Betty Smith – A Tree Grows In Brooklyn

Oh, where do I begin? Remember Cassandra from I Capture The Castle? She is one of my favourite narrators and I believe you'd be hard pressed to find a character as charming as her. Betty Smith's Francie comes close. She doesn't have the pleasure of living in a dilapidated-yet-romantic castle as Cassandra did – instead, she's over the sea and far away in the Williamsburg slums of Brooklyn from 1912-1919. At the outset, Francie is eleven years old and she's a reader. That's all I need to get that instant connection to a protagonist.

Francie thought that all the books in the world were in that library and she had a plan about reading all the books in the world. She was reading a book a day in alphabetical order and not skipping the dry ones.

She lives with her parents and her younger brother, and despite being a family of slender means, they are cheerful and grateful. Her mother, Katie, desperately wants a better future for her children, and she leans heavily on the two pieces of advice her own mother gives her: ensure that her children are educated ("Everyday you must read one page of some good book to your child.") and save every penny possible in order to purchase land which can be handed down to the children. In addition, this piece of advice from Katie's mother – a first generation immigrant –  is priceless as she insists that the children must believe in ghosts, fairies, and Santa:

"[T]he child must have a valuable thing called imagination. The child must have a secret world in which live things that never were. It is necessary that she believe. She must start out by believing things not of this  world. Then when the world becomes too ugly for living in, the child can reach back and live in her imagination." 

However, while Katie tries her level best to ensure a better life for her kids, her husband – a happy-go-lucky drunk – is a singing waiter whose priorities differ from Katie's. He's the good cop to Katie's bad cop, as he looks out for their feelings and tries to ensure they're happy. For example, while Katie's focused on ensuring her children get educated at the local school where they're treated like second class citizens, he acknowledges Francie's desire to go to a school slightly further away where the quality of education is superior and makes it happen much to Francie's delight.

It's such incidents that make the book a treat. There's heartbreak, grief, and loss, but still, there's always a light shining at the end of the tunnel – a glimmer of hope, if you will. No matter how dire circumstances get, Francie and Katie do their level best to not get completely down and out. It's almost like Pope addresses them in his poem:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast, Man never is but always to be blessed. 

However, there are parts of the book that are bleak and  reflective of the times. One of their neighbours – a young, attractive woman with a child, sans a husband – is mocked relentlessly by her neighbours for having the gall to take her child out during the day. Yes, it's rage-inducing, but then one has to remember that this was a century ago – and, sadly, there are parts of the world today where this is still the case.

Or, how Francie is the one who has to temporarily drop out of school to earn money while her younger brother carries on studying, despite she being the one more academically inclined and he being more than willing to take up a job.

But – I digress.

You'll be hard pressed to find a more likeable child in fiction, and you'll be glad that you embarked on her journey with her as she finds her feet in the world and figures out the best course of action no matter what the situation.

Donna Tartt - The Goldfinch

880 pages. All consumed on the beaches of Ko Samui, greedily, and when the book ended, I was sad. After all, wasn't it Jane Austen who said, "If a book is well written, I always find it too short." So, I guess that makes Donna Tartt's Pulitzer winning novel "too short."

The book is titled after the famous Dutch painting by Carel Fabritius – which exists – and yet, the tale is fictional. If you're curious, the painting is displayed at Mauritshuis in The Hague, Netherlands. However, it takes a fictitious life of its own here – a journey so action-packed and unbelievable that it's almost plausible.

The opening line of the book draws you in, reminiscent of Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca. 

“While I was still in Amsterdam, I dreamed about my mother for the first time in years.”

An adult Theo Decker reflects on the series of unfortunate, coincidental events that have led him to the hotel room in Amsterdam. Early in his reminiscences, he concedes that "Things would have turned out better if she had lived," and then the raconteur tells us about how his mother died: a terrorist attack at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York when he was thirteen. The pair had entered the museum together to take shelter from the inclement weather, and had split up in the museum. Theo was captivated by a young girl who was visiting the museum with her grandfather, and decided to follow them while his mother wanted one final look at one of her favourite paintings which she hadn't managed to see up close.

When the explosives hit, the grandfather lay bleeding but encouraged Theo to take The Goldfinch and run. He also handed over his heavy gold ring to the teenager, who, in all his naiveté, took both home not considering the ramifications. As he drifted through his adolescence, the painting became his cross to bear – a cross he bore alone. After all, there was no one he could turn to – he did consider his options but disregarded each for different reasons.

After his mother's passing, he ended up living with one of his friends who had rich parents and lived in a rococo apartment in Park Lane. He found what can only be termed "the old curiosity shop" – the antique store run by the old man who gave him the ring and his business partner, Hobie. There, he discovered that the young girl that had captured his attention lay recovering and that her grandfather hadn't survived the attack. He befriended both, and gradually dealt with his grief, almost forgetting the painting that still lay at his old apartment.

