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!

Colette - Claudine at School

Written at the turn of the century (i.e. first published in 1900), this delightful and entertaining novel is an intimate diary of fifteen year old Claudine who attends school in Montigny in France. It's scandalous, it's humorous, and it's feel-good. Largely autobiographical (and the first book of a four-part series), this book covers the last year of Claudine's (Colette's) school life, in an all-girls school. Claudine is precocious - flirtatious even - but charming; so full of life, but a bully; accustomed to getting her own way, but still being at odds with the dreaded Headmistress.

It was so long since I had hit one of my companions that people were beginning to believe that I had become rational. (In the old days, I had the annoying habit of settling my quarrels on my own, with kicks and blows, without thinking it necessary to tell tales like the others).

The frank unabashed narrative was quite endearing. Despite some exceedingly scandalising bits, the innocence was a breath of fresh air (specially if you compare it to the school series of today...). You had Claudine involved in a homosexual love triangle, where the other two involved were the Headmistress and her assistant, and I did wonder... when this book was first published, just how controversial was it?

The mannerisms, the way the girls spoke, the freedom, the mannerisms and the ambience - it was all very French (referring to the teachers as Mademoiselle obviously added to it) - and the protagonist did remind me of the title character in Claudine at St. Clares at some points. The way she was used to getting her own way, how people couldn't help being amused by her pranks, her  impulsiveness, how she easily befriended and influenced people, and how she was naturally gifted, with an incredible lust for life.

I am immediately curious to read the rest of the books in this series (published between 1900-1904), and I suspect they will find their way to my shelf before the month is out. The edition of the book I have is age-old though, first published in 1979, and the price at the back of the book is all of £1.25.

I've been saving this book for Paris in July hosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at ThymeForTea. Do pop over and have a look. So many French authors, so little time... I have another Colette and Irène Némirovsky's Suite Francaise on my shelf, both of which I'll hopefully read before the month is out.

Which other French authors would you recommend? Or, thoroughly captivating school stories? There's something about a good school story, which takes you back in time, and makes you recall, with much nostalgia, the stationery shopping, the smell of new exercise books, the exam stress, the good times.

Ernest Hemingway - The Old Man And The Sea

I have an absolutely ancient copy of this book lying around, and it's actually bizarre that I've not read the book yet - it's just 114 pages long! Published in 1974, the book cost just 30p at the time (US$0.45)! The book costs £7.99 now... let's keep that musing for another day! The Old Man and the Sea is an extremely 'concise' book, for the lack of a better word. The plot is uncomplicated, with minimal dialogue. It's literally about an old man and the sea, as the old man (Santiago) tries to change his luck, after going eighty-four days without catching a fish.

Santiago's protege, Manolin, has moved on to a "lucky" boat, as per his father's wishes, and so, when the old man heads out to the waters on the eighty-fifth day, he's all alone, without the boy he trusts.

On this fateful day though, Santiago's luck does change, as he catches what appears to be a giant fish, and an epic battle begins at sea between the fish and the man, as he is not able to haul the fish onboard. Thus begins a great game of waiting and patience (and impatience) as the old man bides his time, and ponders upon many-a-thing, including how useless his left hand his (when it starts cramping), how much he misses the old boy, and how he would have made some changes in his journey, had he known better.

He could feel the steady hard pull of the line and his left hand was cramped. It drew up tight on the heavy cord and he looked at it in disgust.

'What kind of a hand is that,' he said. 'Cramp then if you want. Make yourself into a claw. It will do you no good.'

While I'm glad I read this book, I still thought it dragged on a bit, by recounting the story of the old man's stay at the sea and his battle with the fish. Ironic that I'm saying the above about a book which is only 114 pages long, but there you have it. I guess I'm not interested in fishing, and while I understand the basic jargon, I don't really get what a lot of it means. For that matter, I don't quite understand fishing techniques either. So, maybe that's just me!

