Neil Gaiman - American Gods

This book was recommended by the same person who introduced David Mitchell (number9dream) to me. It was then recommended by another colleague who borrowed number9dream from me. So, it had to be read. 590+ page chunkster or not, it had to be read. I finished it about a month back, and my head's been reeling since. I don't really know how to pen my thoughts down, for this book is epic. But - I have to do better. I have to, at least, give it a shot. So, here goes nothing.

American Gods is literally about American Gods, and how they immigrated to the Americas with their believers, back in the day. Centuries (and generations) later, people have lost faith (as they do), but the Gods continue to live - or exist - as they try and find their place in the new age, when new Gods of technology, media and television have taken the place that originally belongs to them. With the impending storm, a battle is brewing - a battle between the gods, to see which ones survive, and which ones fade into nothing.

“Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.”

Shadow, recently released from prison, only to discover that his wife has died in unfortunate circumstances is approached by Wednesday - a man who has many-a-trick up his sleeve. He hires Shadow as a driver of sorts, and so begins the journey to the heart of America, a road trip a la On The Road.

“This is the only country in the world," said Wednesday, into the stillness, "that worries about what it is."

The rest of them know what they are. No one ever needs to go searching for the heart of Norway. Or looks for the soul of Mozambique. They know what they are.”

The journey is to gather up all the old Gods to lead them to the battleground, and fight the new Gods. Yes, even Gods have power-struggles!

The paradigms were shifting. He could feel it. The old world, a world of infinite vastness and illimitable resources and future, was being confronted by something else—a web of energy, of opinions, of gulfs. People believe, thought Shadow. It’s what people do. They believe. And then they will not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust the conjurations. People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock-solid belief, that makes things happen.

And then there's poor Shadow stuck in the middle, haunted by the physical presence of his dead wife, trying desperately to find some kind of solace with coin tricks, and get over the events of the recent past, and make some sense of the current events: the Gods, the carousel that spins till he reaches the place with the statues of the Gods, disappearances of people, and a myriad of characters - some human, and some, well, Gods. If it's not one thing, it's another. Even in the unlikeliest of places. But, that possibly, was the biggest problem with Shadow's character - despite being Wednesday's driver for most of the book, he really is just a passenger; passive and just along for the ride, while things happen in spite of him. An unlikely protagonist, some might say. Unlikely compared to say, his dead wife, Laura, or the enigmatic Wednesday.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and you can expect to see a lot more Gaiman on here! It's a hell of a ride, and in parts, it's exasperating, but all said and done, it's absolutely worth a read!

And to finish off, one extremely long quote (shamelessly copied from the internet), which I absolutely loved:

“I can believe things that are true and things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not.

I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Beatles and Marilyn Monroe and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen - I believe that people are perfectable, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkled lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women.

I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone's ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state.

I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste.

I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we'll all be wiped out by the common cold like martians in War of the Worlds.

I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman.

I believe that mankind's destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it's aerodynamically impossible for a bumble bee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there's a cat in a box somewhere who's alive and dead at the same time (although if they don't ever open the box to feed it it'll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself.

I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn't even know that I'm alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck.

I believe that anyone who says sex is overrated just hasn't done it properly. I believe that anyone who claims to know what's going on will lie about the little things too.

I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman's right to choose, a baby's right to live, that while all human life is sacred there's nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system.

I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you're alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.”

The pantheon of Gods unleashed on the readers is like a deep-dive into the world of mythology. The gods, incarnated as ordinary imperfect people, grace the pages, and reading about their past is fantastic. In fact, some of those bits were the most interesting in this chunkster, which I did fly through. It's a long-winded meandering book, with plenty of detours and excessive digressions, some of which are relevant and some of which not. At times, Gaiman does ramble on for a bit, but his writing is incredibly witty and for the entire book, he keeps the reader (well, me!) hooked.

Jostein Gaarder - The Christmas Mystery

This time of the year, I like reading at least one Christmassy book; one that propounds the Christmas spirit and is essentially feel-good, and festive. A Norwegian friend of mine fleetingly mentioned how, while he was growing up, his family would read this book together, reading one chapter on each day of the Advent calendar. Intrigued. Curiosity piqued. Specially as I've loved everything else I've read by Jostein Gaarder so far. I did race through this book in two days though, instead of reading it patiently, over twenty-four days. But, in my defence, I *needed* to know what happened next. Clearly (and possibly slightly embarrassingly), Joachim, the child protagonist, has more self-control and patience.