However, when his father and the father's girlfriend finally make an appearance to whisk Theo to Las Vegas just as he's settled into life in New York without his mother, he grapples with the dilemma of the oil painting – which makes the trip with him, wrapped in newspapers. I just sensed an entire group or artists, curators, and art restorers cringe at the thought. His existence in Vegas veers towards surreal – even by Vegas standards. In school, he's an outsider and as outsiders are prone to do, he befriends the one other outsider: the worldly Boris.

It occurred to me that despite his faults, which were numerous and spectacular, the reason I’d liked Boris and felt happy around him from almost the moment I’d met him was that he was never afraid. You didn’t meet many people who moved freely through the world with such a vigorous contempt for it and at the same time such oddball and unthwartable faith in what, in childhood, he had liked to call “the Planet of Earth.”

As his father racks up gambling debts and the girlfriend indulges her junkie habits of snorting coke and popping pills, Theo is left to his own devices, which results in Boris and him drinking, experimenting with drugs, eating copious amounts of pizza, and talking about anything and everything – as drunken, neglected, philosophising teenagers who don't know better do.

Well - think about this. What if all your actions and choices, good or bad, made no difference to God? What if the pattern is pre-set? No no - hang on - this is a question worth struggling with. What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can't get there any other way?

It is this friendship and the stolen painting that sets the tone of the rest of the narrative, and eventually leads Theo to Fabritius's country – all for the sake of the goldfinch; the painting almost being allegorical to Theo's situation: a bird that's chained and can't fly away, can't be free. And, one can hardly blame the bird. Likewise, one can hardly blame Theo.

That said, as an adult reading this book, I audibly protested as some events took place, urging Theo not to make the choices he did; there was no way some of those choices would end well. To be fair, Theo probably made a lot of those choices against his better judgement, but by that point, it's too late.

So what makes this novel remarkable? Theo, I think. Yes, he's flawed, but the candidness of the narrative makes him extremely likeable. Without making lame excuses, one can sympathise with his situation – how do you expect a child, orphaned for all practical purposes, do the right thing while he remains unsure as to the consequences? And, who's trying to figure out who he is.

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.

Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart."

Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?” 

Joseph Conrad - Heart of Darkness

"The horror! The horror!" is one of those phrases that will haunt one, long after the last page of the book is turned. This book, or novella, is a ninety page almost-monologue, where the narrator is Marlow, who recounts his adventures searching for Mr. Kurtz in the darkness of Africa. Honestly, despite some incredible lines, I couldn't wait for the book to end. Yes, I know it's a classic, describing the horrors of the ivory trade in the Congo, and is one of those must-reads. However, the emphasis on the allegory of darkness being the heart of the African jungle, or the darkness that pervades the hearts of the European imperialists upon entering here, resulted in me struggling through. For the most part, I like layered narratives, overflowing with metaphors (or any literary device, really), but, to me, this almost came across as forced. Mr. Kurtz, who Marlow only meets in the last third of the book, dominates the narrative. By all accounts, prior to his arrival in the Congo, Mr. Kurtz was a remarkable man. However, as heard through the grapevine, his adventures in the jungles show him as anything but. Thieving, looting, killing, and other barbaric acts seem to define his time in the Congo, while the primary mission that the Company had sent him on was to civilise this uncivilised world, while sending back ivory. Was his fall from grace a result of his environment, or was it simply his innate self being revealed at an opportune moment?

“But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.”

Yet, as Mr. Kurtz lay dying, he acknowledged the futility of his endeavours.

Anything approaching the change that came over his features I have never seen before, and hope never to see again. Oh, I wasn't touched. I was fascinated. It was as though a veil had been rent. I saw on that ivory face the expression of sombre pride, of ruthless power, of craven terror--of an intense and hopeless despair. Did he live his life again in every detail of desire, temptation, and surrender during that supreme moment of complete knowledge? He cried in a whisper at some image, at some vision--he cried out twice, a cry that was no more than a breath: The horror! The horror!

Marlow's observations on his milieu were fascinating, and disheartening. It was incredibly bleak, and while one can take solace in the fact that the observations were based on Conrad's own stay in the Congo which was over a century ago (1890), it still leaves one feeling fairly unsettled.

A slight clinking behind me made me turn my head. Six black men advanced in a file, toiling up the path. They walked erect and slow, balancing small baskets full of earth on their heads, and the clink kept time with their footsteps. Black rags were wound round their loins, and the short ends behind waggled to and fro like tails. I could see every rib, the joints of their limbs were like knots in a rope; each had an iron collar on his neck, and all were connected together with a chain whose bights swung between them, rhythmically clinking.

This is probably going to be my shortest review yet, for I don't really have much else to say. I can see why it's a classic, but... I really didn't enjoy it!

Evelyn Waugh - Scoop

This is the first book by Evelyn Waugh that I read. It also is the first book I've read, since I returned to the wonderful world of literature. I purchased this book, along with Brideshead Revisited, because I was drawn to the simplicity of the cover. Also, I have a book-buying problem! Scoop is a 1930s satire on the wonderful world of journalism, focusing on foreign correspondence. In a novel that reads like a comedy of errors from the very beginning, Waugh describes the adventures of William Boot, a journalist, in the fictional African country of Ishmaelia. The fictional country, it seems, is based on Ethiopia, where Waugh was a war correspondent in 1935. However, where Waugh was a prolific journalist, Boot was considerably out of his depth, and his adventures in the African country were nothing short of serendipitous.

