strange. It stirred mysterious feelings in the viewer, of hatred gratified, of cringing fear transmuted into smashing retribution, which few artists working in America, in the fall of 1939, could have tapped so easily and effectively as Josef Kavalier.

At the heart of every super-hero's success though, lies tragedy. Superman's planet was destroyed, and Batman's parents were murdered - what does fate have in store for Kavalier? and Clay? Their early success passes them by, and they grow up, struggling to find their place in the world - to find their calling. Kavalier finds his love interest in Rosa Saks, a warm affectionate artist, whose world revolves around Kavalier - in fact, she's the only real female character in the book (discounting the mothers of the cousins, both of whom have short fleeting roles), and automatically, one roots for the happy ending that Kavalier deserves with her.

But, in this pre-war New York (pre-war as America still hadn't entered the war), things aren't always fair, and along with the happiness, beauty and joy, there lies anger, despondency and helplessness. As the blurb at the back of the book says:

Joe can think of only one thing: how can he effect a real-life escape for his family from the tyranny of Hitler?

And one can't stop turning the pages to figure out how it all ends.

This book covers a lot of ground: from magic to Houdini, from pop-culture to homosexuality, from comic books to the warfront, from the grand escape to living with hope and despair, from loving to losing, from 1930s to the 1950s, from war to post-war, and the underlying tragedy at each step, despite the humour, romanticism and passion that the protagonists have, makes it a fantastic read.

It's also an eye-opener into the world of comics, and how much effort and talent really goes into it - the story, the backdrop, the "why" - every super-hero has a story, and the way these stories are concocted and created are mind-blowing. Many book-lovers that I know disregard comics, presuming it's not "all that" but, this quote from the book says it all, really:

For that half-hour spent in the dappled shade of the Douglas Firs, reading Betty and Veronica, the icy ball had melted away without him even noticing. That was magic - not the apparent magic of the silk-hatted, card-palmer or the bold, brute trickery of the escape artist, but the genuine magic of art. It was a mark of how f*****d up and broken was the world - the reality  - that has swallowed his home and his family that such a feat of escape, by no means easy to pull off, should remain so universally despised.

This book was quite chunky, at 600+ pages. However, I really did not want this book to end, as I reached the last hundred pages... and I think that stands as testament to how incredible I thought this book was. It's been ages since I've read something as fantastic and captivating as this, and I can't wait to read another book by Chabon.

18 miles and... nothing?!

I'm back from NYC, and I had a great time. Worked hard, partied hard, read little. The guys I work with were on a mission to ensure I missed at least one of my half-seven meetings after a night out. Much to their dismay, they didn't succeed. I didn't do any sightseeing whatsoever, barring a couple of early morning runs at Central Park - not sure that counts though? However, on the Sunday that I landed, I did make my way to the Strand Bookstore: "18 miles of books".

I love books, I love bookstores, and the thought of eighteen miles of books was more than a little appealing. I half-thought I'd go crazy and buy half the store. As I approached the store, I told myself, "you will not spend more then $50 here," and I was quite uncertain as to whether I'd be able  to stick to that resolve.

Before entering the store, I scoped the outside, where loads of secondhand books were stacked, but in no order or categorisation. I tried looking through them to find something, and considering there were about a few thousand books there, I thought finding three to four books to read would be easy - but nope! No such joy. The books were literally just dumped there, and while they were only $1 each, I just couldn't find anything even remotely interesting. Guess part of the charm is to search through loads and loads of books to find the gems, but.... I don't know.

Anyway, I strolled inside, thinking that I'd have more luck with books. Immediately, I was overwhelmed. The shelves were stacked from floor to the ceiling, and it was just - wow!

I started browsing, just enjoying myself in this apparent book-lover's haven. However, the whole place was a little strange, as in, the popular fiction books had tables devoted to them - completely random. The tables were called "Fiction-I", "Fiction-II" etc. and they were books that the store recommended (presumably). However, again, it was just idly scattered as in, it wasn't done by author or genre or anything. They did, however, have a "Best of the best" section, which I quite liked.