The old man's characterisation was fantastic though, as was his dialogues with the various natural things around him, including his victim - the fish. The way he handled exhaustion, cramps, hunger and thirst was mind-blowing, and I couldn't help but sympathise with him at those times. Even when I finished the book, I felt slightly despondent - but I reckon that's an emotion the book is expected to evoke.

The writing was brilliant - not poetic, but very real. The language was simple, and easy to read, while simultaneously bringing alive some of the scenes from the book. There was no superfluity, but all the words came together as though essential to form the whole story.

It's the first Hemingway I've read (yep, I know that's embarrassing!), but was wondering if you have read any of his works. If yes, what would you recommend?

Angela Carter - The Bloody Chamber

Claire sent me a copy of The Bloody Chamber last month, and I resisted opening it 'til the Angela Carter month kicked off. My previous experience with Angela Carter's short stories collection wasn't great, so despite the great things I've read about this collection, I was ever so slightly ambivalent about it. Nonetheless, my fears (if I may call the ambivalence so) were quickly allayed as I lost myself in the title story, The Bloody Chamber - a story that starts in an almost "happily-ever-after" fairytale-esque manner. Yet, a combination of the title and familiarity with Angela Carter's writing was reason enough to believe that the story would take a gothic turn. And so it did. I couldn't peel my eyes away from the story for even a second though, and it was enough to believe that this collection of short stories would be more enjoyable, less random.

The other stories followed suit; re-vamped fairy tales, re-invented characters, but these stories aren't just re-told in a different voice. That would be the most unfair assessment of all. These stories are original, picking up on some of the latent themes prevalent in the classic fairytales we've known and loved, and improvising on them to create dark depraved tales which delighted and shocked me.

Beauty and the Beast is one of the stories that make an appearance in this collection, and despite being a big fan of the original (who didn't love the Disney movie?), I was thoroughly wowed by Carter's more adult version. Abundant with vice and a hint of sexuality, the re-working of this story seemed almost real, while simultaneously being totally fantastical.

While I did love most of the stories in this collection, a couple did leave me feeling indifferent. Puss in Boots was one of them, and annoyingly enough, I can't really pinpoint what I didn't really enjoy about it. It just didn't grab me like the others did. Is that good enough a reason? I don't know, but, it's all I've got.

It's a provocative gothic collection, surreal as always (and these are fairy tales, so the surrealism element automatically gets incremented), but totally captivating. I recommend it highly, simply because it takes the safe happy world of fairy tales, and turns it upside down, while teasing you and making you beg for more; be it the re-working of Sleeping Beauty, or the overhauling of Red Riding Hood.

Again, thanks Claire for the giveaway. I'm really happy I won! :)

Have you read any gothic fairy tales? Which ones would you recommend?

PS: I recently finished The Book Of Lost Things which also has fairy-tales twisted and re-told in the narrative. I was very impressed by it as well, and despite Connolly being no Angela Carter, I thoroughly loved it, so it's something else I'd rate quite highly.

Virginia Woolf - Mrs. Dalloway

Claire {@ kissacloud} and three friends are doing a Woolf In Winter read-along. The first book they're tackling is Mrs. Dalloway, and it's being hosted by Sarah {@ what we have here is a failure to communicate}. I picked up the Vintage classic last year, while idly browsing a second hand book store, and have since been extremely ambivalent about it - mostly because I've never read a book by Virginia Woolf, and I have an inexplicable fear of the unknown, specially when it comes to much-acclaimed classics. Mrs. Dalloway is probably the most difficult novel I've ever read. And, I'll go out on a limb and say it's probably (one of) the most difficult book(s) I'll ever read.

Woolf's meanderings is essentially a stream-of-consciousness-style narrative to provide an insight into the lives of a few Londoners, including the protagonist: Clarissa Dalloway, who is preoccupied with the last minute details of a party she is to give that evening. Yet, the book digresses between reality, flashbacks as well as imaginary visions of the characters, and these digressions are helped greatly by the complete absence of chapters, so that the reader is left trying to figure out which character's on centre-stage at any given point in time, and how their story fits in the grand scheme of things, the grand finale, the party.