In the first section of the book, John Courtney Boot approaches a friend to put in a good word for him to Lord Cooper who runs a newspaper called Daily Beast. Boot, a well-renowned author, is hoping to be assigned as the foreign correspondent for the Beast in Ishmaelia, in order to escape from some romantic endeavour. Lord Cooper is easily manipulated into thinking John Boot is the right man for the job, and commands his sycophantic foreign editor, Mr. Salter, to make it happen. However, Salter accidentally ends up contacting William Boot, a contributor to the nature supplement of the Beast, who is reluctant to take the job. However, a combination of threats, and the allure of an expense account, sees the bumbling incompetent William Boot head to the remote destination, with little clue as to what the political connotations of the war are, the parties involved, and what the nature of the assignment is. The irony, of course, lies in the fact that not even the journalists in the foreign office are fully aware of the details of the war, or where the countries are on the map.

William Boot arrives in Ishmaelia, and is immediately surrounded by a plethora of journalists, all of whom are looking to outdo the other in search for a story, when not much seems to be going on. Fictional accounts are created, and telegrammed back to the respective Fleet Street offices. A journalist, who previously had a contract with the Daily Beast, concocts a story set in a place which doesn't really exist. It'a spot on the map is simply a result of a non-local asking a local what that part of the country was, and the local replying in his native tongue with Laku ("I don't know"), which the cartographer deemed the name of the place.

As Lady Luck would have it, the British Vice-Consul in Ishmaelia is an old schoolfriend of William's, and he manages to feed William some information. He finds another source in Kätchen, a German girl who is evicted from her room to make place for William. Kätchen is married to a German, who was away on a mission, and due back soon. Invariably, William falls in love with her, despite it being evident that she is a gold-digger, looking for someone to take care of her while her husband is away. However, the twenty-three year old journalist remains unable to pick out newsworthy incidents, even when they are staring him in the face.

Due to lack of news coming from William, the Daily Beast decide to terminate his contract. He gets the message just as he is sending a telegram to them, with the words:

NOTHING MUCH HAS HAPPENED EXCEPT TO THE PRESIDENT WHO HAS BEEN IMPRISONED IN HIS OWN PALACE BY REVOLUTIONARY JUNTA HEADED BY SUPERIOR BLACK CALLED BENITO AND RUSSIAN JEW WHO BANNISTER SAYS IS UP TO NO GOOD THEY SAY HE IS DRUNK WHEN HIS CHILDREN TRY TO SEE HIM BUT GOVERNESS SAYS MOST UNUSUAL LOVELY SPRING WEATHER BUBONIC PLAGUE RAGING.

While one could consider the first phrase a litote, other examples speckled through the book indicate otherwise. Upon receiving that telegram though, the Beast decide to reinstate his contract. The naiveté and cluelessness makes him out to be incredibly incompetent, and yet, he remains oblivious to that. And yet, he manages to be the only journalist to capture the story of the fascists and the counterrevolutionaries, and he goes back home an acclaimed journalist.

The vaudeville doesn't end there though. Lord Cooper wants Boot knighted, but again, a case of mistaken identity results in the knighthood being for John Boot, not William. Mr. Salter goes up to the country-side to visit William, in order to convince him to attend the banquet, and Salter's interaction with the big family living in the country-side is almost slapstick (as is most of the book). Eventually, William's uncle attends the banquet... because, obviously, what one needs is another Boot in the mix.

There are racist undertones in the book, and stereotyping people and classes, which is quite reflective of the 1930s. No one is really spared, and Waugh's pen is generously scathing. The book also drags on in places, and the protagonist (William Boot) does not really have (m)any redeeming qualities. This might be the case with most satires, but occasionally, the book was excruciating to read, when you saw someone so out of his depth in a profession many suitable candidates would revel in, and make the most of, at any cost, as opposed to getting side-tracked, and focusing his energies on other trivialities. And yet -  yet, he got the scoop!

Virginia Woolf - The Waves

The inexplicable fear that surged through me at the very mention of Woolf's name has alleviated somewhat after my first foray into her works three years ago. Granted it has taken me three years to pick up another book by one of the foremost modernists, but, it was also a book I picked up while trying to return to the world of reading and literature. I expected to struggle, as I did with Mrs. Dalloway; I was prepared to lose myself in the long-windedness, the meanderings; I looked forward to being blown away and challenged, in equal measure. I was not disappointed.

That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.

The Waves is a colloquy of sorts. The interspersed monologues of six characters, through different phases of their lives is essentially the crux of the book. However, none of the words are being said out aloud; instead, it is simply the thoughts fleeting through their minds, in present tense. It starts when the six characters are children - friends - and carries on through the various phases in their life: school; marriage; children; and finally, inevitably, old age.

Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.

Yet, can you really call them characters when all that is revealed to you, as a reader, are the thoughts racing in their minds, and nothing more? And nothing less? Merely their voices, distinguishable by subtle inflexions and that's it?