I picked up a couple of books and thumbed through them, only to be slightly turned off by the quality of the books. I now understand what Hanff meant in 84 Charing Cross Road, when she said that the books in New York felt cheap and not as beautiful as the books across the pond. I was carrying The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay at the time, and I picked up the same paperback at the store. While the number of pages were the same, the book was significantly thinner than my edition. It felt as though the pages would rip the minute I started turning them - does anyone feel the same way about American paperbacks? Or, is it just me?

What really got me going, though, was this beautiful edition of Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber that they had sitting on one of their fiction tables.

I already have two editions of this book: one sent to me by Claire in March last year, and one I found in a second-hand bookstore a couple of months later, which featured the cover art of Roxanne Bikadoroff. Anyway, I couldn't justify buying a third edition of this book, so I asked one of the employees if they had any other books by Angela Carter - and I just got a brusque "if it's not on the table, then no". Fair enough - other than the fact that about ten minutes later, I did find some more books by her - none in this kind-of edition though. :(

Ideally, people who work in book shops should be book lovers, but I didn't think that was the case here. Even the brand new books (full-priced books) weren't kept well. I almost bought Maus, but all six copies they had were torn - and they were all at full price. And when I say torn, I don't mean a slight crease at the edges. Parts of the cover of the book were definitely detached from the book itself, and unfortunately, in my little world, that's not okay!

I eventually did buy two books, just because it would be wrong to leave a bookstore that overwhelming empty-handed, but all in all, I was slightly disappointed by the experience. I love going to Foyles in London {Charing Cross Road}, because they have an amazing collection, but more importantly, each time I go to pay, I end up chatting with the cashiers about my purchases or/and request them to recommend some of their favourites to me. It's the same with the two Waterstones I frequent.

How about you? Do you have any such illusions about bookstores? Do you have a favourite store which you visit more for the experience than for the actual books? And am I just being idealistic and silly?

See Me Walking Down Fifth Avenue...

So, I'm off to New York tomorrow. New York, one of my favourite cities in the whole wide world. Broadway! SoHo! MoMA! Madison Square Gardens! Central Park! You get the idea, right?

It's just for a week, and it is on work, which means I won't get much time to take in the city as much as I've like to, but I do get a couple of afternoons free, which means I can go to the MoMA and the Met and if the weather holds, go horseback riding at Central Park. I really cannot wait, despite the fact that I am exhausted of traveling...

Unsurprisingly, I'm taking a few books with me - mainly fiction based in New York. A few months back, I had asked for some recommendations on books set in New York, and based on a combination of that and GoodReads, here's my New York Reading List.

Do you have any favourite books set in New York? Or, any places that I must see/things I must do?

Margaret Atwood - Oryx and Crake

It was in September 2009 when I purchased Atwood's Oryx and Crake, and it's been sitting on my shelf since, feeling slightly neglected. I've heard mixed reviews about the book, so procrastination played its part in the delay, but I finally did pull it out, being in the mood for some post-apocalyptic fiction. My Atwood point-of-reference is The Handmaid's Tale, a book I can't recommend enough, and considering that, I thought this fell slightly short of my expectations. It might be because The Handmaid's Tale sets an incredibly high standard. I mean, all said and done, Oryx and Crake was shortlisted for both, the Booker Prize and the Orange Prize.

There's Jimmy, who has witnessed (and played a part in)the apocalypse, and is the lone human survivor, along with the children of Crake (called Crakers), and many genetically modified animals, including pigoons (a cross between pigs and raccoons used to harvest organs), rakunks (a cross between rats and skunks, which have no purpose but to serve as pets) and scary wolvogs. He reflects on the past and how he's ended up where he is, as he tries to figure out a way to survive this new reality.

Jimmy's childhood is an exaggeration of life as we know it: Online gaming and communities, pornography, watching live execution channels, playing chess and just hanging out with Crake, his closest friend. Yet, he grows up in a compound where pigoons were created and continue to be genetically modified so as to harvest more organs, and he has a rakunk as a pet. Negligent parents, no siblings, same story.

