Sh*t My Dad Says : Justin Halpern

                                                                               Image Credit: Alicia Legg

Warning: Graphic review ahead. Reader discretion advised for profanity. (I have always wanted to say that!)

Fellow blogger Vaishnavi said in a recent comment that she laughs easily. I would add Birdy to that too, it doesn't take much to make her laugh. Well gals! If you ever pick up Shi*t My Dad Says by Justin Halpern, then I recommend that you arm yourself with a bucket of popcorn and a bunch of tissues to stop the tears that will be streaming down your face in sheer unadulterated laughter! I smiled throughout this book! I chuckled! And I laughed out aloud in places...well, a lot of places actually. And this after an annoying and irritating day when I had to do a colleague's work simply because Work From Home is interpreted as Work Free Hours. Shi*t My Dad Says is one of the funniest memoirs I have ever come across, and that is fucking saying something. (Excuse my language, but you will understand, it's my own tribute to Sam Halpern, this wonderful Dad who Justin says early in the book has always been a 'blunt individual.') Sigh. Sometimes I am so blunt that I can't slice butter.

"Now, as an adult, all day long I dealt with people - friends, coworkers, relatives - who never really said what they were thinking. The more time I spent with my dad in those first couple months back home, the more grateful I started to feel for the mixture of honesty and insanity that characterized his comments and personality." 

Amen to that!! So Justin becomes a stay-at-home-son after a breakup with his girlfriend while in his ripe twenties, and that prompts him to recollect his Dad's manic (to my ears, the most sensible) outpourings. In this world of political correctness, Sam is a breath of minty fresh air. Screw what the rest of the world thinks!! Life is an asshole and you have to watch the shit that comes out of that hole. I remember when I was rooming with Birdy in China and she happened to fall ill. Now, I hate coughs. And colds. And fevers. And people who shiver in bed all day with them. So Birdy spent a few days sniffling, sniffing and generally behaving like she was down with fucking tuberculosis and pneumonia. "Just because you are fucking lying in bed doesn't mean you can't haul your ass up here and chop these damn potatoes," I shouted at her while I tried to cook dinner. Poor thing. She didn't get the love and care ever from me, but you know she chopped the damn potatoes so well that they cured her of her imaginary tuberculosis.

"A three year old doesn't have a license to act like an asshole." 

Sam, Sam, please! I so loved this chapter when Sam teaches an irritating three-year old to just stop being an annoying asshole. How often I have wanted to say that! How scandalized all our lovey-dovey parents would be! Usually, I am met with a mixture of condescension and derision from the married and maternal class. "Oh! You get married, then you will know what it is like!" or "You don't have a kid. When you have one you will know," as if I am supposed to be missing the most divine enlightenment of life, and that this 'knowing' would transcend my poor pitiful status into one of glorious fulfillment! Good fucking heavens I think to myself. Fulfillment doesn't come in cleaning your father's shit, or husband's shit or your baby's fucking soiled diapers. Fulfillment is when you are tottering at 85, wearing an adult diaper, and realizing that the only fucking shit you should ever have had to clean was your own. Why do you think the Buddha had to leave his family to reach nirvana? But no! "What do you know! You are not a wife or a mother!" And imagine if you introduce the world's best gynecologist, who happens to be male, to these same annoying types, brimming with the shared circle of motherhood, and they recite shared tales of menstruation and menopause and every single thing that can happen in that goddamned womb, and that poor male gynecologist nods and makes the fatal mistake of saying "I know," while writing down the prescription. Imagine the hell! "What do you know you fool!! Your fucking testosterone-fueled body has never had things crawling out a damn hole!" See the point? I take such people to the forest, and see a tiger and warn them it might bite, they might say "So what do you know! Have you ever been bitten by a tiger?!"