The nine chapters that make up this book represent two things: the time of the day, and the stage of life the protagonists are in.

The first chapter, abundant with the voices of childhood and playfulness, is prefaced with a beautiful image of the sunrise, with the waves softly splashing. All six characters make an appearance in that first chapter, almost as though they are introducing themselves. The final chapter, carries a lot more weight, and is a lot more reflective; it is prefaced with a stunning image of the sun going down, with the waves crashing, and only has one of the characters - Bernard - reflecting and introspecting, in his old age, with the benefit of hindsight. The book does rise gradually to the crescendo that is the last chapter, for when you turn that last page, the feeling that overcomes you, as a reader, cannot be translated into words. That is the power of Woolf's writing.

Initially, it is difficult to get accustomed to the writing. The main challenge has nothing to do with the convoluted sentences that Woolf is famous for. In fact, due to the extremely lyrical writing, the temptation is almost to close your eyes, and let the words take over. The emotions evoked by the descriptive writing results in images dancing before your eyes, more overwhelming than expected. Significantly so.

The waves broke and spread their waters swiftly over the shore. One after another they massed themselves and fell; the spray tossed itself back with the energy of their fall. The waves were steeped deep-blue save for a pattern of diamond-pointed light on their backs which rippled as the backs of great horses ripple with muscles as they move. The waves fell; withdrew and fell again, like the thud of a great beast stamping.

Instead, the challenge arises from how each character is an extension of the other, such that it is almost impossible to distinguish the soliloquies of one character from the next. The shift in voice is subtle, and easy to miss, unless you take in each word - slowly, patiently.

'But when we sit together, close,' said Bernard, ‘we melt into each other with phrases. We are edged with mist. We make an unsubstantial territory.'

No, the writing does not mimic the way people speak, or the way people think. It is overtly poetic, excessively exaggerated and wonderfully evocative, but that's what ensures the connection between the reader and the character. Due to the stream-of-consciousness writing, one can be assured of the character's candour, and this in turn strengthens the bond.

There is, then, a world immune from change. But I am not composed enough, standing on tiptoe on the verge of fire, still scorched by the hot breath, afraid of the door opening and the leap of the tiger, to make even one sentence. What I say is perpetually contradicted. Each time the door opens I am interrupted. I am not yet twenty-one. I am to be broken. I am to be derided all my life. I am to be cast up and down among these men and women, with their twitching faces, with their lying tongues, like a cork on a rough sea. Like a ribbon of weed I am flung far every time the door opens. I am the foam that sweeps and fills the uttermost rims of the rocks with whiteness; I am also a girl, here in this room.

As a reader, who has undergone similar experiences, it is easy to empathise and sympathise with the characters, while simultaneously berating them or unconsciously nudging them to change their course.

This is Woolf at her most experimental, after the unfortunate demise of her brother at the age of twenty-six. The themes of absence, loss and death are prevalent in the book, with the existence of a seventh character: Percival. At no point do you hear Percival's voice, or the thoughts running in his head, yet he is a central character in the book, by virtue of the fact that he is constantly referred to by the other characters. Praise is flung at him, and the consensus amidst the six characters that you interact with through the book is that Percival is perfect, and cannot do any wrong. Initially, there are high hopes and aspirations for him, until he dies in his twenties (Percival has died (he died in Egypt; he died in Greece; all deaths are one death)). The other characters try to rationalise his death, to no avail.

And in me too the wave rises. It swells; it arches its back. I am aware once more of a new desire, something rising beneath me like the proud horse whose rider first spurs and then pulls him back. What enemy do we now perceive advancing against us, you whom I ride now, as we stand pawing this stretch of pavement? It is death. Death is the enemy. It is death against whom I ride with my spear couched and my hair flying back like a young man's, like Percival's, when he galloped in India. I strike spurs into my horse. Against you I will fling myself, unvanquished and unyielding, O Death!

I have not dwelled on the six characters whose voices make up this classic. That is almost immaterial, I feel, as I reflect on this book. They all have their place, and their importance, and the lack of even one of them would render this book slightly less impactful. The imagery, the cornucopia of metaphors, the insecurities and the accomplishments of the characters, and the lingering presence of a dear departed friend results in a book that necessitates a re-read. And another read. A single read is not enough to appreciate The Waves the Woolf has woven, at what has to be her best. It's a bold claim for someone who has simply read just one other book by her, but over the course of this year, I would like to change that. And hopefully, re-read this masterpiece someday soon.

Gabriel García Márquez - Leaf Storm

It's been just over a year since I read Of Love And Other Demons, so I figured it's time to read another book by one of my favourite authors. Well, not exactly. I had just pulled out four books from my bookshelf as I headed for a week long respite from reality, and ended up talking to one of my colleagues about the books I was taking with me. So, he mentioned that his favourite authors were Camus and Calvino (neither of which have any presence on this blog, embarrassingly - I really need to catch up on their works! I've only read the one Calvino!!). I automatically replied that Márquez is one of my favourites, and then realised that I have an unread book by him on the shelf, so surely - surely, it should travel with me. And so it did. Leaf Storm is Márquez's first published work, and it took him seven years to find a publisher for the book, before it was eventually released in 1955. While Márquez claims this is his favourite work, ambivalence floods me. I can categorically state that this isn't my favourite work by the Nobel Prize laureate. It's not even in the top three, but, the novella does still wow me. Márquez seems to have that effect on me every single time.

