J.K. Rowling - Harry Potter and the Cursed Child

I'm a self-confessed Potterhead. I've lost count of how many times I've read the books, heard the audio books (narrated by Stephen Fry), and even watched the movies despite hating them. I've been wary of Pottermore, and the stuff that's continuously churned out, but hey – more Harry Potter's a Good Thing, right? So, I went to the midnight launch yesterday (today?), and got the book, and obviously, the Decent Thing to do in that case is to finish the book straightaway. And, I did.

Note: spoilers ahead. Many spoilers ahead.

I was left confused and unimpressed. And no, this wasn't because it was written in a play format (more on that later).

The plot was easy. Uncreative. Almost like fan fiction, where you roll your eyes, but keep reading anyway, because hey – more Harry Potter.

Harry and Hermione hold high positions in the Ministry of Magic, and are still married to Ginny and Ron respectively. Their kids go to Hogwarts, as does Draco's son: Scorpius. Scorpius is widely believed to be the offspring of Voldemort himself, and hence, there's stigma against him.

Against all odds (or maybe not), Harry's son, Albus Severus Potter, gets sorted into Slytherin and befriends Scorpius, and the duo don't have any other friends. The other kids (Hermione and Ron's daughter: Rose, and Harry and Ginny's other two kids: James and Lily) don't make much of an appearance.

So, two kids are left to themselves (Scorpius because of the rumour about his parentage and Albus because he's not naturally talented or charismatic; he's called the "Slytherin Squib" early in his Hogwarts life). Further, as Albus doesn't really settle into Hogwarts life and has a massive inferiority complex, his relationship with his father is strained. In contrast, Draco and Scorpius are very close, and you can see Draco adopting the parent-of-the-year role, when he reaches out to Harry to quash rumours about his son's parentage or when he threatens Harry due to how events unfold. This Draco is almost likeable compared to Harry.

The years come and go, and somewhere in the middle of his Hogwarts life, he overhears his father talking to Amos Diggory (Cedric's father) about using a time-turner to go back in time to ensure that The Dark Lord didn't kill Cedric. Yes, even I thought that all the time-turners had been rendered useless in the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, but a new version had been created by Death Eaters, and confiscated by the Ministry.

And so, Albus decides that he must be the one that undoes Cedric's death, by getting the time-turner and going back in time. Scorpius and a new character, Delphi, join him on this adventure. At one point, there's that sense of deja vu, when they take Polyjuice potion to enter the Ministry. You can see where this is going: multiple alternate universes unfold, including one where Harry dies in the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort takes over, and Hermione is on the most-wanted list. All this because Neville was killed, and consequently, no one killed Nagini. At each point, the trio keep going back in time again to fix their previous mess.

For me, the plot seems absurd: would an untalented wizard who couldn't even pull off the Expelliarmus spell really go back in time to change history? Or, was he just that foolish and naive? Perhaps I'm being harsh? Maybe he just thought that those are the lengths a son will go through to gain acceptance from his father: the famous, never-wrong, always-courageous Harry Potter?

Harry and Albus are both quite unlikeable in this book.

Harry strongarms Professor McGonagall (who's still a great character) into spying on his son using the Maraduer's Map to ensure that Scorpius and Albus don't hang out. His rationale: Bain, the centaur, told him a dark cloud was looming over his son, and he assumes that it has to be Scorpius. For me, that goes against everything the first seven books taught Harry: that look beneath the surface. It's hard to believe that after everything – after Snape – he still jumps to conclusions. And, that Ginny doesn't have enough influence to change his mind. Maybe being a protective father means that you can't see clearly when it comes to your own son, and hence make rash decisions and are downright obnoxious to professors like McGonagall?

Albus, on the other hand, well: you can see why the Sorting House put him in Slytherin: ambition. At least he doesn't turn out to be evil?

Scorpius, on the other hand, is a pretty good character: the anti-Draco if you will (but for one of the alternate universes where he's called The Scorpion King). He's faithful, nerdy (like Hermione), and courageous. Here, I'm admittedly nitpicking, but wouldn't it be really nice if he had Neville's "will stand up to friends" attitude?

The book, winding through multiple alternate realities, is more a testament to how perfectly the events unfolded in the original series. It goes to show that it was the only way in which a happy ending could have occurred.

But, creating time-turners again, to just keep going back in time, as the main premise is weak and unimaginative. And, the way the ending unfolds, is incredibly disappointing, if I compare it to the original series of seven.