On 30th November, Joachim and his father go into a bookstore, looking for an Advent calendar. They walk out with a hand-made calendar, a one-of-a-kind that the bookseller doesn't quite recognise, and attributes its presence to John, the flower seller, who occasionally leaves things at the store as a thank you.

When Joachim opens the first door of the calendar the following day, not only is he greeted with a pretty picture, but also with a piece of paper that flutters out, that tells a story. The story is of a little girl called Elisabet, who spots a lamb in a department store, and is so keen to stroke it, that she runs after it, calling "Lambkin, Lambkin".

She had decided to follow it to the ends of the earth, but the earth was round, after all, so they might go on running around the world for ever, or at any rate until she grew up, and by then she might have lost interest in such things as lambs.

As she chases after the lamb, she notices the hues of the sky changing, and the clock going back in time, at which she ponders,

...perhaps the clock hands had become so tired of going in the same direction year after year that they had suddenly begun to go the opposite way instead...

En route, she meets Ephiriel, an angel, who informs her that they are going to Bethlehem, to witness the birth of Christ, and the journey continues through space and time. And each door of the advent calendar reveals a little bit more about this journey. More characters from the Bible, including the three wise men, the shepherds and the sheep join the journey, as they progress towards Bethlehem.

While the tales of their travel unfolds, Joachim and his parents get caught up in another mystery - the mystery of the little girl who disappeared in 1948. Could she be the real Elisabet, the girl who this story was written about? Or inspired by? They try getting in touch with John, but he seems to have disappeared off the face of this earth as well, popping up every now and again, to speak to Joachim, but not shedding any light on the mystery.

There are twenty-four chapters in this book, each representing a day on the advent calendar. There are stories inside the story, and advent calendars inside the advent calendar - multi-layered, much like Sophie's World. It's an engrossing, fascinating book. The only flip side was, the mystery of the real Elisabet rushed to a close, and ended almost too abruptly. But, that's a small small flip side, considering all else.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie - The Thing Around Your Neck

Having previous read both, Half of a Yellow Sunand Purple Hibiscus, I was quite happy when I received this as a Christmas present last year. The only concern I had was, my track record with collections of short stories - for the most part, I'm not a fan. "For the most part" being the key phrase. This collection mainly focuses on African immigrants in America, and the lives they live, the experiences they succumb to - by virtue of their past. Or their present. Slightly reminiscent of say, The Joy Luck Clubor The Namesake. Barring a couple of stories, this isn't really brand new territory, but Adichie's writing and story-telling continues to impress. That said, my biggest complaint with short stories, i.e. the lack of closure, still holds. And, as a reader, one's left craving more - more about the characters, and more about what happened next.

The Arrangers of Marriage is one such story. We don't get much insight into the characters, or what makes them click. So, when the story ends, there's a sense of incompleteness; of wanting more, because the motives of the narrator hasn't really been touched on. Or, what makes her click.

The two stories, Jumping Monkey Hill and the title story both tick off the feminist criteria. Jumping Monkey Hill is based in an African writer's camp in Cape Town, where a group of people are meant to write a short story under the direction of a Brit whose passionate about African literature. Sexism and racism are both rampant in the story, as it hits home the underlying point: why do we always say nothing?

In The Thing Around Your Neck, a young girl goes to live in America with her uncle, after winning the Green Card lottery. When her uncle makes a pass at her, she runs away, and tries to make a life for herself.

Cell One, the opening story, was probably the most powerful of them all. In an age where the cult-culture is so prevalent, we meet a rich family, whose only son belongs to a cult indulging in debauchery and hedonism, and has been imprisoned for breaking and entering. In prison, when the teenager speaks up against the mistreatment of an older gentleman, he is beaten and thrown into the infamous Cell One. Eventually, unsurprisingly, he is released, but forever changed.

The other stories, some based in Nigeria during riots and wars, and some on immigrants in America are beautifully written. However, they are all within what is expected, and don't really astonish or surprise... or wow. The raw emotions and startling vivid descriptions that made Half of a Yellow Sun so gripping are amiss, which is unfortunate. None of the stories give us a new perspective into Africa, or a new insight into America. Under different constructs, all the stories have been told before. And it's that which left me feeling as though there was more to be desired from this collection.

