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!

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.

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?

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?

J.D. Salinger - Catcher In The Rye

As some of you might already know, The Catcher In The Rye is one of my favourite books of all times. I've read it, and re-read it, and then read it again. At the age of fourteen, the first time I read it, I fell in love with Holden Caulfield. A decade later, I still love Holden Caulfield, and all his quirks, but I sympathise with him, and my heart goes out to him. At one point, I was reading this book every year - sometimes, even more often. When I started working, my ancient edition found a permanent spot on my desk, and it was just there for me to flip through, on days when things didn't make sense. Eventually, the book found its way back to my bookshelf, and I picked it out the other day, to find some solidarity, and to fall in love with the book and the author all over again.

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

That's the kind of author Mr. Salinger is to me - I wish he was a terrific friend of mine, for, despite the hypocrisy and despite the narcissism, I can just relate to his protagonist... and, despite popular opinion, that fans of the book are likely to be homicidal maniacs (John Lennon's assassin and Reagan's sniper were both obsessed with the book), well... I've never really felt the need to load up a shot gun, and go around shooting people who annoy me.

The thing about Holden Caulfield is, he's just trying to find his place in the world, where he's surrounded by phonies and pretentious folks. He's been expelled from school, for failing everything but English, and he doesn't really regret his expulsion. Instead, he leaves his school before his last date, and heads to New York, to spend a couple of days on his own, before he goes home to face the music, i.e. his parents. He rambles about life at the school, and then, the book continues with his adventures in New York, as he meets old friends and girlfriends, and reflects and introspects on his life.

He's surrounded by people who talk for the sake of talking, and who have the whole holier-than-thou attitude, which infuriates the living daylights out of him. God knows, I can relate.

He started telling us how he was never ashamed, when he was in some kind of trouble or something, to get right down on his knees and pray to God. He told us we should always pray to God - talk to Him and all - whenever we were. He told us we ought to think of Jesus as our buddy and all. He said he talked to Jesus all the time. Even when he was driving in his car. That killed me. I can just see the big phony bastard shifting into first gear and asking Jesus to send him a few more stiffs.

While reading the book this time 'round, Caulfield came across as someone struggling to deal with the real world, and he seemed to be quite bipolar - with his emotions wildly swinging from ecstasy to despondence in seconds.

Almost every time somebody gives me a present, it ends up making me sad.

I felt like jumping out the window. I probably would've, too, if I'd been sure somebody'd cover me up as soon as I landed. I didn't want a bunch of stupid rubbernecks looking at me when I was all gory.

There's an element of hypocrisy, as he rambles on and digresses excessively, but there's so much innocence and idealism and impulsiveness, that he still comes across as someone you'd want to know in real life. He seems to have no regard social protocol, and finds it tiresome, to the extent that he's compelled to make things up, as and when he feels like... some of which is quite politically incorrect.

Anyway, I'm sort of glad they've got the atomic bomb invented. If there's ever another war, I'm going to sit right the hell on top of it. I'll volunteer for it, I swear to God I will.

I'm always saying "Glad to've met you" to somebody I'm not at all glad I met. If you want to stay alive, you have to say that stuff, though.

I'm the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It's awful. If I'm on my way to the store to buy a magazine, even, and somebody asks me where I'm going, I'm liable to say I'm going to the opera. It's terrible.

But what really gets me - like, really gets me - about this book is his relationship with his sister, Phoebe; and of course, his sentiments about Allie, his dead brother. When he's asked by his roommate to write a descriptive essay for him on any subject, he chooses to write about Allie's baseball mitt, which has poems scribbled all over.

So what I did, I wrote about my brother Allie's baseball mitt. It was a very descriptive subject. It really was. My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder's mitt. He was left-handed. The thing that was descriptive about it, though, was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere. In green ink. He wrote them on it so that he'd have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat. He's dead now. He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946. You'd have liked him. He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent. He was terrifically intelligent. His teachers were always writing letters to my mother, telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Allie in their class. And they weren't just shooting the crap. They really meant it. But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at anybody. […] God, he was a nice kid, though. He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair.

How can something like that not choke you up? Or make you melt? Or not make you love the protagonist unconditionally? It's so simple, yet so profound. So plain, yet so beautiful. And then - how can you blame Caulfield for treating the world with such utter disdain, when the world has really not been good to him, and taken his younger brother away from him? I think it's easy to say, "get over it" or feel like slapping him to knock him into his senses, but when one feels like the world is unjust, they need time to grieve and come to terms with things at their own pace. Everyone handles things differently. Everyone's way of rationalising things vary.

