The Story, Not the Teller

THERE MAY BE SPOILERS.

An AHA! moment came with the completion of this book. None of the Cormoran Strike novels are described as Thriller/Crime/Mystery on the covers. They are simply “A CB Strike Novel, or a “Cormoran Strike Novel”. So all past rumblings of “Who wants to know so much about the private lives of the detectives”? are now laid to rest.

The feeling of frustration at losing the thread of the mystery due to so much digression into the parallel and often not intertwining lives of Cormoran and Robin remains, though. Especially as a large chunk of the 942 pages of “Troubled Blood” is about the illness and subsequent death of Cormoran’s Aunt Joan. A smaller chunk would have sufficed. A little less Cornish politics, fewer pages on the floods in Cornwall, circa February 2014, and a bit more about the palliative nurse who looked after Joan would have made the realisation that Cormoran comes to, as he winds up the case, seem more thoughtful. Then there is the ever present Charlotte, often in absentia, whose shenanigans in this novel do not relate in any way to its resolution. Is anyone interested in her?

The mystery, which can be seen as the main plot, is intriguing, gripping, and told well. This, in spite of the plethora of characters with divergent histories, and all encompassing lies.  Trying to play detective became tedious. It was more enjoyable to just keep up with the characters and allow the mystery to resolve. Going with the flow has never been more helpful.

The Author’s superb word sketches of people brought them to life in a way reminiscent of the original Harry Potter books. Meticulous research created a clear picture of London in 1974-75 London. The walk that Cormoran and Robin take to try and recreate the doctors last known minutes was a spellbinding few pages. Many such incidents occur in the story, and make the book hard to put down. Not since the Harry Potter novels, has this Author commanded such attention.

There were a few instances where the famous maxim of “show, don’t tell” slipped, and, in an Author of such repute and experience, unexpected.

To address the ever boiling issue of transphobia in this novel – there is a character who is referenced throughout the novel, and appears in one scene, who occasionally dressed up as a women for nefarious purposes. This person is not Transgender, or even an habitual cross dresser. Nor did he always dress up as a woman when he kidnapped women. His behaviour in the one scene he appears makes the skin crawl, and it is not because he has dressed up as a woman in order to abduct women in the past. While the Author may be transphobic, the book did not read as such.

The Author has a pattern of airing her political views via her books, which can irritate. The Cornish wish for, and the Scottish bid for Independence get too much air time in this one, specially since neither of them actually have any relevance to the story.

In as much as the Author’s anti feministic views goes, the family of the good doctor would never have had an abortion, specially after having a child of her own. The doctor, having been missing for close on 40 years, does not get a say, so her views are not expressed. It would seem, though, that her behaviour in helping  a patient to have a safe abortion, and the supportive care afterwards,  tells a story of its own.

With reference to the Slut Walk – and Cormoran’s view that such a walk would not reduce crime, or change attitudes, may deserve an airing. Both Cormoran and Robin, and specially Robin, have provided ample evidence through five novels that they neither of them think that the victim of rape, or violence, “deserves it”.

The 5 star rating is because this was a book that was hard to put down, right from the get go. The resolution was surprising, and in this cynical day, this last is hard to do.

Footnote: Another story in which Astrology coincidentally almost gets it right. It would have been funny, if it had not been explained away by an overactive (or was it under active?) thyroid.

Sands of Struggle

Dune – Frank Herbert – first published – 1966 FIVE minus TWO stars. (different to THREE stars )

Dune has been labelled by many as the best science fiction book ever, has a starry eyed fan following, and was first recommended to me by a primary school teacher who has an intense interest in science, science fiction and teaching. In spite of that, and the fact that the book has been on my bookshelf for around ten years, I never read it. For one thing, I am wary of reading books which have an indiscriminate fandom. Fans who seem to like things because they are “just so great!” Or “amazing!” or any other things that define a following but not the followed. Other than the long ago met teacher, those who recommended Dune to me seemed to me to be more of the starry eyed kind rather than the nerd. Nerds are great because they can defend and discuss their background research and solidify their appreciation in a way I understand.

I started reading Dune without any expectations, just curious. My on-his-way-out-of-adolescence son recommended (insisted) that I read it as he wishes us to continue our family tradition of watching science fiction movies together when the new Dune movie comes out in 2020. He said it would be better to read the book before we saw the movie. I am glad I did. I did end up giving it four stars. A better rating would be 5 stars minus 2 for the anti feminist shades. It is surprising, because in the 1960s feminism was a surging heard all around the world. More on this in the spoiler alerted section.