Yet, where Jimmy is ordinary, Crake is extraordinary. He is competitive, intelligent, and envisages a futuristic society where immortality can be contemplated.

Immortality [...] is a concept. If you take ‘mortality’ as being, not death, but the foreknowledge of it and the fear of it, then ‘immortality’ is the absence of such fear.

And, he conceives a world where the inhabitants are inherently nonchalant about sex and violence. They are stronger, prettier, more resilient, and can handle the stronger UV rays after the ozone layer depletes. Then, he plays god, and so, the children of Crake are born. Crake's focus on science and complete disregard of humanity as is (must end the world to create a better one philosophy) is almost scary. At what point does anyone have the right to play god? And who, if anyone, is there to check him? It might not be possible as things stand, but what if a couple of centuries later, someone did figure out how to bring "better" people into the world? Or, why not just leave life to evolution? Is that being too boring?

"As a species we're doomed by hope, then?"

"You could call it hope. That, or desperation."

"But we're doomed without hope as well," said Jimmy.

"Only as individuals," Crake said cheerfully.

"Well, it sucks."

"Jimmy, grow up."

Crake wasn't the first person who had ever said that to Jimmy.

While the Crakers were still being "developed" and taught, the deadly virus strikes, killing everyone but Jimmy, who has never interacted with them earlier, but has promised Oryx that he would take care of them, if disaster struck. It's almost as though she knew what was coming...

Oryx - the sole female protagonist - stayed calm, composed and unearthly throughout the book. Not prone to any extremisms, and in a state of perpetual indifference, Oryx almost came across as a robot. Strange as she had been sold by her parents to a gentleman, and eventually ended up as a child porn star, after which she encountered a string of unpleasant things. But her lack of emotions just made her seem too far and too distant from reality (whereas, I think, the gross exaggeration of Jimmy's childhood gets the reader closer to him).

And so - when Oryx and Crake, and everyone else die, Jimmy starts looking after the Crakers and answering the multitude of questions they throw his way - most of the answers he just makes up as he goes along. Crake has a god-like status amidst his "children" and Jimmy (or Snowman as he is now known) a demi-god-like status. He tries to use it to his advantage, but he really does try to do the right thing. That's what makes Jimmy's character slightly blasé: things happen around him in spite of him. He is not a catalyst, he is not the chemical - he's just the neutral, watching things unfold.

I think that's where my problem with the book lay  the characters! I found I cared little, if at all, about them. Honestly, the only character that seemed to have a real role was Crake, but the narrative was such that it didn't give us much insight into him. Instead, the narrative centred around Jimmy and his battles as he lives with the Crakers by the beach, trying desperately to just - survive. Just thinking aloud - I think it would have been extremely interesting if the book was written from the point of view of Crake, and what was driving him. We get a high-level insight into his philosophies, but... I felt as though I needed more.

What are your favourite dystopian novels? Which would you recommend over all else?

Chuck Palahniuk - Diary

I hadn't read anything by Palahniuk until I read this little gem. I still recall purchasing this book at Waterstones: initially, the plan was to pick up Fight Club, as that's the book I really wanted to read, but this book grabbed my eye, and on a whim, I picked it up instead. Anyway, point being, I really didn't know what to expect, and while, at some level, I was prepared for the roller-coaster ride, it did still leave be flabbergasted at times.

Everything is a self-portrait. Everything is a diary.

Diary is the coma diary kept by Misty Wilmot née Kleinman, a once-aspiring artist, after her husband, Peter, attempts killing himself. Calling herself the queen of the f***ing slaves numerous times through the book, as she contemplates her life: white trash to living in a nouveau-riche island, working as a waitress, after she had promised herself she wouldn't end up the same way as her mother. The checklist includes: big houses, church wedding, picnics on the beach. So, when Peter proposes, and takes her home to the incredibly picturesque Waytansea Island (should it be read wait-and-see?), she feels as though all her dreams have come true - this is the  America she has dreamed of, through the medium of her paintings. But now, here she is, fueling up on alcohol and painkillers, writing a coma diary, battling various things...