And when eventually, the title of the book is explained, it's just... perfect.

"You know that song 'If a body catch a body comin' through the rye'? I'd like — "

"It's 'If a body meet a body coming through the rye'!" old Phoebe said. "It's a poem. By Robert Burns."

"I know it's a poem by Robert Burns."

She was right, though. It is "If a body meet a body coming through the rye." I didn't know it then, though.

"I thought it was 'If a body catch a body,'" I said. "Anyway, I keep picturing all these little kids playing some game in this big field of rye and all. Thousands of little kids, and nobody's around — nobody big, I mean — except me. And I'm standing on the edge of some crazy cliff. What I have to do, I have to catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff — I mean if they're running and they don't look where they're going I have to come out from somewhere and catch them. That's all I'd do all day. I'd just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it's crazy, but that's the only thing I'd really like to be. I know it's crazy.

There's something metaphoric about the above quote; it's not literal. It's an element of having the urge to save people before they go down the slippery slope - much like Holden's done, but there's been no one to catch him, or save him. And the vulnerability and utopian fantasy that comes to light here is just gut-wrenching really.

I can read this book over and over again, and it's one of those books I always turn to when things aren't looking up, or I'm ruing the state of affairs around me. And it always makes me feel better. And it always restores my faith in people, ironically enough. I don't think I can read this book too many times, for with each read, it just gets better and better.

Muriel Spark - The Driver's Seat

Oh, for such a small novella (tautology?), The Driver's Seat covers so much, with a dark plot, completely mental characters and just bizarreness all around! Lise, a thirty-something year old woman, is stuck in a dull office job for a decade or so, and she's about to embark on her first vacation. At the very outset, we discover that Lise is completely and utterly nuts. Like flips out in a shop, while looking for a dress to travel in, when the salesperson tells her it's made from stain-resistant material... so much so that she walks out of the store, as she is affronted by the insinuation that she does not eat properly. When she finally finds an outfit to wear ("a lemon-yellow top with a skirt patterned in bright V's of orange, mauve and blue.' and a coat over the top 'narrow stripes, red and white with a white collar") during her travels, the reader is left truly bewildered, by the sheer garishness of it, which she justifies easily.

The colours go together perfectly. People here in the North are ignorant of colours. Conservative; old-fashioned. If only you knew! These colours are a natural blend for me. Absolutely natural.

Okay, so possibly, Lise is on the verge of a breakdown of sorts, but she does seem to have an agenda. She insists she's meeting her boyfriend at the destination, but one wonders if she knows the man in question, for she does incessantly use the phrase, he's not my type while interacting with any of the strange men she encounters from the start of her break till... well... her death. Again, early on, Spark lets us know about the fate of her character. Not the who, not the why, just the what.

She will be found tomorrow morning dead from multiple stab-wounds, her wrists bound with a silk scarf and her ankles bound with a man’s necktie, in the grounds of an empty villa, in a park of the foreign city to which she is travelling on the flight now boarding at Gate 14.

Lise's behaviour becomes increasingly erratic as the novella progresses. She lies glibly, steals a car, and just seems to have lost all regard for any semblance of normality. Everything as per her convenience. Everything on her terms. Bizarre, uncomfortable, gripping.

This is the third book by Muriel Spark that I have read, and it couldn't be more different than the other two. It's significantly darker, to begin with, and suspenseful. The characters are just - wow - I really hope I never have to interact with people like them! Honestly! And despite it being a mere hundred-odd pages, Spark covers a lot of ground, and the ending just fits perfectly. Almost as though everything makes perfect sense.

JG Ballard - Empire of the Sun

World War II literature is a genre that interests me tremendously. It would be wrong to say that I find it enjoyable, but the fact remains that I actively seek out books on WWII. So far though, most of the WWII fiction (and non-fiction) I've perused has taken place in Europe, so Ballard's much acclaimed Empire of the Sun intrigued me immensely.

The book is a personal not-completely-accurate-and-somewhat-romanticised account of Ballard's childhood where he was living the war, in a war-ravaged Shanghai (which was occupied by the Japanese at the time). The account begins in 1941, and continues till the horrific bombing at Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and the subsequent devastation in Nagasaki three days later. Jamie, the protagonist, is eleven years old at the start of the story, and we see the War unfold in Shanghai through his innocent eyes. Occasionally child-like, occasionally grown-up, somewhat disoriented, predominantly emotive.