So it was with immense pleasure I read exactly how Sam brings a badly behaving three-year old to its tender knees. Absolutely. Being a kid doesn't mean you have the right to act like an asshole. If the fucking kid is running around the damn Hilton, taking food from other people's plates, and screaming for the sheer joy of screaming, and the indulgent parents look at the kid and mouth 'Ain't he so cute?! How well he screams!" you have to grit your teeth and smile at the fucking kid behaving like an asshole when all you want to do is shove his diaper inside his mouth. I wish I can be as blunt as Sam. Or rather I was till I was told to cut the crap, the sarcasm, and tell things gently. I try. I honestly do. But you know, I really can't pat you on the back, and count all the ways in which you are foolish, and wrap an arm around your shoulders and heave you through the sheer  misery of being a fucking fool. If you are being a fucking fool, there is just one way to say that. And that's always got me into trouble. Ah well, maybe someone might one day say "sh*t this fucking SoulMuser says..." and I might be plucked from obscurity and into the lap of that goddamned fulfillment!



Verdict: Are you fucking kidding me? Read it!


Rating: 5/5

Sarah's Key : Tatiana de Rosnay

                                                                    Image Credit : deslivresetdesanges.blogspot

Monday morning here, and I am fresh from reading Tatiana de Rosnay's riveting Sarah's Key. The World Wars is a genre that Birdy is a fan of. I can't say I am as fascinated by the holocaust and the stories that have emerged from that brutal human tragedy as she is, but all the same, I am ready for a revealing, moving story anytime, and Sarah's Key provided me just that.

Tatiana de Rosnay chooses a little-heard of 'incident' if one may be so harsh as to call it so to base her plot on. On July 16, 1942, the French police, allegedly under instructions from Germany, were ordered to round up all the Jews in Paris. Sarah, a ten-year old, and her parents are among the Jews who were taken to the massive stadium, Vélodrome d'Hiver, and then transported in cattle trains to Auschwitz. The French police were brutal in this round-up, sparing none, and in the cruelest blow of it all, separating women from their children. The reason? The Germans had asked for only men and women so that it may give people the impression that these Jews were being sent to the labor camps, and not straight to the gas chambers. The French were overzealous in their endeavor, and were left with the problem of children, useless beings, as they are. This is the background. And the overwhelming tragedy of it is that poor Sarah locks up her little brother, Michel, in a secret closet in her apartment in Paris, naively believing that they would be gone for just a few hours, and taking the key with her. That is Sarah's Key. The horrible knowledge of guilt that she has to live with for the rest of her life.

The novel alternates between Sarah's voice and Julia Jarmond, a 45-year old stuck in a unhappy marriage, who as a journalist chances upon the Vel d Hiv story and strangely finds Sarah's past inexorably linked with her own chaotic present, especially since she is about to move into the same apartment that Sarah once lived in, and which has been her in-laws' for decades now. From then, it is a matter of uncovering family secrets, discovering Sarah's escape from the camp, and a frantic journey to find Sarah herself. I don't have a problem with the novel's juxtaposition of Sarah's past, and then the contemporary tale of Julia. What I did have a problem is that in the latter half of the novel, Tatiana de Rosnay removes Sarah's voice altogether, and we are left to piece together her life through Julia's narrative. Consequently she loses a bit of the momentum and the captivation that she had built up in the earlier half of the novel, and towards the end, Julia's search appears a bit unreasonable, bordering on the obsessive almost, and the book ends in a rather predictable ending which is sad considering the beginning.

Verdict: Compulsively readable. 


Rating: 4/5

Me Talk Pretty One Day : David Sedaris

                                                                            Image Credit : Agbookreviews.

