Where Have All The Flowers Gone?

What do you do when you have two and a half months of complete vacousness ahead of you, coupled with mixed feelings about having no work and (therefore) no good reason to justify your existence? Well, I, for one, read. And when I say read, I mean READ. Getting into brag-mode, let me tell you I am a very, very fast reader. How fast? Well, I finished Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix in 5 hours. hah, take that! And I won a competition in British Council for being the fastest reader which got me 1 grand worth of books, tayk it! See, the thing is, to stop me from driving them up all kinds of walls with my endless questions and demands for stories, my parents hit upon the clever idea of teaching me to read, and shutting me up with a book. Since the age of three (or was it four?), there’s been no looking back. Ok, before I begin boring people into a coma (or have I hit a new high and managed to do that already?), let me snap out of it and get back to the point. The point being reading, and the kind of books I’m reading these days (and by the way the example quoted might give you a slightly inaccurate idea of my taste in reading, Harry Potter and I have mentally parted ways after the third book). Which, of course, brings us to the topic of trash. Pure, unadulterated trash (yes, I have noticed the oxymoron in that statement). I have been a loyal visitor to the British Council library everyday (the fact that it’s a five minutes’ walk from my place, helps) and have been assiduously filling up the biblical void generated by four months of Pilani with all kinds of “critically acclaimed” and “prize-winning” books. Is it just me, or do critics really need an all-expenses-paid holiday in Phuket, with breakfast included, bless their hearts? Probably a bit of both, but seriously, dude!!!! Ok, let me give you a blow-by-blow account of my adventures.

First book I pick up – a murder mystery called “Murder In Holy Orders” by P.D.James. Not too many people in my immediate circle have heard of her, which I think rather a pity because her books are actually good. Writing may drag at times, and you might wonder occasionally why intricate details about the clergy should interfere with your desire to know who-the-hell-dunnit, but all-in-all, a decent read.

Very well, encouraged by the success of my first pick, I began on the second. Virginia Woolf’s “The Waves”. I have read her “Mrs. Dalloway”, and it is one of my favourite books till date. The Waves looked promising enough – it’s supposed to represent some pinnacle of her creative ability – but I’m sorry, way too many characters. The stream of consciousness technique, beautiful in Mrs. Dalloway, becomes a pain here – dude, before you figure out what one person is thinking, the narrative has moved to the next, and all those intertwined emotions and relationships make you want to say “wait a minute – who’s in love with whom again?’. Sorry, had to leave it midway, captivating though her style is – it was too much of a mental effort.

Next stop – Ian McEwan’s “Atonement”. Rave reviews always make me a bit suspicious, but I wasn’t disappointed this time. Lovely rendition, although there was an entire section filled with absolutely trivial war-time details that added absolutely nothing to the story save a lot of irritation and skimmed over pages. But, still, a very good read. The end, especially is hauntingly beautiful, and I had to think up a lot of useless reasons to explain the misty eyes (coz, of course, only sentimental pre-pubescent females cry over books).

Next stop Terry Pratchett, “Hogfather”. Hilarious. Thanks to him, I was able, for once, to enjoy a book from beginning to end and at every nook and cranny in between, without once wondering whether this character seems natural, that scene is necessary, or whether my time is worth it. I understand his style might not appeal to all, but I, for one, am glad it does to me! I’m hooked. (And to those of you on whom the significance of my discovery of Terry Pratchett is not lost, let me reiterate, I may have read it on someone’s suggestion, but I like it without any pre-formed bias clouding my judgment).

So far so good. Wondering where all those fabled terrible works went, at who’s expense I might have been able to provide a few mean laughs? Here they come. My first selections, as it turned out, were merely a case of beginners’ luck (fine, resumers’ luck if you will). My next pick – 2004 Man Booker Prize winner, Alan Holinghurst’s “The Line of Beauty”. I should have known right then, any male author writing about beauty and its linear aspects – shearr gay. While mercifully unaware of the actual orientation of the author, his character’s extreme “gaiety” had me first merely wincing and then absolutely and completely disgusted and finally so out of patience and so completely on the verge of puking that I closed it with a resolute bang and promptly returned it. I hate it when I can’t finish a novel, no matter how bad, but I’m sorry, steamy details of gay orgies is not my idea of “curling up with a good book”. Fine, I grant that there are people with rather different tastes when it comes to sexual orientation, and yeah, I’m sure people have a right to write about them, but the point I want to raise is this – in this day and age, merely choosing a sensational topic transforms a work that is at best mediocre into “revolutionary” literature. The same story told with normal heterosexual characters would have probably had the critics throwing vegetables in various stages of putrefication at the author, because, really, the story is pure shit, at best a stretch of imagination (he falls in love with his gay boyfriend at the first blind date! What are the chances of that?) at worst, absolute drivel. And this most ordinary story won the Booker. I didn’t even get the reference to the title. It was said that Nick’s journey to find beauty would play a prominent role, but I found none, except his discovery of a “beautiful” rich lover. Blah!

Next – the much talked-about, hailed in glory “Brick Lane”, who’s author Monica Ali became an overnight star. The back and inner jacket of the book are filled to bursting point with rave reviews. So I started reading. Then, I realised after two pages that the story was already boring me, and although credible enough, was absolutely redundant and pointless and told in a most – for lack of a better term- weird style, weird voice. Ok, why does the author have to resort to broken English to translate a letter written in Bengali? What sense does it make to say “something has happen. It happen one month past but sometime I think not to tell you” – what the hell? The letter’s supposed to be in Bengali – what’s she trying to say, Bengali=Martian English? And the story – same old dal-chawal fare, parents trying to instill traditional values, children rebelling, been there, done that a million and one boring times. Fine, I give her credit in showing how the woman’s views undergo a change, how though she loves her husband, she silently rebels against some things. But still, hardly any impact. And of course she had to include boring war stuff again. Bah! Try finding a book these days without the shadow of looming catastrophe. I’m sick of it!

Next – Margaret Atwood’s Blind Assasin, Booker winner. Ok I really like her style. Storytelling is unique, the story within the story is unique, the story within the story within the story is extremely well written too. Everything’s fine, no one can doubt her skill. What’s missing then? I don’t know... a sense of relevance maybe... a sense of continuity... most of all normalcy...That’s what I miss most in all the modern day novels I’m reading. Why can’t the characters be normal for once, with normal lives, and the longings and disappointments and laughter and tears of a normal life, emotions we can identify with without having to delve into some dark trenches of our minds.... There’s an underlying note of trying-to-be-too-clever, trying-too-hard... Really, I sometimes so wish someone would write a nice, clean, old-fashioned romance again....Where have all the “normal”s gone? Outsold by freaks, every one.....