Here's the problem: this is written as a play, which means that a lot of the detailed, descriptive and imaginative writing has to be forfeited, and new concepts (or magic) cannot be introduced. And, hence, the plot feels dumbed down. But even so, think back to the Philosopher's Stone – the first book, the leanest book. The ending was so vivid, and definitely not dumb: the chess game, the flying keys, the three-headed dog.

Also, a lot of the typical favorites get what seems to be an obligatory nod: Dumbledore, Snape, Petunia. But, what about Ron and Ginny's other siblings: nothing about George? And, nothing about why Ron is running the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes? Not even a mention? And, nothing about Tonks and Lupin's kid? No house elves? And no Trelawney (although there's another prophecy? But where does this prophecy come from? Or rather, from whom?).

Again, I appreciate that it's a play so it needs to be simplified, but, in my opinion, this is just capitalizing on the Harry Potter brand, without giving the fans a story that is worth resuscitating the brand for.

And, as a Potterhead, that disappoints me.

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?” 

François Bizot - The Gate

I visited Cambodia in September 2013, and prior to the trip, I purchased Bizot's memoir detailing his days in Cambodia during the Khmer Rouge. While I didn't have the time to read the book before landing in the Cambodian capital, I did visit the Killing Fields and the Museum of Genocide. Both left me speechless, and sick to my stomach. The tour of the Killing Fields was particularly haunting. Pits were cordoned off, and the audio guides told us what was discovered in each of these pits. Mostly corpses, unsurprisingly. However, the Killing Tree was marked as well - the tree against which the heads of babies and children were smashed, before being tossed into the nearby pit. People do that? Kill innocent babies, who under no circumstance could be CIA agents? The xenophobia and irrational spirit of nationalism resulted in the internal conflict, driven by the Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot. Over twenty thousand people died. My camera was clutched in my hand, but I couldn't bring myself to take any photographs. I just listened to the audio guide, and read the text. Months later, I still remember it all. Months later, I remain despondent that the main perpetrators are still awaiting trial. Pol Pot is dead; I suppose we can all find some solace in that. This is me, as a visitor, seeing things at the very surface. The audio guides prompted us to put ourselves in the shoes of the prisoners, and it remains something beyond the scope of my imagination. Even my worst nightmare isn't horrific enough. Bizot's memoir details him actually living through that nightmare, after a sequence of unreal, unfortunate events. An ethnologist drawn to Cambodia by the mysteries of the Far East, Bizot was imprisoned on suspicion that he was a CIA agent impersonating as an academic. While there was no concrete evidence to even suggest that this was the case, he was kept captive for approximately three months, while the powers that be tried finding the relevant evidence. Duch, an officer in the Khmer hierarchy, responsible for "overseeing the systematic torture of 15,000 prisoners," questioned (and over the course of the questioning, befriended) Bizot daily, trying to determine his innocence, and subsequent release. During this period, Bizot was given special treatment, compared to the rest of the prisoners, and yet, he witnessed all the atrocities. And yet, years later, at Duch goes on trial, Bizot still empathises with his friend, who ensured Bizot's freedom.

Eventually, he was released, and found himself as a translator at the French embassy. The scenes that follow depict the pandemonium as people tried to get out of the country, with or without their families, as the massacres increased exponentially. Bizot's own daughter was safe, but as a reader, we're never given any insight into what happened to his Cambodian wife. Yet, the hands of the French were tied, as they weren't allowed to provide asylum to the locals. The Khmer Rule had made that abundantly clear, including storming into the Embassy with guns, and shutting down their communications with France. Even members of Cambodian royalty aren't exempt from the rules. Nor women with babies, who try to fling their babies over the gates of the embassy, just so that the babies might have a chance at a future.

Through time, people have turned a blind eye to the genocide in Cambodia. The opening chapter of the book, where Bizot describes Cambodia prior to the Khmer era, is poetic. It started as an ode to a beautiful idyll-like country cherishing peace, which one can imagine with a tinge of lament. It's always a shame when peace and tranquility descends into oppression and hatred, in the hands of dictators like Pol Pot. The title of the book refers to the gate of the French embassy, which once, of such importance, now has a diminutive stature in the eyes of the author, as he looks back in anger upon the events that unfolded.

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!