The story works within the parameters of young adult fiction, which is how I would categorise it. There are strong elements of mysticism threaded with scientific imagination, interwoven within superstition which makes the premise seem like real life. Intelligent, rebellious youth trained in martial arts, the sciences, mind and body control meets destiny to become a religious leader. It is an old story (no shame there) retold with an endeavour to unify the various arms of knowledge and wisdom mankind may gather. It is easy to fall in love with young Paul and follow his growth into a religious leader who is also a political head of government with a fanatical following. It is easy to recognise his wisdom, and understand how difficult it is for his followers to see the glitz and not the conniving and the heartbreak behind the life which Paul must lead. It is easy for the reader to root for the young, wise one who sees his own glamour and his pitfalls equally clearly, but eventually makes decisions based on what would be good for All.

The “Litany Against Fear” – perhaps holds the strongest appeal for today’s young adult reading this book. Standing on the brink of adulthood, faced with an uncertain and unseen future, expected to make choices about education and career about a life yet unseen, this would be a strong mantra to draw strength from –
“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

This is not a new concept. Anyone who is familiar with ancient philosophies, has seen meditations about overcoming fear in some form or the other. It is placed perfectly in a story about an adolescent trying to bring sense to an adult world, therefore, it grips the imagination. It may even be helpful to memorise, for the so inclined.

Another quote – nothing new in itself, but good to be found in a story which grips popular imagination.
“When religion and politics travel in the same cart, the riders believe nothing can stand in their way. Their movements become headlong – faster and faster and faster. They put aside all thoughts of obstacles and forget the precipice does not show itself to the man in a blind rush until it’s too late.”

!!!!!!!!!!!!!
SPOILER ALERT
!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I have taken two stars away from the perfect rating for the two following reasons.

1. According to the Bene Gesserit legend, the saviour of mankind would be “Kwisatz Haderach”. He – note the pronoun – would have powers that no woman could ever have because a woman could look into the Truth everywhere but one place. The Kwisatz Haderach would see the whole truth because he would see where woman could and more. This is a not so subtle acceptance that a man is capable of more than a woman because a woman has limitations which a man does not. I have no idea whether Frank Herbert intended to convey this message. If it is unintentional, it is worse, because it reveals a hidden belief, and thus the more dangerous.

The story has many powerful women who are pivotal to the plot, but they are secondary to the Kwisatz Haderach, by decree – of the author. The mother, without whose training Paul would not have been ready when the need arose, the lover who stood by him through the wars, the sister who was more formidable than an adult in her knowledge, understanding, and skills, the wife whom he accepted and who immortalised his story with her gift of the pen. They all exist but to advance the job and fame of the Kwisatz Haderach, not for their own brilliant space in the legend.

2. The last paragraph of the book-
“Think on it, Chani: that princess will have the name, yet she’ll live as less than a concubine—never to know a moment of tenderness from the man to whom she’s bound. While we, Chani, we who carry the name of concubine—history will call us wives.”

Paul marries Irulan to ensure his position in the Imperium. He promises Chani that Irulan will never know a moment of tenderness from him, and she will be his only love. I do not know what the future books will bring, but Jessica’s comment makes my blood run cold. The idea of Jessica and Chani to be remembered as wives, not as the Reverend Mother or the woman who fought an equal battle at the side of Paul seems repugnant. The implication that Irulan is less than Chani, or Jessica, the concubines who were more beloved than wives, because she is a pawn, albeit willing, in a political game, and because she is never going to feel her man’s tenderness is so outrageous, that I nearly rated this book a zero star.

There is a subtle undercurrent of, if not precisely of misogyny, an insidious undertone of men and women being not quite equal, that is unsettling.

Joy and Luck

A pursuit of joy and wish to harness luck inspired Suyuan Woo top create the The Joy Luck Club. In her novel of the same name(published in 1989, and made into a movie in 1993) ,  author Amy Tan explores the relationship between a mother and a daughter, that most fragile of tenacious bonds. It is a tale of failures and triumphs,  of sorrow and joy, of misunderstandings and love.