...and who is to blame for all of this? Of course, it's Peter, her husband, who has abandoned her and her daughter with his suicide attempt. But that's not the worst of it. Peter's clients start calling up poor white trash Misty Marie, complaining that parts of their houses have gone a-missing: kitchens, linen closets, the like. Peter has walled them off, and when they bring the walls down, they find cryptic horrifying messages scrolled on the walls, under the tables.

"...set foot on the island and you will die..." the words said. "...run as fast as you can from this place. They will kill all of God's children if it means saving their own..."

And to make it worse, there are messages which disparages Misty, the woman he had promised to make a successful rich artist in this pretentious island:

"...now I see my wife working at the Waytansea Hotel, cleaning rooms and turning into a fat f***ing slob in a pink plastic uniform..."

"...She comes home and her hands smell like the latex gloves she has to wear to pick up your used rubbers... her blonde hair's gone grey and smells like the shit she uses to scrub out your toilets when she crawls into bed next to me..."

All in plain sight - for everyone to see, for everyone to judge.

But things get even worse for Misty, as suddenly, her mother-in-law and daughter push her to re-discover the artist inside her, which will bring back the Wilmot fortune. And Misty bitterly philosophises on that as well, remembering her forgotten dreams.

Anytime some well-meaning person forces you to demonstrate you have no talent and rubs your nose in the fact you're a failure at the only dream you ever had, take another drink. That's the Misty Wilmot drinking game.

However, there is something depraved about this push to re-discover her art, the rationale behind which becomes clearer as the story (the diary, if you will) progresses. There will be many-a-twist along the way, and it really is difficult to stop reading for even a second, simply because it just keeps the reader guessing as to what is going on - and why.

The book is funny in parts, as well as philosophical, and while initially, I thought Misty was the master of her ill-fated destiny, as the book carried on, it was hard not to feel sorry for her, and the things she had to go through. The forthright way in which she writes her diary, with a tinge of self-deprecation as well as self-pity obviously helps. I also thought the weather forecast in almost each entry was a clever touch.

The weather today is increasing concern followed by full-blown dread.

The weather today is an increasing trend towards denial.

Just for the record, the weather today is calm and sunny, but the air is full of bullshit.

Just for the record, the weather today is bitter with occasional fits of jealous rage.

Just for the record, the weather today is partly suspicious with chances of betrayal.

The weather today is increasing concern followed by fullblown dread.

This is my first foray into the world of Palahniuk, but I definitely do want to read more of his works, and I guess Fight Club is the obvious next choice? Have you read anything by him? Is Fight Club the best one to read?

Helene Hanff - 84 Charing Cross Road

If there ever was a perfect book, this would be it. Yes, I know that's an extremely strong and subjective statement, but I don't think many people who have read this will disagree. It's feel-good, happy, and just... perfect. 84 Charing Cross Road revolves around two people living halfway across the world from one another, with their warmth, kindness, generosity, and love of books bringing them together. The book is a series of real letters exchanged between the two of them over a period of twenty years, starting in October 1949.

Helene Hanff, in New York, is a book-lover but she struggled to find good copies of the books she was interested in near her, so she wrote to a small second-hand bookstore in London, Messrs Marks and Co., which was located at 84 Charing Cross Road, requesting them to send her clean second-hand copies of books she was interested in. Frank Doel was her main correspondent at the bookstore, who replied, and through the letters, a beautiful friendship began.

What was amazing was how, through the letters, one can actually see the friendship evolve. The first few letters were "stiffer" and more formal, with Frank addressing Helene as "Madam" (to which she replies, "I hope ‘madam’ doesn’t mean over there what it does here.") and then moving on to Miss Hanff (to which she replies saying, "Miss Hanff to you (I’m Helene only to my friends")). Finally, they are on first name terms, as Frank isn't quite as stand-offish as he comes across initially.