The entire novel is set in a single room, on one afternoon. Three voices from three generations - the Colonel, his daughter, and his grandson - take centerstage, as the Colonel attempts to keep a promise made a long time ago: give the much-disliked French doctor a Christian burial.

The doctor arrived in Macondo, a village one might know from One Hundred Years of Solitude, on the same day as the village priest, and while the latter became an influential part of the society, the doctor made himself fairly unpopular. He lived with the Colonel for eight years, and then, moved two houses down with the housemaid. Through all the time the Colonel knew him, he never knew his name.

While the premise is straightforward, and the scope of the book tightly contained, the wonder of the book lies in the stream-of-consciousness narration of the three protagonists, as they reflect on the current state of affairs, what brought them here, and how their actions here (to bury the doctor) will influence their future in a village, which once prosperous, has gone back to being poverty-stricken, after the leaf storm passed. Amidst other things, the reader is privy to the circumstances surrounding the Colonel's daughter's wedding, the thoughts of the child as he encounters death for the first time, the commitment of the Colonel, and of course, the explanation behind why the doctor is as unpopular as he is.

What was incredible was being re-introduced to the fictional village of Macondo, and Colonel Aureliano Buendía making an appearance again - even if it was only as the writer of the letter which the doctor gave the Colonel on first arriving in the village, which led to the Colonel extending an invitation to the doctor to stay at his house. There is something quite special about finding old friends in new books, and being on familiar ground. Of course, in this case, Leaf Storm is the predecessor to One Hundred Years Of Solitude, but, that's a small detail.

For me, the difficulty in this book arose while trying to figure out which character was narrating at any given point in time. For the most part, it was not that laborious, albeit at times, passages had to be re-read, in order to determine who the narrator was, and personally, I found that diminished the reading experience.

All in all though, as a one-shot, and as a first novel(la), this really must be read - specially by fans of Márquez. Have you read this novella? What did you think? And more importantly, which of Márquez's works should I read next?

John Updike - The Widows of Eastwick

Updike's Rabbit series has been on my to-read list for a very long time, so I'm not quite sure how my foray into his world started with his final book, published in 2008. And, as the blurb on the back didn't say anything about this book being a sequel of sorts to The Witches of Eastwick, which is also kind-of unfortunate for I approached this book as standalone. Which it possibly isn't. That said though, this book can easily be read in isolation. It's just that, sometimes, context is a good thing. But, anyway... The Widows of Eastwick follows three witches who used to be friends in their youth, but have since gone their own separate ways, in marriage and parenthood. However, once their husbands have died, and the children move away, the "three old ladies, gone brittle and dry in their corruption" reunite.

As widowed Americans, they travel - first it's Alexandra who goes to Canada alone, and then it's Jane and Alexandra who go to Egypt together, and finally, the coven come together with Sukie, as they travel to China. This part of the book reads more like a travel brochure than a piece of fiction, and while descriptions are normally a good thing, this was just incredibly slow-moving, and had me longing for an uptick in pace.

The wait didn't last too long, for when the witches visit the hometown they had run away from one summer, things start getting interesting. They gather that their crimes from the yesteryears would be forgotten by now, and nostalgia coupled with curiosity leads them back home. It doesn't sound plausible, but as a reader, you go with it, for you want to see why Updike is taking the witches back to the scene of their past crimes - is it atonement, or is it for the victims to exact revenge?

The homecoming isn't quite what they imagined. Eastwick has unsurprisingly changed over the years, from the fun hick place they all remember,  to a homogenised one. For the most part, they are forgotten, but they meet Christopher Gabriel, who blames the witches for the unfortunate demise of his sister - and he is looking for recrimination by casting spells on the witches using electricity. This is serious mumbo-jumbo territory. The witches look to magic, in an effort to protect themselves, but... is it too little too late?

I hate saying this, but the book really did leave a lot to be desired. None of the protagonists were in the least likeable. Forget likeable, I couldn't even relate to them at any level. The story came across as forced and instead of witchcraft, the theme seemed to be about three old ladies repenting their past - or the past they couldn't have.

From the reviews I've read, this does not sound like Updike's best work, so I suspect there will be more Updike on my reading list soon, for if nothing else, his writing is quite accessible (which surprised me). What would you recommend? And, should I go back to read about the shenanigans of the witches in their youth?