Haruki Murakami - The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vladimir Nabokov - Laughter In The Dark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daphne du Maurier - The House On The Strand

What better way of spending a Sunday evening than curled up in bed, with a box of the world's best chocolates, and a Daphne du Maurier? Well, possibly if the book wasn't The House On The Strand...

Yes, I know that's harsh, but if you compare this book to the likes of Rebecca or My Cousin Rachel, it falls well short. Possibly, that's where I, as a reader, fell short - setting high expectations on a relatively obscure book by a fairly renowned author. Blame the gist on the back of the book for that though - after all, a story about time-travel always has potential.

So, when Dick Young, takes a break from reality in his friend's (Magnus) Cornwall house, things get interesting as he agrees to be the guinea-pig for a drug developed by Magnus that results in him walking the streets of Cornwall in the thirteenth century, things are bound to get interesting. Dick's looking for an escape, as he tries to figure out the next steps in his marriage and career, and Magnus is curious to see what happens with this magnificent drug that he's created, and how different people react to it.

The first couple of "trips" introduce him to a myriad of characters who were alive in the High Middle Ages; co-incidentally, Magnus' first trip with this drug introduced him to the same people, so there definitely is something about the drug - but what is it? It's not LSD or any other hallucinogen - or, if it is, why do both friends encounter the same people with every trip?And what's the relevance of this era? Why is the drug always transporting them back to the same period, and showing them the lives of characters who have no real historical importance?

Initially, I read each page eagerly, trying to figure out the hows and the whys. But instead, I was introduced to way too many characters of the past, who I cared little about. The fact that Dick came across as a fairly flat protagonist didn't help - his character didn't really evolve, and his interactions with his wife, kids and Magnus left a lot to  be desired. In fact, Magnus was the only character that was remotely interesting, but I don't think he featured enough.

As Dick swings between the present and the past, spending any free time he has in the past - even after his wife and children arrive - one marvels at both, the addiction caused by the drug and the commitment to the past that Dick has. Dick can't interact with the people he meets, nor can he make any difference. He's invisible; just a bystander, a viewer, someone who sits by and watches from the sidelines. Perhaps that's why he enjoys the past - there's no decision to make, everything just happens, in spite of him.

The ending, unfortunately, is predictable as well, which is a pity. I've come to associate Du Maurier with incredible twists and turns in her plots (yes, it only took two books to do that!), and when after a story that I found slightly tedious to read didn't even give me that, it added to the disappointment.

Don't get me wrong - I'm glad I read the book, and I will try reading Du Maurier's entire backlist in good time. I just do wish though, that the magic it weaved completely pulled me in, and left me awed for weeks after. It was not meant to be.

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!

Marghanita Laski - Little Boy Lost

So, you start a book which is meant to result in emotional upheaval, and you keep your distance to begin with, but then the book sucks you in, and you feel your emotions getting the better off you, while the writing itself remains simple and straightforward, with almost no sentimentality. And as you keep turning the pages, you just want the happy ending; the fairy-tale happily ever after. And then the book ends, and you're just sitting there holding it, stunned into disbelief by the response evoked by a book less than two-hundred-and-fifty pages long.

It's Christmas Day, 1943, when Hilary, a poet and an intellectual, learns that his little boy, John, is lost. Lisa, his wife who was involved in the Resistence, was killed in Paris by the Gestapo, but before her death, she had asked a friend to look after her baby, who Hilary had seen but once. But on that fateful Christmas Day, a stranger (a Frenchman named Pierre) knocks on the door of Hillary's English home, informing him that his son has disappeared without a trace, and he would like to help Hillary find the boy.

Post-war, Hillary reluctantly heads to Paris upon Pierre's request, in order to commence the search for the lost boy - a search that has already been initiated by the resourceful Pierre. But Hilary is not prepared for the war-ravaged Paris that greets him.

Yes, it was familiar again - until the bus creaked past the bombed factory, the makeshift bridge, the shattered rusting locomotives, and the English in the bus shamefacedly whispered to each other, "Do you think we did that?" and then wondered if there could still be friendship between the destroyer and destroyed.

Simply, eloquently put.

Hilary starts following the trail which could potentially lead him to the son he lost about two years ago - almost unwillingly - for, with time, he's made himself invulnerable to emotions, and is content to live in his memories. The search leads him to a convent in a small town in France, where a boy who might be his son lives. It's not definite, but the age and blood type match. The hope is that on seeing the boy, Hilary would recognise his son.