Honestly, in an age that pre-dates online shopping by a few decades, the fact that Helene was buying her books across the pond seemed incredibly quirky. She had her reasons, which unsurprisingly I do agree with - the way books were made in New York didn't compare to the way they were made in London, and her philosophy was to not cram her shelves with contemporary books, but only purchase books that she'd read and loved - and she wanted the beautifully made ones from London sitting on her shelves.

I houseclean my books every spring and throw out those I'm never going to read again like I throw out clothes I'm never going to wear again. It shocks everybody. My friends are peculiar about books. They read all the best sellers, they get through them as fast as possible, I think they skip a lot. And they NEVER read anything a second time so they don't remember a word of it a year later. But they are profoundly shocked to see me drop a book in the wastebasket or give it away. The way they look at it, you buy a book, you read it, you put in on the shelf, you never open it again for the rest of your life but YOU DON'T THROW IT OUT! NOT IF IT HAS A HARD COVER ON IT! Why not? I personally can't think of anything less sacrosanct than a bad book or even a mediocre book.

The enthusiasm and passion that Helene had for her classics and books was incredibly endearing, as was her direct forthcoming manner which put Frank at ease.

“You’ll be fascinated to learn (from me that hates novels) that I finally got round to Jane Austen and went out of my mind for Pride and Prejudice which I can’t bring myself to take back to the library till you find me a copy of my own.”

However, what made her a truly remarkable character was her actions when she discovered everything in Britain was being rationed post-war. She promptly started sending the employees at 84 Charing Cross Road meat and eggs, and she even sent them nylons! Christmas presents were exchanged, and the friendship struck between the two people who had never met just came across as so real and wonderfully touching. In London, the rest of the staff started corresponding with Helene as well, as did Frank's wife, and again, the affection and kindness between these strangers who'd come together largely due to their love for literature was evident. Almost fairy-tale like. Too good to be true.

In fact, Helene was even invited by her friends in London to visit them, and stay with them. Her friends visited the bookstore in London, and once Frank et al discovered that they were her friends, they were treated like royalty.

...We walked into your bookstore and said we were friends of yours and were nearly mobbed. Your Frank wanted to take us home for the weekend. Mr. Marks came from the back of the store just to shake hands with friends-of-Miss-Hanff, everybody in the place wanted to wine and dine us....

It does make me wonder though - nowadays, the world is so much smaller, communicating across the pond so much easier, but how often are any of us going to be lucky enough to strike a friendship as pure and uncomplicated as that? No selfishness, no end-game, just affection and kind-heartedness. Remember: this book is non-fiction.

I loved all the characters in this book, and I think I'd feel lucky if I had the opportunity to befriend even one of them, for in a world as tainted as the one we are in today, such unselfish kind people are like hidden precious gems. I loved the sense of humour, the excitement and the literary passion.

I am going to bed. I will have nightmares involving huge monsters in academic robes carrying long bloody butcher knives labeled Excerpt, Selection, Passage, and Abridged.

Have you read this book? Is it the "nicest" book you've ever read? Or is it just me?

If you haven't, I really hope you're convinced that it's a must-read now. It really really is - I was slightly apprehensive when I began reading it, for I'd heard a fair few other bloggers gush about this book, but it really is all that.

Cormac McCarthy - Child Of God

I loved The Road - in fact, it was one of my favourite books in 2008, and right after I finished it, I read No Country For Old Men, which I also enjoyed tremendously. So, I find it kind-of weird that I haven't read anything by Cormac McCarthy for over two years. I decided to read this on a thirteen hour long flight, and the one thing I realised was, of all things in the world, this definitely isn't a flight book! The one vague memory I have of this book is, back in 2007-08, a teacher was facing charges for giving this book to a ninth grader to read. The parents objected to the violence, profanity and sexual content in the book. It does make me wonder though, how would I react had I read this book some ten years earlier? At twenty-five, I found this book disturbing and haunting, graphic and overtly vivid, powerful and thought-provoking. At fifteen - well, maybe I was extremely naive for my age, but I reckon I would have been scandalised beyond belief.

Lester Ballard is an outcast in a small village in Tennessee - a tragic antihero, Ballard can almost be considered senile.