Thomas Keneally - The Tyrant's Novel

Schindler's Ark was one of those books that left me speechless; the story, the writing, the emotions it evoked. Everything, basically. A couple of months back, I picked up The Tyrant's Novel from a second-hand bookstore, just to see how it would compare to the 1982 Man Booker Prize winner. In a nutshell, this book is not a patch on Schindler's Ark. The location of the book remains ambiguous, although it's easy to reach the conclusion that the book is set in Iraq, and the dictator, referred to as Great Uncle is none other than Saddam Hussein. The reason for the ambiguity of the location and its dictator confused me. Perhaps it was down to the fact that it was a fictional novel. Or then, for the same reason as The West Wing, where Qumar is a fictional Middle-Eastern country, which represents the worst of all extremist Islamic states.

The narrator of this book, Alan Sheriff, has been commissioned by the Great Uncle to write a novel addressing the injustice of the sanctions imposed on the country by the international world. The book will be published under the name of the Great Uncle, and the objective of the book is to initiate some debates in the literary circles in the States, in order to get the G7 nations to re-think their stance. The deadline imposed to Sheriff is nothing short of unrealistic (one month), and as this narrative within a narrative progresses, one just gets the feeling that the novel leaves a fair bit to be desired.

At the very outset, Sheriff, who is narrating his story, says that this is the saddest and silliest story you will ever hear. The tinge of self-deprecation coupled with the curiosity it arouses is a great way to start the story. It immediately draws the reader in. In a way, it's a tall order - recanting a story that's both, the "silliest" and the "saddest". But then, despite being set in the Middle-East, all the characters have Western names, which is, in a way, inexplicable. The author, through his protagonist, does attempt to justify this, but it's an unconvincing argument.

"I would very much like to be the man you meet in the street. A man with a name like Alan. If we all had good Anglo-Saxon names...or if we were not, God help us, Said and Osmaa and Saleh. If we had Mac instead of Ibn."

Is there really that much to a name? Would it make a difference if Saddam had a different name? Or Osama? Would their crimes be considered any less trivial? Would their fates end differently? All rhetorical questions.

I digress... Back to the story:

The deadline imposed on Sheriff has been done so at a time when he's suffering from a serious writer's block. His wife is recently deceased, and all the materials for his second book have been laid to rest with his wife. He doesn't really have much to go on for this novel that he's been commissioned to write. And, if not written by deadline day... well, we all know how that story ends.

The emphasis seems to be on how completely powerless and helpless Sheriff is, as the powers that be seem against him. To quote Mark Twain, at this point:

There are many scapegoats for our sins, but the most popular is Providence.

And he's just one man trying to make sense of his reality. As are probably very many other men living in that dictatorship, as they desperately try to figure out their lives, and strike a balance between their personal demons (griefs) and the political terror that haunts them every waking minute. It's not a life I would care for, needless to say.

Sheriff's story is fascinating; specially as he talks about how he ended up at the asylum, which is where he's sitting as he tells his story. But, even as he ends his story, it doesn't change the world. All said and done, it doesn't really matter. In the grand scheme of things, it's fairly insignificant. But despite that, it's a story that needs an audience, and it's a story that's worth listening to. In a world where we take freedom for granted, and our fundamental rights are something we can't live without, this story serves as a reminder that even now - even in the twenty-first century - history is being made, and we haven't really moved on from dictatorships of the past.

I do want to read more works by Thomas Keneally, but I'm not quite sure where to go next. Any recommendations?

Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

I'm not quite sure where to begin, but after finishing a Murakami novel, that's not altogether too surprising. The Wind Up Bird Chronicle is oft' touted as Murakami's best and most notable work, and that's what I was hoping for - to be completely blown away. And yet, despite the book being bizarre and ambitious in equal measure, I was left disappointed. The book starts out with Toru, the protagonist, looking for a cat adopted by him and his wife, that's gone missing. Toru has quit his job, has no real ambition, and is just drifting through life, trying to figure out what is it he wants to do, while his wife brings home the money.

When the initial search for the cat is fruitless, he ventures further out to the "alley", and ends up meeting a high-school dropout, May Kasahara. His relationship with May evolves, and is almost bordering on pedophiliac. Still no luck finding the cat, so, he ropes in Malta and Creta Kano - the two psychic sisters, both of whom have interesting life stories, and end up visiting Toru in his dreams, as well as in reality.

And then, as things go, his wife leaves home for work one day, but never returns. In due course, our protagonist discovers that she's left him, without  a word. As one does. And then, a sequence of extraordinary events, and interactions with fascinating characters sees his life spin (or should I say, tailspin?) out of control, where he's no longer the master of his own destiny; instead, he's struggling to figure out what on earth's going on.

There's the experiences as he sits in solitude at the bottom of the dry well, and then there's the mysterious phone calls; the dreams which aren't really dreams, and the reality that's a tad distorted. All of it is a bit confusing - I'm all for magical realism, but this is just a little too over the top; a little too cryptic.

The book does cover a lot - from World War II, and the story of the solider and the spy, which had me absolutely gripped, to World War II, and the story of the animals that were heartlessly massacred, which had me depressed and lamenting.

'The officer gave his order, and the bullets from the Model 38 rifles ripped through the smooth hide of a tiger, tearing at the animal's guts. The summer sky was blue, and from the surrounding trees the screams of cicadas rained down like a sudden shower.''