Albert Camus - A Happy Death

The title, a contradiction in terms, was the first novel written by Camus, when he was in his mid-twenties. However, it was only published post-humously, and is considered to be a precursor to Camus' more widely-acclaimed The Stranger(also known as The Outsider, to obfuscate matters). It has been a long time since I've read The Stranger, and the details are a bit sketchy, so I shall refrain from comparing the two books, but instead focus solely on this one, which Camus never intended to publish. This book does not read in chronological order; in the opening chapter, the protagonist Mersault murders a man in a wheelchair, and steals his fortune. The crime is committed in seemingly cold blood, and as Mersault leaves the man's house, clinging to his newfound fortunes, the environs is detailed.

Millions of tiny white smiles thronged down from the blue sky. They played over the leaves still cupping the rain, over the damp earth of the paths, soared to the blood-red tile roofs, then back in the lakes of air and light from which they had overflowed. A tiny plane hummed its way across the sky. In this flowering of air, this fertility of the heavens, it seemed as if a man's one duty was to live and be happy. 

The means justify the end, is the stance that Camus takes. Kant's deontological premise that the motivation or will behind a person's action drives whether an action is morally good or not, does open up a plethora of interesting questions. What motivated Mersault to kill Zagreus? While the above verbatim snippet represents sheer hedonism, as one reads on, the conclusion drawn drifts from the original opinion formed. In a philosophical conversation, the victim told the murderer:

"You see, Mersault, for a man who is well born, being happy is never complicated. It's enough to take up the general fate, only not with the will for renunciation like so many fake great men, but with the will for happiness. Only it takes time to be happy. A lot of time. Happiness, too, is a long patience. And in almost every case, we use up our lives making money, when we should be using our money to gain time."

It was in that conversation that Zagreus revealed that he was tempted to take his own life, and he had built his fortunes prior to the accident that led to him being a double leg amputee. He conceded that in his present state, he did not have a shot at happiness, but as long as Mersault wasn't weighed down with monetary obligations and necessities, Mersault should undertake the quest for happiness. Could one almost look at this as a case of assisted suicide? Or, considering Zagreus was physically capable of taking a gun to his own head, but emotionally not, this was plain simple murder. Mersault does walk scott-free though. No ramifications, no repercussions.

Mersault's quest for happiness is not smooth-sailing though. He travels through Europe, visits old friends, gets married to a woman he does not love, and buys a house in the country. For a long time, through his journey, his conscience pricks him, and he is unable to truly indulge in epicureanism. Yet, eventually, while consciously  attempting to create happiness, it dawns unto him:

He realized now that to be afraid of this death he was staring at with animal terror meant to be afraid of life. Fear of dying justified a limitless attachment to what is alive in man. And all those who had not made the gestures necessary to live their lives, all those who feared and exalted impotence—they were afraid of death because of the sanction it gave to a life in which they had not been involved. They had not lived enough, never having lived at all.

I was intrigued and fascinated by the first half of this extremely short book. While some threads (how Zagreus and Mersault met) came across as far-fetched, the character developments, and the conversations between the two were mind-blowing. Mersault is the antihero who is not really likeable. Through the book, it is impossible to sympathise or empathise with him, and when as the end of the book approaches, as a reader, I almost hoped for an ironic ending, which did not tally with the title.

The second half of the book I struggled through. His friends and his wife were not memorable, and their characters fizzled out as quickly as they emerged. Their lives bordered on mere fatuousness, and were abundant with selfishness (as Comte would define it, not Rand). Existentialism is at the crux of the novel, and yet, the emphasis on living in a meaningless world, and seeking out happiness at any cost, just leaves one contemplating humanity. Not in a good way.

Daphne du Maurier – The Doll: Short Stories

I've oft' made a generic sweeping statement on here about how I am not a big fan of short stories. There have been collections that I've enjoyed, and there have been collections that I've struggled through. Daphne Du Maurier's The Doll: Short Stories falls somewhere in-between. All the stories in this collection, but one, were written in between 1926 and 1936, and are amidst Du Maurier's earliest works. The last story, The Limpet, was written in 1959. There is a common theme that binds all the stories together; whilst the first two stories would nudge one to think the theme is macabre, it is more about unproportionate(?) love. One character inevitably loves the partner more than the partner loves them. It's not quite unrequited, because at the very inception of their relationships, the characters are optimistic about the longevity of their propinquity. However, through twists and turns, it turns out that happy endings are just not meant to be.

