NOSE BETWEEN THE PAGES

A recent bout with viral fever made bed rest compulsory and, since I had a full quota of books from the Library, this turned out to be a not so bad thing.

‘Gilead’ – a Pulitzer Prize Winner by Marilynne Robinson – came strongly recommended by review and expressed opinion.  So I opened the cover with eager  anticipation.  It is a letter from a father to a son – to the young man that the present little boy will become.  The father is a pastor, from a long line of pastors, and the letter meanders slowly – even ponderously – between the past, the present and musings on what the future could probably hold.  There are insights which beg re-reading for the philosophy they express, but I was left wondering how the young man would receive this communication.  Youth is always urgent, needing the immediate solution, living in the moment.  The reading would necessarily – as was my own – have to be intermittent.  Quiet pauses in the activity of the day. And at the end of it all, would he understand that it was time well spent? That he had shared the memories of one who had passed on but was still present through his words? What kind of a reader would he be? For readers bring their own perspective to an author’s work – their own colouring, interpretation and reaction.  There have been books that left me untouched and yet other readers could wax lyrical on the riches to be plucked, showing me nuances that had somehow passed me by.

The jacket on my next book says ‘winner of the Somerset Maugham award’.  I am not too sure whether this refers to the author or this specific book of his – First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan. It is a collection of short stories each one dealing with sexual obsessions, the ‘private fantasy and nightmare’ of each and every protagonist from the paedophile to the coming of age teenager. Each story speaks from ‘inside the head’ and raises the uncomfortable question – ‘how real?’ We encounter strangers every day. What is really going on in their minds? Or for that matter, in the minds of those whom we claim to know?

The last book was reassuringly familiar.  Caroline Graham’s ‘A Place of Safety’ brought back DCI Barnaby of ‘Midsomer Murders’ fame. How I enjoyed that TV Series in all the seasons we were privileged to receive.  Here was simple reading: meet the characters, look at what they did, watch events unfold and the murders pile up till they are solved either by detection or by natural resolution. At every stage we are, with the ‘criminal’, one step ahead of the hapless Barnaby and in the process, we meet the interesting personalities and private lives of village folk who are never ever dull.

Three books, one that demanded reflection, the other disturbing and the third pure entertainment.  As I look forward to breaking open the cover of my next read – Malcolm Gladwell’s ‘What the Dog Saw’ – I wonder what awaits me.

Reading is such an adventure!

On Reading – II

Do you believe in coincidences? The next title I picked up gave me a feeling of déjà vu. Once again I travelled the corridors of corruption in our country’s capital. (When I was very little, I always stated with aplomb that I was born ‘in the Capital of India’ – it sounded so much more important than, ‘I was born in New Delhi’!)

I was told by a friend, whose opinion I respect, that I would find Aravind Adiga’s ‘White Tiger’ very readable. And indeed it was. This was a re-acquaintance with all that is familiar; I was enticed by the first person narrative that was so authentic in language, setting and context that I found myself reading way into the night, only to pick up as early as possible the next day. A day spent in the life of India’s teeming underbelly. This book is not for those who prefer fairy tales. It is, however, an excellent read for those who are inured to reality as represented by the daily news.

A fresh scan of the bookshelf showed me the ‘heavier’ reading which was on my ‘when I have the time and inclination’ list. My head was a little clearer, so I hefted the tomes and decided that a few pages at a time should do no harm. Umberto Eco had stimulated interest in the medieval, and the historical Church has always held its own special fascination, so I picked up the intriguingly titled ‘Holy Bones, Holy Dust’ - a scholarly work on how relics shaped medieval Europe. A few pages at a time? Perish the thought. As each chapter concluded, I would venture a few pages further. Here was history unfolding: a link to the past, and a slice of my own heritage reaching right back to the time of Christ. There was also irony, suspended belief and humour – all ingredients for an excellent read. Now, why wasn’t history taught this way when we were in school? To think that I avoided this fascinating subject for so many years all because of tutoring with tunnel vision! Even when done, I turned back to chapters that held some appealing tidbit or the other, just so that I could savour them again.