 

Each generation grows up questioning the previous, even if the questions are silent in one’s head,and there is an outward kowtowing to the demands of a deep rooted culture. This outward complaisance often leads to the roots settling in and the person becoming part of the culture. Or is the other way around? Or does it not happen often?

When mothers having been uprooted from their own pasts, raise their daughters in a far away land, they find a tension in holding on to the land of their birth, and allowing themselves to be free of the bitterness that uprooted them in the first place. Bitterness there always seems to be. In being abandoned by their family, or by their husbands, in the shame of loving a mother who brought shame into the family, in the trauma of having to leave babies behind and trusting that strangers would save them.

Youthful America can hold out lures to these women who come from ancient cultures, whether it is the glittering life visible from across the seas, or the seduction of breaking free from the entwining, centuries old bonds, or getting away from a past that has become unbearable, and starting afresh. The pride in one’s heritage jostles with the battles of one’s youth. There is an uneasy breakdown of the conviction that their upbringing is the only one true path, which drives cracks into their assuredness of the right and the wrong. Daughters grow up with a reluctant foot in a land they do not know, in roots that they cannot see, and a wavering foot in a land they live and breathe in, desperate to belong. In the end, the delicate balance between love and understanding, of hope and a desire to build bridges, builds a new system of roots. 

Not understanding Mah Jong, seemed to be a bit of a hindrance as there was a vague feeling of missing the point.  There was also a need to refer back multiple times between chapters and story lines. It was a little confusing. However, in the end, it was well worth the read. 

Who does the Bhagavad Gita belong to?

It has taken me the better part of two years to complete my first reading of Devdatta Pattanaik’s “My Gita”. I am sure that I will go back to it time and time again, for it is a treatise on the Bhagavad Gita, that ultimate “lifestyle” manual. The current remarkable obsession with “self-exploration, self-examination, self-actualization”, and, apparently, “selfies”, may have had its beginnings in the “self-realization” discussed in the book, through the millenia spanning the composition of the “Bhagavad Gita”.

I have often picked up a “Gita” I purchased while still a fledgling in the thoughtful world, (I still am), but have not got beyond the first verses. It’s heavy Sanskrit text and lumbering translation kept the book on my bedside stack, always as a to-be-read.

Devdutta Pattanaiks’s “My Gita” is not a translation or transliteration of the Bhagavad Gita. Instead it is series of 18 essays on what Pattanaik considers to be the 18 themes of the Gita. It does not cover the Gita sequentially, as the themes he has identified are not isolated by chapter, but rather sprinkled within multiple discourses through the whole collection or “song”. It is important to remember this while reading the book, as it gives it a very different experience to reading the Gita.

To my mind, this book has been about understanding the value of the Gita in my 21st century hectic, and often seemingly rudderless existence. On days I have felt the buzzing of restlessness, the pages have soothed me. On days I felt calm, I have had moments of eye opening wonder.

I am delighted that I can come back to this book time and again in order to calm myself, and experience more moments of blinding understanding. I might even attempt the Sanskrit version again, one day. I just need to understand that I do not need to read either in a linear, consecutive manner. I can open them to any page, and attempt to absorb the wisdom they contain.

Ultimately, while this book is Pattanaik’s take on the Bhagavad Gita, the original, as seen in these essays belongs to all.

Hopefully the few editing oversights have been corrected in future editions of the book.

pictures from the friendly World Wide Web –

1. Scroll.In
2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bhagavad_Gita

 

Tough to love

Believe, and it exists. A bit like Schrödinger’s cat. The Americans did not, or do not, believe, and their gods are dying.

For the first 25% of the book (thank you, Kindle), I was not getting much out of the book at all. I had started reading it at my sister’s insistence, and her taste in books can be a little gritty. It took me about eight months to get through the first 25% of the book, and when I started reading it again during the hiatus between Christmas and the New Year, I found that I had forgotten much of the beginning. I kept going, as I was determined to finish it, so I could tell my sister that I had. Since I had seen “The Last Jedi” during that time, Yoda kept murmuring in my ear “Page turner, it is not”. 

Then with progress, at about 60% of the book, I became invested in Shadow. I pushed through to the end because I wanted to know what happened to Shadow, and because I believe in magic. Which is the same thing as a belief in gods. Sort of.

In the end, I liked the story. Through most of it, I rued my lack of knowledge of the gods, ignorance of their stories, and felt that I was not quite “getting it”. That caused a certain amount of pain. It turned out, though, that I did not need to know about the myths. It had pull just at face value.