It has the obligatory contemporary political slant, which most books by Murakami (that I've read) touch upon, if not focus on. And, again, as expected, there's romance that fades away; and female characters all carrying way too much baggage. Add on strange names for some of the characters (Cinnamon and Nutmeg), and even stranger life stories, and it's all Murakami.

The thing is, I just really struggled to comprehend what was going on, and why. And then it all fizzled out, and became even more ambiguous and abstract - the second half of the book, that is. Normally, I love ambiguity and magical realism, but here, it just didn't "fit", I thought. Sometimes, it be that way. All the more disappointing, as I was glued to the first third/half of the book.

Have you read this much-acclaimed book? Were you as underwhelmed as I am, or is it just me?

Vladimir Nabokov - Laughter In The Dark

Congratulate me, for I've finished my first Nabokov. Some four years back, I attempted to read the much acclaimed Lolita, but failed to finish it for it was way too disturbing. I must give it another try. My second foray into Nabokov's world was far more successful though. Not only did I race through the book, but I was absolutely floored by so many aspects of it, that I don't even know where to start.

The story is quite simple. Albinus, a wealthy man, decides to give up his family for Margot, a precocious manipulative teenager who is an aspiring actress. Completely smitten by her, he moves in with her, in an apartment he sorted out for her, while she works towards her end-game: ensuring his riches are hers, or using him to progress her non-existent acting career. The opening lines pretty much sum up the book:

Once upon a time there lived in Berlin, Germany, a man called Albinus. He was rich, respectable, happy; one day he abandoned his wife for the sake of a youthful mistress; he loved; was not loved; and his life ended in disaster.

Albinus comes across as a really nice man, adultery and abandoning his family aside. He's innocent, naive and just... wrapped around Margot's little finger. The way his relationship with his wife just fizzles out is...lamentable, really. It's not very often when one finds themselves sympathising with the adulterer, but in Laughter In The Dark, one is compelled to - it's not like there is an alternative. He has no backbone, he has no say, and he's like a little puppy - eager to please.

On the other hand, Margot comes across as a little devil. Accustomed to getting her own way at every turn, and ensuring that Albinus is willing to jump through hoops to please her, she milks the situation to the fullest. She really is despicable, and her child-like personality and selfishness is both, cringeworthy and horrific. With each page read, Margot just becomes more and more reprehensible.

The beauty though lies in Nabokov's writing - despite being a Russian author*, the translation is easy to read, but so beautifully poignant. To tell such a tragic story, with a tinge of humour, and no pity or heartache is quite impressive.

A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish - but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence.

I enjoyed this book tremendously, and despite the fact that the subject was slightly disturbing, I was completely enthralled. On finishing this, I'd like to read all of Nabokov's works (in good time), specially when I read some other thoughts on the book, and they inform me that it's not one of his best.

*In my world, Russian authors are near impossible to read, and completing a book by one of them feels like a great accomplishment.

Angela Carter - Nights At The Circus

When you start a book by Angela Carter, there's only one thing that's certain: you have no idea what you're in for; nothing's too crazy, nothing's too bizarre. And of course, that's why you love Angela Carter. Okay, scratch that. That's why I love Angela Carter. A story partly inspired by the myth of Leda and the swan, Nights at the Circus is a dazzling story about Fevvers, the winged aerialiste, who's bamboozled the world, and has everyone questioning if the wings are real, or a mere trick.

The story starts in London in 1899, in Fevver's dressing room, where Jack Walser - an experienced journalist - is interviewing Fevvers. As she recounts the story of her life - being born (or hatched from an egg), abandoned by her real parents; and brought up in a brothel, having an ordinary childhood, her wings sprouting as she hit puberty - Walser is enamoured, as is the reader. However, every now and again, an element of doubt creeps in: how much of this story is fabricated, how much is real?

As she continues her tale, of how she ended up at the circus, as an aerialiste, she weaves a magic tale, which is totally unbelievable but still makes you wonder... could it be?! Walser, still in search of the truth, at the end of the first section, decides to go undercover, and join the circus act as a clown.

The grand imperial tour takes the protagonists to Petersburg, where the action actually commences, as opposed to London, where it was almost like a long monologue from Fevvers, with very few interruptions from Lizzie (her adoptive mother) and Jack. In Petersburg though, the story becomes downright incredulous (yes, even more incredulous than the first bit!). The tale that Carter weaves, the imagery it evokes, the scenes from the circus act that are detailed - it's all breathtaking.

Outside the window, there slides past that unimaginable and deserted vastness where night is coming on, the sun declining in ghastly blood-streaked splendour like a public execution across, it would seem, half a continent, where live only bears and shooting stars and the wolves who lap congealing ice from water that holds within it the entire sky. All white with snow as if under dustsheets, as if laid away eternally as soon as brought back from the shop, never to be used or touched. Horrors! And, as on a cyclorama, this unnatural spectacle rolls past at twenty-odd miles an hour in a tidy frame of lace curtains only a little the worse for soot and drapes of a heavy velvet of dark, dusty blue.