He is small, unclean, unshaven.  He moves in the dry chaff among the dust and slats of sunlight with a constrained truculence.  Saxon and Celtic bloods.  A child of God much like yourself perhaps.

It's the offhand "much like yourself" comment that grabbed me, mostly because it came across as though Ballard is the anti-thesis of most (if not all) of us. However, it also meant that I read most of the book, expecting and hoping the character would redeem himself, because, all and said and done, I couldn't help but pity him. Ironically, his personality and character should have evoked hatred and disgust, but that's the magic of McCarthy's writing.

Ballard's house is auctioned out, despite his protests, and he starts roaming the terrain, living in caves and shacks, with no friend to call his own, but a rifle. His existence regresses, as he moves from domicile to domicile, each slightly more beastly than its predecessor, and his actions are mindbogglingly unjustifiable. Necrophilia, buying clothes and underwear for the dead girls he drags and hides at his "home" and eventually resorting to killing couples and having sex with dead girls are just a small part of it. The book does get darker and more morbid, and as a reader, I was just left flabbergasted, as I struggled to figure out any psychological motivation behind these despicable deeds.  An absent mother and a father who hanged himself are not really justification enough - or, are they?

People ignoring him or treating him like he didn't exist or taking him for a ride are again not reasons enough - a fair few events from the past (which are re-iterated in the book) explain people's attitudes to him, but the quick degeneration of his already abject character beggars disbelief.

McCarthy's third book is provocative (in more ways than one), but beautifully written. The distant tone of the third person narrator who tells the story is coupled with accounts of Ballard from people who have known him from his childhood. The people relate tales of his lamentable way of life, and at each point, I thought that something would happen to make the ignominious Ballard come good.

He has this old cow to balk on him, couldn't get her to do nothin. He pushed and pulled and beat on her till she'd wore him out. He went and borry'd Squire Helton's tractor and went back over there and throwed a rope over the old cow's head and took off on the tractor hard as he could go. When it took up the slack it like to of jerked her head plumb off. Broke her neck and killed her where she stood.

In a way I've come to expect from McCarthy (despite the inadvertent two year McCarthy hiatus) the missing punctuation and the dialogue just add to the wow-factor of a book that is difficult to put down, for despite its depravity, I just couldn't avert my eyes, as I lost myself in the surreal twisted plot of this book.

Have you read any books by McCarthy? Which one would you recommend next? And, do you think his language (and missing punctuation) adds to the charm of his books, or would you prefer his books to be just a tad easier?

Haruki Murakami - South of the Border, West of the Sun

This is the fifth book by Murakami that I have read, and excluding What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, I have to say it's the most subtle. The magical realism and bizarreness that I expect from Murakami's writing is missing, which is almost disappointing. However, this book is strangely reminiscent of Norwegian Wood, in that the title is inspired by a song (Nat King Cole's South of the Border), and that the middle-aged protagonist still thinks of his first love. Hajime, thirty-seven years old when this novel starts, is the narrator. An only child in the 1950s, when most families had at least two children, Hajime is often considered to be the stereotypical only child: spoilt and selfish. While for the most part, he does come across as a decent introspective narrator, some of his actions and thoughts lead us to believe he does actually fit the "only child" bill.

Hajime and Shimamoto, a twelve year old girl left lame by Polio, meet when the two are twelve years old, and instantly strike up a friendship. Shimamoto is an only child as well, and the two children feel perfectly at ease with one another, until the inevitable happens: Hajime moves to another town at the end of the school year, and the two lose touch.

Hajime has his first girlfriend, and the first girl he sleeps with is her cousin, hurting his girlfriend at the time beyond repair. He attempts justifying it, saying

From the first time I saw this girl, I knew I wanted to sleep with her. More accurately, I knew I had to sleep with her. And instinctively, I knew she felt the same way. When I was with, my body, as the phrase goes, shook all over. [...] The magnetism was that strong. I couldn't let this girl walk away. If I did, I would regret it for the rest of my life.