Set in London, a few years after the first World War, Mrs. Dalloway unsurprisingly starts off with the spotlight on the protagonist herself, the wife of a politician, who is planning to throw a party. Yet, as the book progresses, and the clock on the Big Ben ticks, the spotlight falls on a myriad of characters including Peter Walsh, an ex-boyfriend of Mrs. Dalloway, who has just come back to London, and brings back old memories; Septimus Smith, a war veteran, who seems disconnected from the story, as he slips into insanity, haunted by the ghost of one of his friends who died during the war; doctors who attempt treating Smith; his worried wife, Rezia; Mrs. Dalloway's daughter Elizabeth, and Mrs. Dalloway's enemy, Miss. Kilman.

The story, in real terms, lasts just one day, but, with the many different perspectives that Woolf weaves in, it seems to last a lifetime (in a good way). It's sensitive, philosophical even, giving an insight into human nature as we don't really know it, but, emphasising, ever so subtly, on the appreciation of life, and the eventuality of death.

So, he was deserted. The whole world was clamouring: Kill yourself, kill yourself, for our sakes. But why should he kill himself for their sakes? Food was pleasant; the sun hot; and this killing oneself, how does one set about it, with a table knife, uglily, with floods of blood - by sucking a gaspipe?

It's a relatively short novel, at 172 pages. However, it took me over five hours to finish it, and all my concentration. There were sentences about fourteen lines long, there were connotations long-winded and intense, there were provoking thoughts that stayed on, long after you'd flipped the page. Yes, Mrs. Dalloway's primary preoccupation was with the party, and exulting in life's wake. She had married a man she presumably didn't love as much as she loved someone else. Yet, her character is anything but superficial, flawed with merits - or, should that be meritorious with flaws?

She muddled Armenians with Turks; loved success; hated discomfort; must be liked; talked oceans of nonsense; and to this day, ask her what the Equator was, and she did not know.

All the same that one day should follow another; Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday; that one should wake up in the morning; walk in the park; meet Hugh Whitbread; then suddenly in came Peter; then these roses; it was enough. After that, how unbelievable death was! - that it must end; and no one in the whole world would know how she had loved it all; how every instant...

The other thing I loved about this book was it's glimpses into London in the early 1900s. I thought that Woolf captured the heart and soul of central London beautifully (this book is mostly based in and around Westminster), and I actually felt that I was accompanying the characters, as they ambled the streets, or rode the Omnibus, or napped in Regents Park, or, for that matter, enjoyed the hustle-bustle at the Strand.

I am really pleased that I read this book, and I will be seeking another Woolf book sometime in the future, albeit, I don't think I can do four Woolfs in eight weeks - it's seriously hard work! Hats off to all those of you who are! Claire {@ Paperback Reader} and Rachel {@ Book Snob} recommended reading Michael Cunningham's The Hours after reading Woolf's masterpiece. Subsequently, I'll be reading it later this month.

Thanks to Claire {kissacloud}, Sarah {what we have here is a failure to communicate}, Emily {evening all afternoon} and Frances {Nonsuch Book} for hosting this wonderful read-along.

Dodie Smith - I Capture The Castle

Dodie Smith's I Capture The Castle is another one of those books with a fantastic opening line, which makes the reader want more:

I write this sitting in the kitchen sink. That is, my feet are in it; the rest of me is on the draining board, which I have padded with our dog's blanket and the tea-cosy.

An enchanting narrator, seventeen year old Cassandra (described as Jane Eyre with a touch of Becky Sharp), attempts to capture eight of the months of her stay at the castle, in three journals: the six penny book, the shilling book, and the two guinea book.