Jamie gets separated from his well-to-do expat parents during one of the Japanese strikes, and eventually, after scrounging around for food at various houses, looking for his parents, or in fact, any Briton, all alone, finds himself at a prison camp, living the survival of the fittest adage. He befriends those who will protect him, continues his schooling thanks to some of the adults at the prison camp, and tries to make the best of the awful situation by finding comfort in the smallest of things, be it having the biggest sweet potato or pocketing one slyly, just in case he needs it in the future, when the paucity of food may become a real issue.

His views are slightly skewed (maybe this is just retrospection talking), as he advocates the Japanese, and in fact, at one point, states that he would like to pilot one of the Japanese aircrafts. A little tentative of change, he gets nervous when the war is drawing to a close, and just wants some kind of stability in the turbulence.

He ate every scrap of food he could find, aware of the rising number of deaths from beri beri and malaria. Jim admired the Mustangs and the Superfortresses, but sometimes he wished that the Americans would return to Hawaii and content themselves with raising their battleships at Pearl Harbour. Then Lunghua Camp would once again be the happy place he had known in 1943.

It's really sad; the rationalisation and the innocence. The prison camps didn't sound as horrific as the concentration camps in Europe, but irrespective, for anyone to live through that is shocking... and for a child, even more so. What... is the point? What was achieved?

But a flash of light filled the stadium, flaring over the stands in the southwest corner of the football field, as if an immense American bomb had exploded somewhere to the northeast of Shanghai. [...] Jim smiled at the Japanese, wishing that he could tell him that the light was premonition of his death, the sight of his small soul joining the larger soul of the dying world.

"Kid, they dropped atomic bombs. Uncle Sam threw a piece of the sun at Nagasaki and Hiroshima, killed a million people. One great flash..."

"I saw it."

All said and done, this book was quite harrowing. What made it a bit of a strange experience, though, was how, at times, it almost read as a documentary - stating facts, narrating events - almost as though the writer was an observer, not an actor. Perhaps that is completely valid, if one thinks about it. Why focus on emotions when the story is powerful enough to evoke extremely strong reactions to the war, its perversity, and the trepidation, monstrosity and futility of it all. It really does fill me with immense despondence and sadness... and even those words feel extremely trite.

Do you recommend any other books set in Asia during the second World War? Or, any other books set during WWII? What is it about that genre that just.... beckons? I almost feel masochistic. Sadistic would be equally apt.

Toni Morrison - Sula

Spanning almost forty-five years (1921-1965), Sula revolves around two best friends: Sula and Nel, and how their friendship evolves and implodes over the years. Growing up in a poverty-stricken black town in Ohio called Bottom, Sula is accustomed to men coming and going, as they please. Her mother and grandmother are fiercely independent women, and after her father died, her mother (Hannah) is keen for companionship, and doesn't really care if the man is married or not. Still, Hannah is well-liked, despite sleeping with half the married men in the town... That stands testimony to the richness of the characters - that Morrison can make someone quite despicable come across as a lovely person.

Sula is a complex character though. Straight after Nel's wedding, she leaves Bottom, and goes off to college and to enjoy the city life. She returns some ten years later, and carries on where her mother left off - sleeping with the men in the village and living a purely hedonist life.

The town-folk treat her as a pariah - the yardstick against which they measure good and evil. The truly godawful people in the town turn over a new leaf, and Sula continues to do as she pleases.

"When you gone to get married? You need to have some babies. It’ll settle you.'

'I don’t want to make somebody else. I want to make myself."

The glimpses into the lives of the villagers, through the years is not pleasant. Accidentally killing people, murders, a mother setting her own son on fire, and a daughter watching her mother burn with indifference, infidelity, broken promises and Suicide Day - this book really doesn't make for comfortable reading, but then again, that's not what Morrison's aim was, with this book.

Instead, it's a glimpse into the trials and tribulations of the African-American society in America in the early 1900s, where they are left to themselves and their own superstitions, trying to figure out where they belong. It's a world where racism is rampant, and even the proudest African-American is subservient to the white people, when they are forced to interact.

The richness of the characters, and the depth of the story, despite it being a short book (174 pages) is incredible and it does show why Morrison is considered to be one of the most talented authors out there. While my first experience with Morrison wasn't exactly amazing (I hated it), with time, I am slowly beginning to love her writing as much as some of the other bloggers out there, and I reckon with time, I will read her entire backlist. Love is next for me. And for you? Which is your favourite book by the Nobel Laureate?

William S Burroughs - Junky

Junky is William S. Burroughs semi-autobiographical story, about being a drug-addict - a "junky," if you will - in the 1940s in the good ol' US of A. At less than two hundred pages, this is an extremely short, albeit insightful read. This first-person narrative is an unapologetic unemotional documentary of Burroughs' experiences, the friends he made, and the encounters with the law, as they tried to clamp down on drugs, addiction and peddling, with the help of "pigeons".