He still stumbles through life, till he reaches this point: happily married to a placid loving woman, Yukiko, with kids, running two successful jazz bars. He is content, for the most part, but something is missing. Cue, Shimamoto enters his bar one day, and the two childhood friends are reunited, much to their joy. The attraction is mutual, and he is ready to give up his content happy life to spend time with her. However, her life remains a dark mystery throughout the book - she doesn't talk about her past, or the troubles she's undergone. She comes and goes, sometimes disappears for months unending, with no explanations, but that's enough to make Hajime's life tumultuous as he obsesses over her, how he can't live without her and how he's ready to sacrifice everything for her.

The title itself is indicative of that, with the "West Of The Sun" referring to a madness that affects Siberian farmers which causes them to forget about the bare necessities of life, but just keep walking towards the land west of the sun, till they drop dead out of fatigue, hunger and thirst. It's this self-destructive streak that made him endearing, and almost stopped me from judging him for his actions, and his susceptibility to infidelity. Also, it did make me ask the question: is this selfishness and obstinacy a result of him being an only child - a point Murakami's emphasises abundantly in this book? He does ponder the repercussions of his actions, but at the end of the day, he's predominantly thinking of himself.

Infidelity is never forgivable as per my moral compass. And then, we see the lives of women destroyed - of happy women transforming into unemotional stones, of women full of life feeling compelled to kill themselves, of married women willing to accept infidelity - and that makes me wonder, why on earth is it that women are normally shown to be that weak and fragile, so much so that men can break them so easily?

The one thing that did really annoy me about this book was that as a reader, I have no idea as to what Shimamoto's story is! What is she hiding and why is she being so secretive? So coy? So precocious?

I enjoyed the flow of this book, specially in the second half, where Murakami describes the imagery and the emotions oh-so-poetically.

Every once in a while, as if remembering its duty, the sun showed its face through a break in the clouds. All we could hear were the screeches of the crows and the rush of water. Someday, somewhere, I will see this scene, I felt. The opposite of deja vu - not the feeling that I had already seen what was around me, but the premonition that I would some day. This premonition reached out its long hand and grabbed my mind tight. I could see myself in its grip. There at its fingertips was me. Me in the future, grown old. Of course, I couldn't see what I looked like.

but I did crave some of the kooky outlandish writing that I've come to know and love Murakami for.

Guess The Wind Up Bird Chronicle is the next Murakami on my list. Will it be bizarre enough?

Marghanita Laski - To Bed With Grand Music

I've been meaning to read a Laski for a long time, and I finally picked this book out of my shelf, just to help me return to the world of reading - one of my many loves that I've been ignoring recently. And on finishing it, I was gently reminded as to why I love reading so much. I've spent the past couple of months literally obsessing over things, and trying to make a life-changing decision (career-wise). However, while reading (and on finishing) this book, I almost immediately started focusing on the points it raises and the questionable character of this book's protagonist. Annoyingly, I can't seem to make my mind up about where I stand.

On the eve of Graham's departure to Cairo for an office job in the midst of the War, his wife (Deborah) and he are lying in bed talking. Graham is likely to be away for a few years, and right up front, he tells Deborah that while he doesn't think abstinence is likely, he will promise not to fall in love with anyone else, thereby remaining faithful to his wife. Deborah, the model wife, on the other hand, promises to be faithful on all fronts, and devote her time to looking after their baby, Timmy. Yet, within days, Deborah is bored to death by the banalities of life as a mother and home-maker, and it only takes minimal persuasion from her mother for Deborah to abandon life in the small Hampshire village, and head to London for an office job.

Her first day in London results in a drunken one night stand, which she is disgusted by, and returns home and devotes herself to Timmy. In general, she has a better temperament, much to the relief of her mother as well as her housekeeper, Mrs. Chalmers. However, she returns to London soon after, and shares an apartment with her college friend, Madeleine, leaving Timmy in the capable hands of Mrs. Chalmers. Initially, she spends the evenings alone in the apartment, despite Mady's best efforts to coax her into the life of glamour: going to parties and having fun, adamant that she should not even be tempted to be unfaithful to her husband. At this point, I sympathised with her, despite her abandoning her son, and looking for a more exciting life in London during the war.