Poverty-striken, with barely any new income coming in, the family is trying to figure out the best way to make ends meet. All the antiques have been sold, and the castle is but bare now. Cassandra's father, also a writer, hasn't been able to work since he was in prison for three months, and the money coming in from the successes of his first book is now nil. His second wife, Topaz, occasionally poses nude for artists to earn money, but even that isn't much for she has to live in London during these jobs, and living there is expensive. Cassandra's older sister, Rose, is bitter and disgruntled with the state of affairs, and contemplates working the streets in order to make some quick money; whereas Thomas is still going to school and giving a helping hand around at home. Finally, there's young Stephen, the son of their now deceased househelp, who is completely enamoured by Cassandra, despite the fact that it seems to be unrequited.

When Simon and Neil Cotton, the inheritors of the castle, which the family has leased, come into their lives one day, Cassandra focuses on getting Rose and Simon together, in order to improve the quality of Rose's life, and see her happier. However, what transpires is heart-wrenching, as the seventeen year old realises that love is complicated, and somehow, things don't always turn out as one intends them to.

Cassandra is a lovely and fascinating narrator, and her writing is full of literary and musical references, be it Lord Fauntleroy, or Debussy. Hidden throughout the book are loads of Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte references, and one of my favourite parts of the book read:

"I thought of the beginning of Pride and Prejudice - where Mrs. Bennett says 'Netherfield Park is let at last'. And then Mr. Bennett goes to call on the rich new owner."

"Mr. Bennett didn't owe him any rent," I said.

"Father wouldn't go anyway. How I wish I lived in a Jane Austen novel!"

I said I'd rather be in a Charlotte Bronte.

"Which would be nicest - Jane with a touch of Charlotte, or Charlotte with a touch of Jane?"

There are even art references, and I was quite surprised by a surrealist Dali reference. These references added to the book, and I found myself being fascinated as I was surrounded by intelligent well-read characters, and not girls who are looking to sit pretty and not do much else.

The emotions are also portrayed beautifully, and the honesty the journals portray are heartwarming. She comes across as a conscientious child, innocent and "consciously naive", and when she acts impulsively, her guilt and self-criticism begs for sympathy.

The one "captured" character, though, that I just didn't understand, was the father. He turned a blind eye to the problems of the castle, where his children were dressed in torn worn-out clothes, and there was barely any food at home. Even when Stephen, someone who "worked" for the family without taking any wages, offered to get a job and contribute to the household expenditures, the father carried on as though everything was right as rain. Some of the other characters were convinced that he needed psychological help, whereas others labeled him a genius.

I loved this book to bits, and thought it was a wonderful story, from the perspective of a very charming seventeen year old. The characters are incredible, the story touching, and the turn of events mind-boggling and wistful. And the book didn't have a typical ending, which endeared me to it further.

Rating: 4

Kurt Vonnegut - Breakfast of Champions

You know how it is - People recommend a book to you, you read the gist at the back, it looks interesting, you buy it, you live to regret it. That pretty much sums up Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions, for me. I read the first 50 pages, and attributed the dullness to the book kicking off slowly. Read the next fifty, and figured, it’s bound to get better. The next fifty was even more painstaking, and by the time I hit the 200th page, I figured this book was as pointless as it gets.

It’s experimental writing - I’ll give the author that. But, that’s about all I’ll give him. The story (if you can call it that?) revolves around two men: Trout, a poor sci-fi writer, and Hoover, a well-off car dealer who’s on the brink of insanity. The story meanders through their lives, and it comes to a close when the two men meet, Hoover reads one of Trout’s books and actually goes over the edge, because he thinks the Creator wrote the book, addressed it to him, and told him how he’s the only human and everyone around him is a machine. Don’t curse me for giving the ending away - the author tells us this almost at the very outset. It’s the meanderings that apparently make the story, not the ending.

The author tries, almost too hard to be funny. He stoops down to the level of illustrating apples, underwear, flags, and actually centers a lot of the book around the vital stats of various women, and men. Completely irrelevant, pointless, and frustrating... it’s supposed to be a social satire. It’s really not. (My two bits).