Originally published under the pseudonym, William Lee (Lee being his mother's maiden name), at the very outset, the reader is told that the narrator is an Ivy League graduate (Harvard), with a trust-fund to his name. So, the theories of a "troubled childhood" or "hard-times" or "bad company" are almost instantly cast aside.

The question is frequently asked: Why does a man become a drug addict?

The answer is usually that he does not intend to become an addict. You don't wake up one morning and decide to become a drug addict. [...] You become a narcotics addict because you do not have strong motivations in any other direction. Junk wins by default. I tried it as a matter of curiosity. I drifted along taking shots when I could score. I ended up hooked.

Burroughs does not make any excuses, but instead writes about the junk community with a kind of objectivism that would make a good journalist proud. His tale takes him through New York City, and then Kentucky, New Orleans and finally Mexico. However, in spite of the change in location, the paradigm remains the same:

Junk is often found adjacent to ambiguous or transitional districts: East Fourteenth near Third in New York; Poydras and St.Charles in New Orleans; San Juan Létran in Mexico City. Stores selling artificial limbs, wig-makers, dental mechanics, loft manufacturers of perfumes, pomades, novelties, essential oils. A point where dubious business enterprise touches Skid Row.

What makes this a truly tremendous feat is that Burroughs managed to get it published in the anti-drug America of the 1950s, where books like this, in all likelihood, got censored. However, despite being unapologetic, this book is almost a narrative on why addiction is bad, and how difficult a habit it is to kick, despite one telling oneself they have it all under control.

From junk sickness, there seems to be no escape. Junk sickness is the reverse side of junk kick. The kick of junk is that you have to have it. Junkies run on junk time and junk metabolism. They are subject to junk climate. They are warmed and chilled by junk. The kick of junk is living under junk conditions. You cannot escape from junk sickness any more than you can escape from junk kick after a shot.

The singular focus of the book is junk, despite it being autobiographical. Trysts with law, friends Burroughs scored with, friends he relied on and how he got the money to score are all detailed impeccably - you could say, it's almost documented. Morphine, coke, heroin - how to procure them and the high you get off them - you name it, it's there. However, the one complaint I had with the book is, the reader is not privy to the author's personal life at all. For example, in a passing statement, we learn that Burroughs has a wife - wait...hang on... what?! Some of those bits were slightly confusing, but then, one must take a step back and remember that this is all about the addiction, and everything else is secondary.

I quite enjoy the Beatniks, in an almost perversive sense - from Kerouac's On The Road to this. As Kerouac says:

But yet, but yet, woe, woe unto those who think that the Beat Generation means crime, delinquency, immorality, amorality ... woe unto those who attack it on the grounds that they simply don’t understand history and the yearning of human souls ... woe in fact unto those who make evil movies about the Beat Generation where innocent housewives are raped by beatniks! ... woe unto those who spit on the Beat Generation, the wind’ll blow it back.

Have you read any Beatnik literature? Or, do you have any on the to-read pile? I suspect my next one would be another Burroughs...Naked Lunch.

Michael Chabon - The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mikhail Bulgakov - The Master and Margarita

It's taken me a little over a month to finish this book, and I must say, it's probably one of my greatest reading accomplishments 'til date. I found the first eighty-four pages tremendously trying, the next one-hundred-and-fifty odd pages amazing, and I was actually totally hooked to the 'Book 2' of this intimidating classic. At the very outset, I am compelled to admit I don't think I understood the whole book. Large portions of it had me baffled, and I questioned my resolve to continue reading it more than once. At the end of the day, though, I am glad that I read it, for a multitude of reasons which I'll explain further down. In fact, the book is already begging for a re-read, just because I think I, as the reader, will benefit greatly from the re-read.

Set in the 1930s Moscow, where Stalin was the head of state, the basic premise of this book is that the devil (Satan) strolls into Moscow with his entourage to wreak havoc. In case you're wondering, Stalin and Satan aren't interchangeable here, despite this book being a political satire.

In the opening chapter, two members of MASSOLIT (a literary organisation in Moscow) are debating on the existence of god by the Patriarch's Ponds. A foreigner introduces himself to them, apologises for the intrusion but justifies it by saying that the subject of your learned conversation is so interesting that...