Wow. Something is wrong with my funny bone. The humorous, is that what it is called? I think it's missing.  It's been a long week - the month of August seems to the longest in the year, and really, I can't wait for September to arrive - even if the philosophers say life is just the same, day after day, the latter months of the year always bring a fresh urgency to life - and at the same time, a winding down, a gentle slowdown, and then the reliving of the past that this year has been. Having said that, August with its dark brooding clouds is not entirely unwelcome - the darkness is the only way to welcome the sunshine when it finally appears. But I had to laugh. No, not at David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day. I had to laugh when a friend of mine picked up on my mood, while being in far away Germany, and urged me to write a particular character in a novel we have been collaborating on - because she said, 'it really connects to the mood in your blog.' At least, we have words to spew all the darkness of life on. :-)

This is not a typical review in the technical sense. So, I read Me Talk Pretty One Day. And I suffered through it. It elicited the odd chuckle from me. A smile here. A grin there. But that's it. From a noted humorist, the book was lacking some spark. Perhaps, I started off on the wrong note - I picked it not realizing it was a bunch of essays, but rather a novel. So can you believe the extent of my 'mood' as it took me some 50 odd pages before I realized that this all seemed disconnected? The first chapter, the author is this lisping child who has to go through speech therapy torture, then after a while I am reading about his marijuana-fused state in college, the next is childhood, and well, I was pretty dumb not to spot that there is no life story here as much as life reflections.

What makes me laugh? That is a question I am considering. Really seriously. :-). I can watch comedies with a poker face - and most jokes fall flat on their brittle bones. I think for some reason, I laughed uproariously at a scene in a Bridget Jones movie, and startled my friend no end in the process. I think I kind of laugh at human absurdities - usually, me being the human absurdity contriving to make my life more difficult than what it is. But the last time I laughed? I mean...think SoulMuser, think. Sheesh. I can now burrow my head in shame. Join a laughter club, you say? Why aren't there any crying clubs though? I mean if only people can just sob in catharsis as much as laugh in catharsis, then whoa, we would have parks all around us that screech and wail, or guffaw and chortle in equal measure. And few like yours truly who can neither chortle or blubber can watch the proceedings, and develop our own unique emotion that can somehow convey what it is to laugh and cry at the same time.

So, you think you need a bit of laughing? Umm. Watch Mr Bean. Give me a call, and listen to the seemingly elaborate way I twist my life. Or yeah, watch that scene in Bridget Jones where she goes skiing. But, ok, you don't want any of these appealing prospects? Then read Me Talk Pretty One Day. Maybe it might make YOU laugh - it's got pretty good reviews, and I strongly suspect that my low laughter quotient places me in a minority in not liking this book.

Verdict : Surprising letdown.


Rating: 1/5

The Plains of Passage: Jean Auel

Image Credit: Amazon

This month my “books read” list has not extended much. Thanks to reading fat books such as Jean Auel’s “The Plains of Passage.” This is the fourth book in the entire Earth’s Children series out of a total of five. I had read the first book last year and since then have been hooked on to the series. In this book, we follow Ayla and Jondalar’s journey across plains, glaciers and mountains back to the Zelandonii, that is Jondalar’s people. A brief introduction for those not familiar with this series – Auel’s epic story is set in the Ice Age and follows the life of Ayla a girl who lives with the Clan. Later on she meets Jondalar and both travel across the vast plains meeting different tribes and their journey is of course filled with adventures.

I have simplified it to the bare minimum here and there’s a lot, lot more that happens, in all these books that makes you want to finish the book without stopping. That said, I was a bit disappointed with The Plains of Passage, a huge volume at 865 pages. Until around 500 pages, nothing much happens. The only dialogue occurs between Jondalar and Ayla as they travel, set camp, watch their pet horses and a wolf, make food and continue to travel. This is pretty much the pattern followed interspersed with long descriptions of the landscape. Although this is beautiful, after a point I was getting impatient. And then Jondalar lands into a foreign camp as a prisoner and for the next 100 pages or so the story becomes more interesting. After that, it maintains some momentum until the end of the book although it threatens to slip into the previous monotony time and again.

I thought the ending was clichéd, very much expected. Auel could have given it a different angle but then now I am curious to see what happens in the last book of the series. This book gave the impression that Auel had found an easy template and she was conveniently following it. But I guess when two people are traveling in that kind of landscape, there IS only so much possible.

To readers who have not read Auel – Don’t be put off by this review. The first book is so well-written that you will not put it down.