Her adamance crumbles though when Joe, a married American, knocks on the door of her apartment, and convinces her to go out for dinner. While Graham promised Deborah that he would not fall in love,  Joe's promise to his pregnant wife was the inverse, i.e. he would not cheapen his relationship with his wife by sleeping with cheap women. They both appear to be on the same page when it comes to their marriage and their thoughts on infidelity. They do sleep together though, which they justify by saying they are still faithful to their respective spouses, as they are not in love. Many expensive presents and dinners and drinks later, the line between love and companionship blur, and Deborah is very much in love with Joe. Yet, when he has to leave the city, Deborah accustomed to a life of glamour and ostentation, finds another lover and then another - which is all too disturbing. It gets sickeningly worse when she asks men to visit her at the her cottage in Hampshire over the weekends, and it's evident that she's lost all her moral standards and naivety when she requests one of the men to teach her how to be a good mistress - only because it's a trait that Mady possesses, and Deborah envies that. The way she convinces herself that she's not in the wrong and justifies each and every action of hers is mind-boggling, for initially she does come across as someone with high principles and moralities. One can account for a weak character easily being dispossessed of all their virtues, but someone who is as uptight and "holier-than-thou" as Deborah morphing into a greedy tart almost seems to defy logic.

Overdrawing from her bank account, moving from man to man, to the extent that one man introduces her to another, and manipulating men at will to buy her fancy things and take her to restaurants and clubs which Graham would never be able afford seems to business-as-usual for her, and this hedonistic superficial lifestyle is all she cares about. Even her son takes second place. Yet, she manages to justify it.

"You're at least the third person," she said, "who has asked me if I mightn't be better if I went home to my chee-ild. Well, darling, that's just one of the things I've really thought out for myself and I know it's better to be happy than unhappy, and not only for me but for my baby as well. I like this sort of life, in fact, I love it, and seeing as how I'm hurting no one and doing myself quite a lot of good, I rather think I'll carry on with it. I've come to the conclusion that conventional morals were invented by a lot of unattractive bitches to make themselves feel good."

One does wonder though: is it the aftermath of war that prompts people to abandon their principles? Or, is war just an excuse for people to let loose their inner inhibitions an do what they want? If Graham hadn't been called up, would things have turned out differently, or was Deborah only looking for the easiest way out of a life of commitment and stability only to plunge into glamour and deceit? And, how exactly is it, that people who initially come across as so prudish are so quick to turn themselves into the "anti-prude", driven by envy and hedonism, and then, even justify it? Or, does the need to justify the actions arise from the prudishness, or the need to believe that they haven't done any wrong?

I was very much in love with Graham when I married him, conceded Deborah, who was determined not to be one of those low girls who denied a love as soon as it was over, but there's no reason why the person who suited you at twenty should still be the right person for you at twenty-five, when you've both developed and changed and in different directions too.

But honestly - the way Deborah's character spirals downwards is scary, and just... worrying. The transformation from naive and innocent to vice is so rapid, that I couldn't help but feel slightly overwhelmed and contemplative. Is it only a matter of circumstance? Can circumstance really justify this sheer selfish extravagant hedonism? And with no regrets? Actually, I lie - Deborah did end up regretting the fact that the war had ended, and she would be forced to go back to the mundane life of hers, and leave behind the thrills of London.

According to the introduction, this book is not entirely fictional, but an account of someone Laski knew who did transgress similar to Deborah. Initially, it was written under the pseudonym Sarah Russell, as, according to Laski's daughter, Laski was "fascinated and upset at seeing what the war had done to this person" but didn't want the person to figure out that she was the anti-heroine of the book. The person Deborah's character was inspired by managed to get a divorce from "Graham" and she re-married a rich man - probably one who was able to afford her extravagant way of living, and who liked showing off his trophy wife (the last bit's pure conjecture on my part).

I loved this book, and I really do want to read some more books by Laski. There are four published by Persephone, so I guess I have three more to go. Which would you recommend next?