Don’t even bother... you’ll wish you hadn’t.

Aldous Huxley - Brave New World

A book set in the future, but has a title inspired by Shakepeare’s The Tempest, Brave New World details a dystopian society. However, if you’re expecting to see shades of Orwell’s 1984, you’re in for a surprise. On the other hand, there are some small comparisons that can be made with Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, another dystopian world, where literature is banned. Of course, this is where the similarity ends.

So, no CCTVs, no Big Brother, no society where the police state is taking over. What, then, makes Brave New World a dystopia? Well, ironically enough, it’s that everyone’s happy - happy with their job, their life, and the way things are. There’s a catch (there’s always a catch): everyone in this world is born and bred, in a lab, and effectively, they’re ‘programmed’ to think and act the way they do. Even their happiness is programmed, by hypnopaedia or sleep-teaching; where tapes are played repeatedly to sleeping children, thereby ensuring that the content of these tapes become part and parcel of their personality. The various castes - Alphas, Betas, Gammas, Deltas, Epsilons - are all happy and content being what they are, while simultaneously being happy that they do not belong to a different caste. (Alphas are the intellects, Epsilons the physical laborers)

The main motivation behind creating a world like this is to ensure peace and stability, constant happiness and painlessness. Literature or books from the ancient society are not allowed, for they might actually allow someone to think and perceive beauty of some sort. And beauty, attachment and affection is strongly discouraged. Conversely, recreational sex and drugs (soma) are encouraged. Everyone belongs to everyone else - that’s the fundamental premise. Of course it gets slightly disturbing when we read of children indulging in erotic play, and people being astounded that in the olden days, this was not general practice...

However, this is as much of a story about Bernard Marx, one of the few dissatisfied souls in this pseudo-utopian world, as it is about the world itself. Marx, probably suffering from a complex of sorts due to his physical traits resembling that of the inferior class, Epsilons, is vocal about some of his inhibitions with the society as it stands. The obvious solution, according to him, is to visit one of the ‘Savage Reservations’ - a place where the Old World still survives, and is left untouched and untainted by the advancements of the New World. He visits the Reservation with Lenina, a girl he’s enamored with (a girl who is happy and satisfied with the way things are, and lives up to what she’s imbibed during her childhood sleep-teaching). While she is thoroughly grossed out by this world, Marx feels enlightened, specially on talking to one of the inhabitants of this world, only to learn his mother once belonged to the New World, a world she misses greatly (read, she misses life without soma greatly). Marx and Lenina accompany the two (mother and son) back to their civilization, and the events that unfold as a result keeps the reader hooked on.

This is a world I found difficult to imagine, or for that matter, even live in. Truth be told, I’d rather have been a member of the archaic 1930s Reservation than a part of a world that uniform and surreal. Bizarrely enough, it seems as though, according to Huxley, to be in a world of utter ecstasy, we need to detach ourselves from everything that makes us happy in this world: family, parents, birth, and love. Or, of course, we can take the hedonist approach and fuel up on the real X.

There are hints, some subtle, some not so much, of who various characters of the book are inspired by. The obvious ones are Freud (the Ford, i.e. their equivalent of Lord), Karl Marx, Darwin, Napoleon and Henry Ford (i.e. the founder of Ford Motors), while there are a multitude of references to Shakespeare, Malthus and Wells. It would be really interesting to dig deeper and determine the inspirations for all the characters. Of course, that would make the whole book piece together as well.

If you’re into alternate realities, or the endless possibilities that there are, or, for that matter, how people let their imaginations run away with them, this is a definite must-read. Also, if you enjoyed the likes of 1984, Fahrenheit 451, and Men Like Gods, it’s almost guaranteed that you’ll be fascinated by Huxley’s contribution to the dystopian ideology.

Overall, 8.5 on 10.