Verdict: Well I love Ayla’s story even though it became a bit boring in this book!

Rating: 3/5

Versedays: Autumn Passed Through Paris by Endre Ady

Autumn Street Scene in Paris by Childe Hassam, 1889 - Image Credit: Gatochy, Flickr

While searching for poems for Versedays I stumbled upon some Hungarian poetry. Fascinated, I looked into some of the famous Hungarian poets, and the one name that kept coming up, apart from a couple of others, was that of Endre Ady. Known as perhaps the greatest Hungarian poet to have influenced scores of young generations, Ady’s poetry was surreal and revolutionary in its themes. In fact, it is said that Ady broke the shackles of rhyme before T.S. Eliot in Europe, and wrote free verse. I chose one of his more readable poems, in terms of simplicity, for Versedays. Sadly, Hungarian poetry continues to remain very much unknown although it has broken out of the country and travelled outside. I hope we discover more of it.

Autumn Passed Through Paris

by

Endre Ady


Autumn slipped into Paris yesterday,
came silently down Boulevard St Michel,
In sultry heat, past boughs sullen and still,
and met me on its way.

As I walked on to where the Seine flows by,
little twig songs burned softly in my heart,
smoky, odd, somber, purple songs. I thought
they sighed that I shall die.

Autumn drew abreast and whispered to me,
Boulevard St Michel that moment shivered.
Rustling, the dusty, playful leaves quivered,
whirled forth along the way.

One moment: summer took no heed: whereon,
laughing, autumn sped away from Paris.
That it was here, I alone bear witness,
under the trees that moan.

The Ladder of Years : Anne Tyler

                                                            Image Credit : Booksamillion

It seems like its been ages since I have finished a book. And indeed it is. 3 weeks is a long time in book-reading lives. Somehow, my mind was so distracted by the bizarre convolutions of human behavior I have witnessed over the past few weeks that I found that I could barely concentrate on the written word. Beneath my bluster and swagger lies a fairly sensitive soul (that's why SoulMuser!), which finds it difficult to comprehend that people can cast you off like old pickles in the larder, and that affections professed in words are just pretty words on a nameless human scroll of superficiality. It's funny how we exist inside boxes, and the minute one box is closed, the person inside is closed too. And oh! I would rather have silence than that mistress of illusion called superficiality! I picked up Charlotte Bronte's Villette, but found the highbrow classical style of writing a bit of a drag on my strained mind, so I turned to Anne Tyler's The Ladder of Years.

This was indeed a much easier read, demanding no mental exercise, and just the lull of words to take you away from the machinations of the petty world we live in. Delia Grinstead is a homemaker, much married to Dr Sam Grinstead with three children of varying ages, Ramsay the eldest, Susie, and Caroll, the just-turned teenager. A chance encounter leads to a very brief attraction with Adrian BlyBrice, a younger man, who Delia finds soon enough is hardly her 'type.' Faced with the frustrations of dealing with three children, who now think of her as much as they think of the washing machine, and her husband, who after years of marriage, is just another person on the bed, Delia does the unthinkable. On a family vacation, she absconds. Without a word. Without a trace. And lands herself in Bay Borough, where she reinvents her life first as a secretary and later as a housekeeper to the Millers, Joel and his son Noah. It's a classic notion of feminism that Anne Tyler chooses to explore here : how can a woman leave her family? We know that a woman is defined by her family. Take that away and what do you have? That is exactly what Delia seeks to find.

Her children and Sam leave her alone, most of the time, and apart from the odd letter, Delia finds herself tuning into life in Bay Borough. A lot of the book deals with Delia's growing adaptation to life in that small town - and her eventual attachment to the Millers. This part was fine - the woman discovering after years in the kitchen that she can work (hooray!), and slowly branching out parts of her self that she never realized. But Tyler has to dash it. After building up an interesting premise, we are led to the classic letdown.

Warning: Spoiler ahead. It's a very cliched book, so you may guess the ending in the beginning, but still, if you would rather read the novel, then stop at this point.