...And then there's the characterisation; rich characters, with colourful histories and overwhelming personalities. Take Mignon, for example:

She had the febrile gaiety of a being without a past, without a present, yet she existed thus, without memory or history, only because her past was too bleak to think of and her future too terrible to contemplate; she was the broken blossom of the present tense.

In the world of Angela Carter though, her luck does take a turn for the better, and one does believe that there can be happy endings. At least, for a few moments. But as we continue in the surrealistic world so artfully conjured up (am I gushing?), a tiger must be shot, a murder attempt is made during an act, and Fevvers continues to astound everyone (and eventually get herself in trouble), while Wolser is no closer to determining the veracity of her story.

As the show wraps up in Petersburg, and moves on to the bleak forests of Siberia, the narrative continues in its bizarre vein, where a railroad "accident" caused by the outlaws has resulted in memory-loss striking a chief character, the circus disintegrating, but the protagonists looking forward to the turn of the century as a sign of hope, and new things to come. It's that last line though, that confuses the living daylights out of me, and makes me re-question everything I've read in the book. I read this book about a month back, but the mind still boggles; the implications are still hazy.

Magical realism at its best, the strong female characters - an anomaly in the nineteenth century, the sexuality and the sheer madness of it all is fantastic. You question everything, deliberate on each sentence, try sizing up the characters, but there is no stereotyping them. It's a parody on all the fairy-tales you know and love; it's inspired by all the myths that don't add up, but still exist in our world; it's just - Angela Carter.

So, if you enjoy a foray into the world of surrealism and magical realism, and want to be completely blown away, give this a go!

Jane Austen - Northanger Abbey

Despite being the first novel that Austen started writing, Northanger Abbey was only published posthumously. It's the second book by the much-acclaimed author that I have finished, and while I thought Pride & Prejudice was significantly more enjoyable, this book was quite readable as well. I concede that readable isn't a very encouraging adjective for a book, and despite the fact that I've only read glowing reviews of this online, I've unfortunately not been swept away.

This book is meant to be a social satire on life in the nineteenth century, where money, marriage and dance partners were all people thought about. In that world, we meet Catherine Morland, a seventeen year old, naive and romantic and more than a little innocent; a most unsuspecting heroine, really, as Austen declares at the very outset:

No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be a heroine.

She loves her gothic literature (who doesn't?) and is bestowed with the questionable gift of an overactive imagination. So, when her family friends take her with them to Bath for six weeks or so, to enjoy a holiday, go to some balls, and potentially, meet a dashing young man, she immediately befriends Isabella Thorpe, a fellow book lover.

[I]f a rainy morning deprived them of other enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; -- for I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding -- joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the Reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. [...]

So imagine her happiness when she realises that her own brother is quite fond of Ms. Thorpe, that he comes down to Bath to visit her. Their friendship grows thus, as does the romance between her brother and Isabella. But when she's introduced to Isabella's brother, who she finds quite boring compared to the indelible Mr. Henry Tilney, she finds herself in a bit of an awkward position. The brother and sister duo keep trying to manipulate her and her position with the Tilneys (i.e. Mr. Tilney and his sister), but at that point, we see Catherine standing up for what she believes in, and not giving in to peer pressure - the first time her character actually shines through.

There is banter between Mr. Tilney and our young innocent heroine, which is amusing, entertaining, and completely valid. For instance, I did actually chuckle while reading the below.

“Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement – people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.”

The Tilneys take to Catherine as well (after all, she is our heroine), and invite her to visit them at Northanger Abbey which is where the last third or so of the book takes place. Northanger Abbey is the kind of place "you read about", rich in Gothic ornaments. Getting carried away in the breathtaking Abbey, and blurring the lines between fact and fiction, Catherine jumps to a conclusion about events that have taken place in the days gone by at the Abbey, and when she's made aware of her naivety and stupidity, it's Henry's character's turn to shine through.

It's really bizarre how quickly people are jumping to conclusions in the book, and the number of judgment calls that go wrong. It's the shallowness and superficiality of the characters that are quite disturbing, and in a world where everyone has an end-game, Catherine's innocence and Henry's class (for lack of better words) stand out. The pompousness of some people, and the selfishness of others just leaves me feeling quite uncomfortable - it's like... seriously, life's too short! The sad thing is, even today, people are that shallow and selfish, and you just have to weed them out in order to find the people who are actually good.

The writing style, itself, is not a patch on Pride and Prejudice, but that's quite understandable, considering that this was the first book that Austen started. The dialog isn't as fluent or as romantic, and it didn't leave me all wistful - mostly a result of Catherine not being that strong a character, compared to Elizabeth Bennett. There's also large chunks where Austen seems to be addressing the reader, directly - possibly in a slight tongue-in-cheek voice. While a clever device, specially in a satire (which this was), it just didn't work for me, which was unfortunate. I guess once I read her other works, I should come back to this, and then evaluate it against those.

The next Austen on my list is Persuasion. A lot of Austen fans suggest that it's their favourite book by her, but considering how widely different I found this to Pride and Prejudice, I'm not quite sure as to what to expect with Persuasion. I guess that's part of the Austen charm. Which is your favourite Austen?