Hilary visits the boy (called Jean) in the convent, and starts spending a couple of hours each day with the boy, his affection for the slowly mounting, but the uncertainty as to whether the boy is actually his son not really diminishing. The first meeting is confusing, as at first glance, he thinks that's his son, but on second glance, he stares at the child in horror and repulsion, certain that the child isn't his...

...and thus begins the journey of trying to determine if he's found his little boy...

...But then, Hilary is detached, pragmatic and almost like an icicle at times, that one just wants to physically shake him into finding his human emotions - diametrically polar to some other moments where he buys the child expensive gloves, and gauges his reactions, without the child having to say much, if anything at all.

As the relationship evolves during the course of the week, the child transforms from a shy nervous boy to an excited happy one around Hilary. You can make out that he doesn't want to disappoint Hilary, and when Hilary comes across as impatient, the boy withdraws into himself. There are moments where, as a reader, you just hate Hilary, for how can someone be so heartless?

Hilary said nothing. He stood there watching the child, feeling only hate for the creature who had put him in this predicament, through whose interventions he had made a fool of himself. The little coward, he was saying, the little coward.

Jean whimpered, "I want my red gloves back."

You're finding out you can't buy happiness, thought Hilary coldly. Aloud, he said, "You can't have them back. Once you've given a present, it's a present forever."

Jean stopped whimpering, only stood there shaking and staring. You're finding out what desolation means, thought Hilary savagely [...].

But - but it's the absolute last line of the book that makes it so... touching and heart-rending. Just the last line. Honestly, words cannot describe the impact they make.

While the heart of the book is about the father looking for his lost son, Laski pays attention to the rampant corruption existing in Paris at the time, and the black market, which emphasised the difference between the haves and the have-nots, and the whole "survival of the fittest" philosophy. She also highlights the slight disconnect between the locals, as they attempt to determine on which side their counterparts stood during the Occupation.

"But at least the Occupation showed each man what he was capable of. Don't you think it was something to be able to find out?"

"No, why?" said Pierre. "Some found they were better than they thought, some worse. We are finding that out all the time in our everyday lives."

"But we're not conscious of it all the time," argued Hilary. For some reason, this point seemed of vital importance to him. "Surely occupation or battle or something like that brings the whole thing to an inescapable point - a sort of judgment by ordeal?"

If you haven't yet, please do read this book.

I've read two books by Laski so far, and have two more to go (which have been printed by Persephone) - her writing is amazing, and I can't wait to read the others.

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.

Sarah Winman - When God Was A Rabbit

What an amazing name for a book! That was the first thought that came to me when I saw this book at Waterstones. The gist sounded promising enough, and you've got to give a book with such a title a chance. And so I did. The initial chapters are indeed promising. However, as you keep turning the pages, it just keeps going downhill. And then you force yourself to finish it, and are left wondering.... why?!

Or well, that was my experience. The book spans about forty years, from 1968 when Elly (the narrator) was born in Essex to 9/11 and beyond. We meet Elly's brother, Joe; her parents; her lesbian aunt; Jenny Penny, her best friend and finally, Charlie - Joe's lover. And so the drama starts.

By the age of ten, Elly's been sexually abused (or it was so indicated, but never outright said), she's seen her brother in a gay relationship, her father's sister talks openly of her sexuality, her father nearing a mental breakdown, moved to Cornwall far away from her best friend, and... well, she's still perfectly fine with everything and carries on as though everything's hunky dory.

So many of the themes needed to be explored in greater detail, but... nothing. It was shallow and the characters one-dimensional. Even the brother-sister relationship, which started so encouragingly just... faded into nothing. The rabbit that her brother gifted her on one of her birthdays, and they decided to call god (much to her teacher's chagrin and horror) was a redeeming part of the book, specially when Elly believed he was anthropomorphic. However, even that storyline just drifted into nothing.

Yet, so many events were covered: the death of Princess Diana, the assassination of Lennon, the assassination of JFK, 9/11, cancer, a friend in prison, a Getty-like kidnapping. So much, and yet so little. So much promise, and yet such little delivery.

I was honestly disappointed after finishing this book. At only 330 odd pages, it's not really a chunkster or anything, but after about p280, I just couldn't be bothered anymore. Didn't care about the characters, didn't want to care about them either. I forced myself to finish the book, and well... I did.

Have you read this book? Am I judging it way too harshly?