More history. Elizabeth I belongs to everyone, even though she was England’s queen. Her life holds a unique fascination not least because of her parentage but also because of her authoritative reign. For me, the definitive Elizabeth is the one described by Jean Plaidy. ‘Legacy’ by Susan Kay was leant to me by a friend; it came to me strongly recommended, but I was skeptical of what it could offer. But offer it did. Fact was fleshed out by description and conversation, attitudes and actions which could only have been imagined and yet sounded unquestionably sincere. Walls can hear but not speak. Perhaps the author gleaned something from the ghosts of London’s bloodied Tower? It certainly seemed as if she had been there on the spot. Another ‘unputdownable’ (my word for it!) read.

After this, there was one more treat in store: Orhan Pamuk’s ‘Other Colours’. I had read bits and pieces in other places, and I was hooked. This was an author whose deeper acquaintance I looked forward to. And I was delighted when I eventually got the chance. The books is a collection of essays: Pamuk has written about his beloved Turkey, his youth, his family, his daughter, his thoughts and aspirations, his writing and in every piece, he has invested himself so completely that the sincerity in the writing lends it a rare integrity. There are books which once read are read; there are others which you are loath to let go. This book belongs to the latter category - a book that will be a cherished companion.

Several titles down the line, I am, as you can see, firmly back in my favourite groove – the world of the printed page. It is a world that I had to leave for a while, and I am really glad to have found my way back.

On Reading - I

I am grateful to a mosquito. Bizarre but true! I was the perfect host, providing my uninvited guest with that nourishing drop of blood and, in return, it deposited in my veins the larvae and the consequent malarial fever which all of us try so hard to avoid. Mosquitoes are persistent little buggers* and despite all the precautions, there was I feverish, cross and confined to bed.

Doubters would wonder how I could possibly find the silver lining. Chills and sweats and bitter quinine are hardly the harbingers of halcyon skies. But there is one thing one can do very comfortably while lying in bed – read. I looked at all the titles on my bookshelf (some borrowed, some owned) waiting for that opportune breathing space. Was this to be it? Why not?

I picked up a light and frothy whodunit by an unfamiliar author (recommended by the library) which took care of day one. I found myself mulling over the kind of reader who could gush over such appalling triviality, a sketchy plot, oodles of amazingly wondrous settings and much too much gratuitous sex. And the blurbs on the dust jacket were ecstatic to say the least! Who was that who said, ‘Never judge a book by its cover’? I turned with alacrity to the familiar and well thumbed Agatha Christies and shed much of my irritation. On to PD James who bids fair to oust Christie from her ‘favourite’ position. James’ language and descriptive sketches – not least of the personalities that walk through her novels – are so wondrously absorbing. The reader actually meets the person and appears to live in the setting. And the prose is impeccable.

Lulled into a false sense of comfort, I became a little more adventurous and decided to sample another new author. Once again, the blurbs used adjectives in the superlative. Once again, I was left wondering about integrity in the world of publishing. Reviewers are supposed to be objective; though it is hard not to bring personal tastes to bear, surely if the work is not up to scratch it should not be foisted onto the unsuspecting reader? Peer reviews, which are a common trend, tend to put the reviewer in an invidious position and are therefore, in my very considered opinion, compromised!!

The book, which brought all this on, was nothing more than a collection of newspaper columns reporting various crimes. Since each successive report of the same crime was included, there was so much repetition, and the phrases ‘he said’, ‘he opined’, ‘he reiterated’ ‘he indicated’ concluded every sentence. Surely, the reports could have been collated and rewritten in more readable prose without negating the ‘true crime’ element? If this is what is required to write a ‘bestseller’, then all one has to do is accumulate clippings from the local newspaper and collate them into a single volume.

Perversely, I tried yet another new author. This time I laughed my way from cover to cover. No literary pretentions here. Another whodunit set in New Delhi, the narrative evoked the sights, sounds, smells and personalities of the locality so colourfully that it was impossible not to enjoy. Good ‘time pass’ to use a local phrase. I may not seek out this author (Tarquin Hall), but if another of his works comes my way, I will not turn up my nose. The review (in a magazine) was honest and reality met expectation.

I love to read and will continue to dip and delve and explore. Reading is like life – you have to take the bad with the good. Forget the first and savour the latter.

*One of the recent reference texts that came my way was titled ‘Teaching the Buggers to Write’, so I guess that’s one bit of slang that is now mainstream and I have taken the liberty of using it!