Du Maurier's talent lies in creating an atmosphere so real and captivating that the reader is unable to turn away. On that front, this anthology does not disappoint. However, with the opening two stories, East Wind and The Doll, I found the climax leaving much to be desired. I don't believe that I am worthy of criticising Du Maurier's work, but simultaneously, this blog is just the idle naïve reflections of me walking in a literary wonderland, and I fully acknowledge that.

In East Wind, Du Maurier narrates the story of a idyll-like island with a population of merely seventy, which some nomadic sailors visit one day, and make merry with the islanders. However, all is not well when one of the inhabitants stumbles into infidelity with one of the newcomers, resulting in a horrific yet inevitable ending. My main gripe with short stories has always been that the ending is not natural, but forced upon the reader, and this story was no exception.

The Doll, on the other hand, had an air of wistfulness to it. The protagonist was called Rebecca, and for half a second, I did wonder if this was a pre-Manderley foray into the world of Rebecca. It wasn't. I loved how the story was told - just a verbatim recount from pages of a pocket notebook washed ashore. Yes, it is a device used by short-story tellers again and again, and yet, each time, there is a charm to it. The story, itself though, had me baffled, for it was about a man who falls hopelessly in love with a Hungarian girl, Rebecca. However, she is unable to reciprocate the love, and I was unable to make out whether she was holding back, or just did not reciprocate. Yet, it turned out that she had a life-size doll, who she would rather love. Baffling, as I said. I couldn't quite make out if it was a pathetic fallacy, or well, I'm not quite sure what. 

AndNow To God The Fatherand The Limpetboth had protagonists that were holier-than-thou, and manipulated people around them so easily, yet with such little self-awareness or guilt. In the former, the much-loved vicar turned out to be selfish beyond reason, whereas in the latter, the protagonist thought she was helping the people she was manipulating, in a manner so hypocritical that I did wonder whether I should be giving her the benefit of the doubt. I think And Now To God The Father remains my favourite story in the book, simply because it goes to show that redemption is a myth, and people only care about themselves. Such is reality.

A Difference In Temperament, Nothing Hurts For Long, And His Letters Grew Colder, andWeek-End are all stories tracing disproportionate love. Or rather, the characters unable to express themselves, resulting in them drifting away. The initial sanguineness descends to separation, and at least in the first of the three stories, it is simply because none of the two protagonists are able to express themselves to one another. These stories didn't really speak to me, and I was left feeling quite indifferent towards the characters and whatever fate had in store for them. If things didn't quite work out for them, I almost felt as though it's because they deserved nothing better. Or maybe, well, the characters did actually deserve one another.

Frustration reminded me of O Henry's The Gift of the Magi. A boy, a girl, in love, and trying to make it on their own with no money, but still content as they have one another, and that helps them make the best of a bad situation. Yet, I wonder if it's the title of this story that reduced its impact significantly. The Gift of the Magi is such a wonderful story, in that the ending is not surprising in the least, but the sweetness that lingers at the end makes it a classic. Yet, one simply cannot say the same thing about Du Maurier's short story.

Piccadillyand Mazie both follow the same character, Mazie. Now, Alice Munro works wonders providing glimpses into characters at different points in their lives through her short stories, but with these two stories, Du Maurier weaves a magical tale as well. Piccadillyis the story of Mazie before she turns to prostitution as a profession, whereas Mazie is a peephole into her life as a prostitute, and both are incredibly well-written. The last line of Piccadilly had me absolutely dumbstruck, for it was so powerful yet so simple. I'd quote it here, but I wouldn't want to ruin it for anyone who wants to read this collection. It's marvellous though, it really is, and just for the subtlety yet impact of that last line, I remain in awe.

Tame Cat had me feel quite queasy, for the character being referred to as the tame cat wasn't really tame, and... It's a coming-of-age story of a young girl, who goes back home for Christmas break, to spend the holidays with her mother and "Uncle John" (i.e. Tame Cat). She goes back home, with high aspirations, looking all grown-up, quite sure that her mother would be proud of her, but her mother is not happy with the girl she sees get off the train. Yet, "Uncle John" is. You can tell how this story goes, and well - the naiveté of the girl coupled with the wickedness of "Tame Cat" just... Words do fail me.

And finally, you have The Happy Valley, which again sets a fantastic scene. The valley, the search for a dream home, a confused young protagonist with a history of illness, and just some surreal visions. Again, there was something Manderlay-esque about this story, but I cannot quite pinpoint what.