Essentially that is all Art needs. Pull. And a good feeling at the end. This has both.

Now, should I get “Mythos” by Stephen Fry? Mythology has always had pull, and now, even more so.

Who won?

It has been strange to read such a cynical story by Paulo Coelho, whose books seemed to me the anti thesis of cynicism. I had loved “The Alchemist”, and I had liked “Veronica Decides to Die” as well, very much. Somewhere along the line Coelho may have decided that he was no longer going to be the Mr. Nice Guy. He may have felt that he needed to write a story about the superficiality of the very rich, very famous in show business. He may have been disillusioned. So he wrote a cynical novel.

The problem does not lie in its cynicism, or depiction of the dark underbelly of the “superclass”, which, apparently, is a real term. The problem lies in the fact that Coelho does not show. He tells. Page after page after repeated page. He tells us that the super class is superficial. They lead tired empty meaningless lives. They manipulate. They form cartels. They have surgery to enhance their looks. They are afraid of growing old. How do we know? Coelho tells us.

This information has no relevance to the story of murder and mayhem that is “The Winner Stands Alone”. No matter. It is revealed again and again, woven into a story that has potential.

I cannot believe what I just wrote. Paulo Coelho’s story has potential! Ouch!

The question now remains, did the story get lost in translation? Or did Coelho just want to write something different, and make a hash of it?

I also failed to discern the relationship the name of the novel has to the story between the covers.

All in all, a sad disappointment.

Perhaps there are two Paulo Coelho’s? One who wrote “The Alchemist” and one who tried to write a book called “The Winner Stands Alone”.

 

Feeling like home

It is beginning to feel a lot like home. Coming back from a day of work, and swerving into the narrow garage with the bumpy road just outside that had brought forth so many frustrated tears during those first few days after moving. The pest control guy has worked his magic and the electrician, handy man and telecommunications guy have all done their bit. It is easy to step into the place with the confidence of long standing residence.

It seems no longer to matter that it is getting dark by the time tired feet clamber up the side entrance. The security key finds its way into its lock and, click, the door opens. The friends have turned up by turn and helped fix little teething problems. The black and blue toe hurts no more, though colleagues gleefully predict that the nail will fall off soon.

The strange hot water system, which needs a little rest between showers, or washing dishes or such like no longer irks. It is just something to which the rhythm of the rest of the day needs to fit in.

The old furniture has mostly been taken away and the new furniture is not here yet. Each earmarked spot seems to be quietly anticipating the advent of the bed, the dining table, the sofa. The things that are around, have settled into their new home. Everything seems to just “go there”.

The plant whose name is a mystery, which rewarded careful attention to it with half a dozen flowers only at the height of summer, has suddenly thrown out half a dozen juicy buds, even though there is a distinct chill in the air. The new geranium has taken three days to bud and flower from its baby stalks. Only the lemon tree seems to miss the hot balcony of yesteryear, and has come crashing down with every bug that can hit a citrus plant. Somehow, even though life is just as busy, there still has been time to nip up to the nursery and bring back an eco friendly pest oil to treat the plant.

The mornings are being greeted with eager anticipation as the sun shines through the camellias, lazy and satisfying, even on a work day. The evenings are relaxed and somehow seem to provide time to watch the cork float even after attending to the chores.

The quiet rustling of the trees and the trilling soft cheep of birds accompanies the drying laundry. The family of bush turkeys who come around every dusk make coming home sweet.

It is peaceful, beautiful, and welcoming. It is home. Home, it seems is not a place, but a feeling.

~Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.~

The Purer Motive

Ruthless kingmaker who united a war torn land under one wise and brave ruler. The chosen one, having shown great promise as a child and a student, goes on to rule, with wisdom, the land he has fought alongside his teacher to win. A king who is remembered with reverence in his own right. His mentor – learned, wise, cynical, quick to spot strengths and weaknesses- in people, in logic, in philosophy. Author of a book whose wisdom has transcended more than 2000 years. History knows him as Chanakya.

Soulless powerbroker who seems to mirror the deeds of the widely respected sage, and creates a king, wilfully escalating the mayhem across the land in the process. Other than a few smart questions, the king ( of the female gender) shows no wisdom, courage, or discretion. Having being handed platform after platform through deceit and thuggery, of which she is a willing participant, she gains her throne through years of political manipulation. She then  apparently rules India wisely through three terms. One is left wondering where such acumen has sprung from, since all she learnt from her teacher and life, was how to win position and power by  deceit, murder, mayhem and manipulation. Her mentor – now… what is his name?… umm.. oh yeah. Pandit Gangaprasad Mishra.