The foreigner who goes by the name of Woland is the devil, and he predicts the impending unexpected death of Berlioz, one of the writers. His theory was that Jesus did exist, a theory that the two writers refuted. Berlioz's tragic death is only the first of a series of unexpected events that hit Moscow. There's a seance where money rains down, and the women of the city end up walking the streets in nothing but their undergarments, people get teleported to Yalta, the phone lines break, and devil knows, something bizarre is going on...

So, where do "the Master" and "Margarita" fit in? It's a good question, and it takes a while for that to be addressed, as the first part of this book essentially deals with the chaos and confusion created by Woland and his gang, which includes the unforgettable talking cat in the bow-tie, Behemoth. The first book also goes back in time, and has a semi-fictional account of Pontius Pilate, and the role he played in Jesus' persecution followed by the crucifixion itself.

It's Book Two that revolves around the titular characters. Margarita is the grieving wife of an unsuccessful author, "the master," who has disappeared into the oblivion and she has no idea as to where he is; is he dead or alive. In reality, he's gone over the edge, and is in a psychiatric institution. Now, Satan needs a woman called Margarita to host a midnight ball, where the catch is, the woman has to be native to the city. There are a hundred-and-twenty-one potential hostesses but the master's Margarita is the chosen one. She builds up a rapport with the devil himself, becomes a witch, in return for something...

It's the entire exchange between the devil and Margarita that had me wondering about the first half of the book, where the devil was shown to be an entity toying with the lives of people, without reason. The second half of the book did, in a manner of speaking, highlight the kind of people the devil was victimising in the first half. It was the greedy and the selfish, the people who were successful due to their vices, not their virtues, the people who we'd call weasels, the bureaucrats and the opportunists. People, who in my humble opinion, deserve to be reprimanded, deserve to be punished. Even today, the weasels seem to be the ones who are successful and go far in their lives, whereas the hardworking ones seem to be stuck in a rut, and I think that's unfair... excuse the slight aside, but when realisation hit me towards the end of the book, I was sympathising with the devil himself!

And yes, the lyrics of the Stones' Sympathy for the Devil did come back to me at that point. I love the Stones, I love Mick Jagger and Keith Richards and Brian Jones and... Have you ever heard the lyrics? I did look up the song on Wikipedia once I'd finished this book, and it didn't really surprise me that part of it had been inspired by this work of fiction!

Please allow me to introduce myself I'm a man of wealth and taste I've been around for a long, long year Stole many a man's soul and faith

And I was 'round when Jesus Christ Had his moment of doubt and pain Made damn sure that Pilate Washed his hands and sealed his fate

Pleased to meet you Hope you guess my name But what's puzzling you Is the nature of my game

So, yes, this is a satirical confusing bizarre story, where too many characters are introduced, and too many of them have too short a role to play. I found myself questioning the introduction of some of these characters, considering their short life in the novel, and couldn't really come up with an answer. It's humorous in bits, and thought-provoking in chunks. The characters are mesmerising and some of the scenes incredible.

And an unheard-of thing occurred. The  fur bristled on the cat's back, and he gave a rending miaow. Then he compressed himself into a ball and shot like a panther straight at Bengalsky's chest, and from there on to his head. Growling, the cat sank his plump paws into the skimpy chevelure  of the master  of ceremonies and  in two  twists tore the head from  the thick neck with a savage howl.

The banter is hilarious, and it does provide some relief from the otherwise confusing bewildering narrative.

'Well, what's all this now?' exclaimed Woland. `Why have you gilded your whiskers? And what the devil do you need the bow-tie for, when you're not even wearing trousers?'

'A cat is not supposed to wear trousers, Messire,' the cat replied with great dignity. 'You're not going to tell me to wear boots, too, are you? Puss-in-Boots exists only in fairy tales, Messire. But have you ever seen anyone at a ball without a bow-tie? I do not intend to put myself in a ridiculous situation and risk being chucked out! Everyone adorns himself with what he can. You may consider what I've said as referring to the opera glasses as well, Messire!'

'But the whiskers? ...'

'I don't understand,' the cat retorted drily. 'Why could Azazello and Koroviev put white powder on themselves as they were shaving today, and how is that better than gold? I powdered my whiskers, that's all! If I'd shaved myself, it would be a different matter! A shaved cat - now, that is indeed an outrage, I'm prepared to admit it a thousand times over. But generally,' here the cat's voice quavered touchily, 'I see I am being made the object of a certain captiousness, and I see that a serious problem stands before me - am I to attend the ball? What have you to say about that, Messire?'

Have you read this book? Or attempted to read it? What did you think? Worth a read? I'd recommend it...

What's the most confusing bizarre book that you've read? I think this is mine, hands down, beating Murakami's Kafka on the Shore...