The stories were written very early in Du Maurier's writing career, and they don't hold a candle to her later works. They are the setting stones for something far more spectacular, but they don't blow one's mind as they stand. Perhaps there is a reason why some of these stories were only recently discovered, some seventy years after Du Maurier had written them. I would like to read her later short stories, and compare, but for now, I must finish all her novels. That is essential.

George Orwell - Down and Out in Paris & London

Let's defy convention for  a second, and instead of quoting the opening lines of this fantastic classic, below are the closing lines:

I can point to one or two things I have definitely learned by being hard up. I shall never again think that all tramps are drunken scoundrels, nor expect a beggar to be grateful when I give him a penny, nor be surprised if men out of work lack energy, nor subscribe to the Salvation Army, nor pawn my clothes, nor refuse a handbill, nor enjoy a meal at a smart restaurant. This is a beginning.

It's the last sentence in this vibrant yet bleak book that makes one want to go back and re-read it straight away. This is my second read of the book, and I was as mesmerised with Orwell's tales residing in the slums of Paris and London now, as I was then, some ten years ago.

It is difficult for me to pen down my thoughts on this book. Maybe start with the cover of my edition - it's incredibly simple, yet eye-catching. If I were to judge this book by its cover, I would say it's unpretentious, unapologetic, and is quite "black and white" (literally speaking). The contents are true to the cover - at least of the edition I am lucky enough to have on my shelf.

Paris, the most romantic city in the world, nicknamed the city of lights, unsurprisingly has a dark underbelly. Romanticism is abandoned as Orwell chronicles his time in Paris in the 1920s, spent completely broke in fairly squalid quarters. To get by, for some bread, wine and tobacco, Orwell worked some fairly grim jobs, which introduced him to a multitude of fascinating characters. The restaurant scene was buzzing in the city, and there were jobs available, but nothing to really write home about. Plenty to write a novel about though, littered with introspective and retrospective thoughts.

A plongeur is a slave, and a wasted slave, doing stupid and largely unnecessary work. He is kept at work, ultimately, because of a vague feeling that he would be dangerous if he had leisure. And educated people, who should be on his side, acquiesce in the process, because they know nothing about him and consequently are afraid of him.

Scammers, foreigners, war heroes, and eccentric neighbours all made multiple appearances as Orwell traipsed through Paris, fatigued and sleep-deprived, constantly being conned out of money, with most of his earthly possessions pawned.

It is a feeling of relief, almost of pleasure, at knowing yourself at last genuinely down and out. You have talked so often of going to the dogs - and well, here are the dogs, and you have reached them, and you can stand it. It takes off a lot of anxiety.

When he finally hits rock bottom, he sends a note to a friend in London, trying to see if life in London would improve. The friend suggested a job which seemed as an improvement, but Lady Luck was not smiling down on Orwell at the time, and by the time he got to London, the job was no longer available. History was about to repeat itself, as Orwell tried to navigate a very expensive city with no money, and few friends.

It (London) was the land of the tea urn and the Labour Exchange, as Paris is the land of the bistro and the sweatshop.

He slept in skipes, cheap skanky lodging houses, and Salvation Army shelters. For some of these places, you had to hand over all your money before you were allowed to enter; at others, you handed over all your tobacco. Unlike Paris, one couldn't sit on a bench in London lest the police arrested the offender for loafing around. Amidst other things, Orwell joined a bunch of ungrateful tramps in prayer for a cup of tea and a bun, he conversed at length with an amateur artist, and walked through the city waiting for shelters to open. One of the more thought-provoking sentences in the book was, in fact, mentioned by the amateur artist:

The stars are a free show; it don’t cost anything to use your eyes.

It is an amazing thought - simple yet evocative. Orwell even contemplates on the nature of jobs, and why the world sneers at beggars.

Beggars do not work, it is said; but then, what is work? A navvy works by swinging a pick. An accountant works by adding up figures. A beggar works by standing out of doors in all weathers and getting varicose veins, bronchitis etc. It is a trade like any other; quite useless, of course — but, then, many reputable trades are quite useless.

It is hard to dismiss poverty and beggars considering the amount they pay in suffering. Orwell, throughout the book, remains mostly conscientious and honest, as do a lot of the people he interacts with. He does not apologise for his situation, nor does he make any excuses for it. Orwell's claim to fame wasn't posthumous like Van Gogh's. Yet, when one considers how "down and out" Orwell was, and where he got to, and some of the books he churned out, one cannot help but be blown away. I say "one" in an abstract third-person kind-of way, but the previous sentence is meant to reflect what I think. I am absolutely blown away, for the second time, with this fantastic work of non-fiction.