What an end!! It's like Anne Tyler just got tired of Delia and her woes. She got tired of writing. She got tired of life. I don't know. Delia returns home for her daughter Susie's wedding, and bang! After a lot of commotion over the wedding, she finds that she has traveled so far only to reach home, to reach Sam, and presto, the end! The poor Millers are left hanging. In fact, just before she left, Delia shares a kiss with Joel Miller. What was that about? Two days later, she crawls back to her husband's bed, a husband who has remained unresponsive thus far, and finds her life complete. And it seems I am not alone in being disappointed. I agree with Tom Conoboy when he wonders what Nat, Noah Miller's grandfather was doing driving up to Delia's house. It seemed rather a pathetic device to just add some fluff to a dying plot. There are too many loose ends, and yes, no novel should come neatly gift-wrapped, but when you make the reader feel robbed, then it is literary crime.


Verdict : Unsatisfactory

Rating:2/5

Versedays: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

Image Credit: fenixrysing

I hadn’t read anything much by Maya Angelou until I came across this beautiful and stunning poem called “I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings.” It is one of her most powerful and popular poems, describing the thirst for freedom. Angelou, an African-American, penned down her struggles during1950s America, a nation torn apart by racial differences, in her autobiography by the same name as this poem. But the verse perhaps packs more punch in its brevity. The poem’s subject is definitely not caged to the single theme of racism; it can be freely interpreted to mean personal and individual freedom from the shackles of society as well or freedom from barriers that one creates for oneself. Take this piece, read it out, see where you can free yourself. I for one was much inspired.

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

by

Maya Angelou


The free bird leaps
on the back of the win
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill for the caged bird
sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
an the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Treasure Island: Robert Louis Stevenson

Image Credit: Amazon

I can’t seem to get enough of Robert Louis Stevenson! Why didn’t I read his works earlier! “Treasure Island” which I just finished was as engaging and entertaining as Kidnapped. Fellow blogger Vishy had even then mentioned the joys of this book and had urged me to read it. First the synopsis, although most of you might already know it – Jim Hawkins, a young boy, comes into possession of a treasure map. He shares this information with Doctor Livesey and Squire Trelawney who immediately gears up to find the treasure. They set sail with a handful of trusted men but later find out that they are amongst buccaneers. Fights ensue and amidst it all they reach the island where the treasure is at. What follows is a highly enjoyable account of piracy, deceit, honesty, leadership and above all – finding the big treasure!

Jim Hawkins is every inch the excitable boy who throws himself headlong into any adventure that comes his way, whether it is for the good or bad. At times he seems to possess a certain intelligence that goes beyond his age but at others he also displays the typical foolhardiness that comes from being so young.

Long John Silver is the other personality in the book that caught my attention. Imbued with shades of darkness and trickery, Silver is intriguing. His physical sketch is that of a classical pirate –

“His left leg was cut off close by the hip, and under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with wonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird. He was very tall and strong, with a face as big as a ham – plain and pale, but intelligent and smiling.”

Only a scar somewhere is missing! He reminded me of Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbeans for some reason.

What dampened my reading pleasure, albeit to a minor extent, was the use of sea vocabulary and ship terms. Also, the language of the pirates was not really easy to follow and sometimes I had to re-read a few sentences. But these reinforce authenticity to the tale and Stevenson’s fast paced writing is to be lauded. Well, needless to say, I look forward to reading Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde, next in my Stevenson list.

Verdict: Be prepared to be carried away to the seas and go on a treasure hunt!

Rating: 4/5

Versedays: Beyond by SoulMuser

Image Credit: SoulMuser

Finally, Versedays shyly introduces the first of our own poetry, fresh and homegrown at Lifewordsmith ;) The first one I chose from SoulMuser's collection. She is a wonderful writer who can nail down every thought, feeling and fleeting mood with utmost clarity through her words. And her poetry, is even better. I don't want to elaborate more, instead I will just let you just read the poem.

Beyond

by

SoulMuser


Circles of sandpaper trail across
All the pieces of life I own
The yawning gaps of
Churning memories
Leaving their scars
Across the interned
Remains of the soul.

Thousand forms of dusk
Part brittle tender husks
Mellowed in wine of the past
And cherished in the seed of hope
Through the dark jagged river
Flowing green through my mind.

A mind that runs its walk
On avenues of paved desires
Wearing the leaves of experience
With disdain and despair

Yet casting a net of light
Gentle and masked
Behind these caves of dark
Are all the suns of our lives
Shadows of laughter
Crystal constellations of warmth
Reminding me through
Through and through
That life is
Beyond the mind
Beyond the soul
Beyond.

Aparajito - The Unvanquished: Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadhyay

Image Credit: birdy

I have always been a fan of Bengali writers. They have such a way of language and such a beautiful turn of phrase. I only rue that I cannot read these gems in Bengali but have to search for their English translations. “Aparajito: The Unvanquished” by Bibhutibhushan Bandhopadhyay is one such book.

( A small aside to our non-Indian readers. Bengali is one of the languages spoken in Eastern India. The author's first name is pronounced as - bee-booty-boo-shun and his second name is - bund-o-pad-yai).

It’s the second in a trilogy. The first being the much acclaimed Pather Panchali or Song of the Road followed by the current book wrapped by the third one, which is Apur Sansar or The World of Apu (yes, not Apu’s World).

In Pather Panchali we learn of Apu, who will be the central character in the following novels, and his world. It consists of his father Harihar Roy, his mother Sarbajaya, his sister Durga, his friends and the village, which is very dear to him. I had read this book a while ago and I am sad to find that I don’t remember a lot of details. Anyway, in Aparajito we are privy to Apu’s schooldays in his village where he runs along its paths without a care in the world. But as he grows up he becomes the sole breadwinner and he is forced to support his widowed mother. Apu, though, hates these responsibilities and after much argument he leaves his village for further studies. We are taken through his college days after which he struggles to find a steady job. He gets married in rather unexpected circumstances but Apu grows to love his wife. After his wife’s tragic death during childbirth Apu gives into his wanderlust again until he comes to realize his responsibilities towards his son, which brings him back to his world.

Actually, this is such a vast canvas of a book that I don’t quite know how to go about writing this review. Or where to begin. Let me begin with Apu, our hero. Apu fills the book with his impudence as a child, his impulsive behavior as a college student, his restlessness after marriage, his grief after his wife’s death and with his newfound maturity towards the end of this 472 page tome. Apu is a dreamer. His thirst for knowledge and curiosity to learn everything there is to learn is quite infectious. His enthusiasm for life and childlike innocence never fades even after he goes through many a trial by fire. Apu’s life at first seems like one big struggle to make ends meet. He hardly ever has his pockets full and the rare times he does he is so impulsive and foolishly generous that he ends up spending it on trivial things or on his friends. I think the most apt description of Apu’s character occurs somewhere in the beginning –

“Mr Dutta watched him go and sighed. He had been a teacher for thirty years. But never before had he come across a student like Apu. Imaginative, idealistic, perhaps just a little foolish and impulsive, but totally innocent, guileless and with an amazing thirst for knowledge.”

Marriage to Apu, initially, is a millstone around his neck. Never having got used to responsibilities, Apu feels claustrophobic.

“What happens to ninety-nine out of a hundred men had also happened to Apu: marriage, a rented room, the job of a clerk, baby food, and other baby paraphernalia. All except the last two items, perhaps, but the general picture was the same.”

Until he learns to love his wife and then loses her. But then Apu was never one to form attachments that kept him tied in grief. He would carry the pain for sometime but what sustained him was change and the countryside. He would feel free and uplifted in dark jungles, high mountains and grassland but would instantly feel restless in the big, steaming city that was Calcutta.