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?

Jeannette Walls - The Glass Castle

I think sometimes people get the lives they want. This is a rather unflinching nonfictional memoir, in which Walls traverses her childhood days. For the most part, the book focuses on her parents, who were ill-equipped to raise children in the real world. Yet, it's the affection and lack of judgement leaping off the pages, that makes this book incredibly endearing.

In the opening paragraph, Walls is in a taxi in New York City, and she notices a woman scavenging a garbage bin, only to realise it's her own mother.

Once the present has been asserted, the trip down memory lane begins.

Walls' childhood isn't one most of us can imagine, and it is difficult to not to judge her parents. By the time she's four, her family's moved some eleven times, for a myriad of reasons and whims.

Her father, Rex, is an intelligent man, who's spent a fair bit of time educating the kids, to ensure that they're well ahead of other kids their own age. However, "a drinking situation" and the inability to keep a job means that money is always a problem.

Her mother, Rose, on the other hand, is a painter, and possibly one of the most self-involved and deluded mothers you'll come across. A self-proclaimed 'excitement addict', Rose doesn't really seem to care about anyone but herself.

“Mom told us we would have to go shoplifting.

Isn't that a sin?" I asked Mom.

Not exactly," Mom said. "God doesn't mind you bending the rules a little if you have a good reason. It's sort of like justifiable homicide. This is justifiable pilfering.”

A self-proclaimed 'sugar addict', Rose hid a king-sized bar of Hersheys in her bed, for herself, even though the kids had nothing to eat, and were scavenging for food in the school trash.

“Why spend the afternoon making a meal that will be gone in an hour," she'd ask us, "when in the same amount of time, I can do a painting that will last forever?”

The "let it be" ideas that Rex and Rose harboured about parenthood was, in a conventional sense, far from ideal. Not only were they constantly moving cities, on the whims of Rex (or when his creditors were chasing him), but each traumatic experience that the children experienced was dismissed as mandatory lessons.

“Life is a drama full of tragedy and comedy," Mom told me. "You should learn to enjoy the comic episodes a little more.”

When Jeannette managed to burn herself at the age of three, and required skin grafts, her father bailed her out from the hospital, because he doesn't like the bandages, against medical advice. Later, when they were moving cities in the old car, their cat was thrown out of the window by her father. At another point, Jeannette herself was hurled out of the car, and had to wait for a few hours before her parents picked her up again. And then, when her grandmother molested her brother, Rex sides with his mother.

Christmas is always an interesting time, as it's celebrated a few days later, to allow the family to get second-hand wrapping paper and presents. One Christmas though, money is tight, and Rex takes the children outside, and asks them to pick a star, for he knows a fair bit about astronomy - which they all do, but Jeannette who picks Venus. That's their Christmas present.

We laughed about all the kids who believed in the Santa myth and got nothing for Christmas but a bunch of cheap plastic toys. "Years from now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten," Dad said, "you'll still have your stars.”

In West Virginia, they buy a "house" which is where Rex intends to the build "the glass castle", after striking it rich. He continuously updates the plans, and shares it with the children giving them false hope that someday - someway - their life will be ideal. One can argue that he means well, but it's his inner demons that continuously hurt the children. At times, it almost comes across as though he's not even aware of the damage he's doing, or in fact, that he's doing anything wrong.

It's a wonderfully written memoir, which isn't self-pitying or condescending in any measure. In fact, it's a novel that reverberates of filial devotion and love; that in spite everything, the children did love their parents unconditionally, and the family stuck together through thick and thin. They grew up to be resourceful, bright and independent, pursuing a more conventional lifestyle.

“One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not too far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told Mom that I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight. Mom frowned at me.

"You'd be destroying what makes it special," she said. "It's the Joshua tree's struggle that gives it its beauty.”

There is absolutely no bitterness, but instead, the affectionate forgiving tone indicates that Walls and her siblings have made peace with their childhood, and with their parents' eccentricities. Personally speaking, I find this quite commendable and feel as though I could learn a lot from the Walls' family - mostly Jeannette. The poignancy, humour and the lack of psycho-babble or emotional drama make this a must-read.