I could go on and on about Apu, but he is endless. There is no way I can encompass Apu in these few hundred words. All I can say is Bandopadhyay has done such a brilliant job in painting Apu’s portrait that I just could not put this book down. Of course there are other significant characters too, who support him, who surround him with their kindness and who are constantly present in the book. Bandhopadhyay brings alive post-independence Calcutta with the same fervor with which he does rural Bengal. I could see the fields and the trees and even the food that is peculiar to this geography.

But more than anything it's Apu who affected me. Each time Apu did something foolish I would frown and each time he wondered at the stars in the night I would get lost too. Apu’s intensity and excitement for life, as I said, is really admirable. He observes at one point after listening to many of his friends’ stories that it looked like he alone nurtured this thirst for life. At the end of the book when he seems to have settled his restless, wandering mind a bit, he muses –

“But there is something that puzzles me. Can you tell me why most people seem devoid of curiosity, or an ability to express wonder? To be able to wonder is a very special gift. A person who is not moved, or surprised by anything may as well be dead. I have seen people – big and powerful people in the city – spend all their time on such small, insignificant matters. Living itself is an art. To succeed in the business of living, one must know this; or become bankrupt very early in life.”

How true can that get! These are things I myself wonder about during my contemplative moods and these thoughts are not limited to any particular period. They are as relevant today as it was during Apu's times, the 1950s.

Living is indeed an art. To withstand the pressures of life and yet keep up a zest for life is a balance few can manage. Most get stuck in the rut of duties, of work and anything else that seems so trivial when compared to the larger act of living. Now you know why I cannot encompass Apu here. He is just too vast. As life itself.

Verdict: Beautiful, beautiful work. I can’t wait to find the third part to this amazing trilogy.

Rating: 5.5/5

The Armies : Evelio Rosero

                                                                                   Image Credit : Ediciona
Wow. What is it with Latin American writers? Gabriel Garcia Marquez was a master at work. And now his countryman, Evelio Rosero, has spun a bewildering, agonizing tale of war - visceral violence that seeps through the guts of each page, but still Rosero redeems it with the sweet blood of love.

I confess I had virtually zero knowledge of Colombia before reading The Armies. And this is what I learned. "As many as 100,000 people - mostly civilians - have been killed or "disappeared" in the past 20 years in a conflict involving the army, narco-traffickers, guerrillas and paramilitaries, according to Amnesty International." Now, after this brutal introduction, I know I cannot rest till I unearth more of Colombia's undoubtedly fabulous writers. The Armies won last year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, and deservedly so.

Rosero gives us Ismael, an old professor, 70 years of age, whose favorite pastime in San Jose (Note to The Times reviewer, it is NOT San Juan, but San Jose) is spying on the beautiful Geraldina, his neighbor, and then squabbling with his wife of 40 years Otilia. The beginning is sensual and rich - a garden of Eden before an abrupt plummeting fall into senseless violence, narrated by Ismael. Colombia has suffered decades of armed conflict with the FARC rebels - and although Rosero does not name them, it is apparent that San Jose is troubled by the friction between the Colombian paramilitary and the rebels - caught in their ceasefire are helpless civilians, people like Geraldina whose husband and son are kidnapped for ransom, the bar owner Chepe's pregnant wife is taken, and even Otilia disappears. As the town begins to disintegrate in the conflict, so too does Ismael's mind. Despite his fondness for other women, it is obvious how deep his love for Otilia is. I remember this particular passage, which moved me. Ismael is at Chepe's, and one of the people at the bar-cafe address him.

"Profesor, stop in at the post office. There were two letters for you."
"Really? So there's still post?"
"The world hasn't come to end, profesor," says one of the ones who laugh.
"What do you know," I say. "Your world may not have ended, but mine has."

Ah, it touched me this passage. The old man, a voyeur of women to the end, still eyeing Geraldina's breasts, but missing Otilia to the end. Ismael is a difficult character to understand, and there are times when Rosero's effort to convey a stream-of-consciousness style narrative confuses the plot a bit. I can't say I grasped all of Ismael's wanderings, but he is an interesting narrator, hard to dislike, but hard to love too. Yet, slowly, I grew to love Ismael. There was an aching vulnerability yet strength to him. And I was right! Ismael waits for Otilia till the end. And what an end! Rosero makes the entire story descend into an orgy of violence so fantastical that it borders on Marquez's famed magic realism style, but frightening because we know that he is hinting at truth. The violence in Colombia has since settled a bit under Alvaro Uribe's tough hands, but drug lords, rebels, corruption and sheer inhumanity always lurk around the corner. Somehow, war is a human pastime.

Verdict : If you would like to discover a little bit more of the world we live in, then I strongly urge you pick up The Armies.


Rating:4/5

City of Thieves: David Benioff

Image Credit: birdy

And Birdy is back with a book review, after what seems like ages to myself! David Benioff’s “City of Thieves,” which has received much acclaim in the blogosphere, shouldn’t take much time to read. This fast-paced book, set in World War II Russia in the biting cold of winter, tells the story of Lev, a shy, chess-loving 17 year old boy and Kolya, a smooth talking 20 year old Russian soldier who has run away from his army. He refuses to call it “desertion” though for reasons he explains elaborately. These two contrasting people are thrown together on an unlikely adventure, a mission, which they have to complete or they die.

Let me tell you, I could not keep the book down from the start. The plotline hangs on such a whimsical thread and yet Benioff manages to make it sound serious enough that we hold our breaths at many points. Kolya provides much entertainment with his brash and swaggering manner typical of a boy barely out of his teens. He is a talker, a lover of women and his humor is so silly that we burst out laughing. Lev on the other hand is a dark and brooding personality and we hardly ever see him laugh. He is more emotional and serious and many a time he thinks Kolya is a “stupid Cossack.”

Benioff writes with lyricism and poetry. The landscape of Nazi Russia comes alive and crackles with wartime energy. Bullets zing, people are hounded and buildings are burnt. In fact, the experience is so real that I felt like I was sitting in a movie theatre. That is strength of the book but also a weakness. At times I felt I was reading a movie script complete with the dialogue and props that are needed for the scenes. For instance see this passage –

On Nevsky Prospekt all the shops had been closed for months. We saw two women in their sixties walking very close together, their shoulders touching, eyes on the sidewalk looking for the patch of ice that could kill them. A man with a glorious walrus mustache carried a white bucket filled with black nails. A boy, no more than twelve, tugged a sled with a length of rope. A small body wrapped in blankets lay on the sled, a bloodless bare foot dragging along on the hard-packed snow, arrayed in rows to hinder the movement of enemy tanks. A printed sign on the wall read WARNING! THIS SIDE OF THE STREET IS THE MOST DANGEROUS DURING THE BOMBING.

See what I mean? I could almost see the camera panning along, showing all these descriptions on the screen. I agree with fellow blogger over at Incurable Logophilia who says it should have been a film rather than a book. Perhaps, the fact that Benioff is a scriptwriter in real life does influence the book to a great extent. Yes, no doubt it’s entertaining, a page-turner replete with quirky characters and a darkly funny storyline. One of the few books we find that is able to carry off a humorous storyline amidst such a grim background.

To state the bottomline – read it. It’s highly amusing and a great way to spend a couple of hours.

Verdict: Never a dull moment with this one

Rating: 3.5/5

Versedays: Barter by Sara Teasdale

Image Credit: livelifewell

It’s true that we don’t realize the value of the things we have in our lives many times. We take them for granted. Simple experiences like feeling the rain, watching the full moon or just enjoying a good cup of coffee as if you have never had it before – they all form part of the appreciation of life. So here is a poem to remind us to do so. To live our lives completely and with all we have. “Barter” by American poet Sara Teasdale is so rich in meaning and imagery that I read it a few times. Teasdale herself, sadly, did not have an exactly wonderful life and she ended it by committing suicide. But her beautiful words live on imparting inspiration to others, like me.

Barter

by

Sara Teasdale


Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.