“Chanakya’s” chant? I think not. Ruthless and soulless are not synonyms, neither are kingmaker and powerbroker.

Samuel Barclay Beckett: Unfinished

Samuel Barclay Beckett, avant-garde novelist, playwright, theatre director, and poet, and wrote in both English and French. Formidable reputation. He is famous “for his writing, which—in new forms for the novel and drama—in the destitution of modern man acquires its elevation.” Ironic, then, that he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1969, a pointless gesture, surely if ever ther was one.

I was, uncharacteristically, quite excited when the young adorablescent brought “Waiting For Godot” home from school as a text. Uncharacteristically, because I have a phobia for books which are so deep and meaningful, that you have to be amongst the world’s top ten intellectuals to even get a grip on the topic. This seems to imply that all the regular people I come into contact with are lying when they say they understand it. I don’t think they are lying. I think they believe they understand it. I think that, it is so unacceptable to say that Samuel Beckett made no sense to you, that people are subconsciously afraid to say it.

It is hard to align yourself on the side of the “superficial”. I know how much it hurts to be called superficial, because I have been called it. I have watched people look at the hundreds of books lining my shelves, and assume, that someone else in the family has read those books, and not me. When I have said that most of those books are mine, and many of them have been read by only me, I have had people look at me in wonder, trying to understand how such a superficial person as me could actually have read so much, and some of those books are, by commonly agreed upon standards, not kindergarten reads. (I have not read too much, but a wall full of shelves overflowing with books can dominate a room). So I have always taken with a pinch of salt when someone regular like me, waxes all lyrical over an obscure book by an obscure author. (Using obscure as: not clearly expressed or easily understood, Beckett is not unknown, and his play “Waiting for Godot” even less so).

I was excited because, I thought that, here was a short book, that I would be able to quickly read and not get bogged down in existentialistic nightmares for months. Pick up. Read. Put Down. Tick off to-read list.

I will just assume everyone reading this has read the play. A play about nothing, in which nothing happens, and ends before any point has truly been made. I get it. That is the point of the play. That there is no point. Nothing happens in our lives. We do nothing, remember nothing, have no significance or maybe we even don’t exist.

It just makes me wonder. Why would I read/watch this play? The conversation goes nowhere, so paying attention is not necessary. Nothing happens, so ditto. There is only the point of futile existence, so why bother?

Can anyone tell me whether I should read the second Act of Mr Beckett’s play? Have I missed something? I think it will be a rehash of the first Act, just driving home the point. I already get it.

 

Photo credit: Hartwig HKD

 

Read the book! Facepaint

Some books can be downloaded onto an electronic device. Some books cannot. The idea of reading an electronic version of this book scares me. I have never read an ebook. Yet, I am sure this book would lose half its magic if you could not hold it in your hand, move it around in your hand, watching the light catch the shifting mood of the pictures, running your fingers over the textured cover. This book is a visual feast. First and foremost.

Written for makeup lovers, it is a book with so much make up story crammed into its pages, it is sure to delight those who want to learn a little bit more about this fascinating art and industry.

It is pleasing that the focus remained on story telling, independent of any kind of brand focus, or subtle advertising. Lisa Eldridge has enough clout in the the makeup world that if she recommends one product, it will fly off the shelves. She has made no such recommendations, she has not stated a preference for one style of makeup over another. She has also not made any kind of reference to any kind of body image issues except as a historical commentary. No judgement. Whatsoever.

Instead we see a charming discussion of colour utilisation through the ages, the trends, the socio-political ramifications, the anecdotes. Who would have thought that the use of makeup through ages seemed to coincide with women’s rights, and freedom, even if only certain tiers in certain ages? Apparently courtesans and prostitutes not only wore obvious makeup through the ages, but also got accorded more rights than the genteel women. Mo’ makeup, did equate to mo’ fun!

 

The Eldridge Technique is widely known to be Lisa’s distinctive technique of making complexion appear flawless through makeup, while allowing the inner glow to shine through. I have just discovered another inimitable Eldridge Technique. The book is written in the same soft, often amused, always kind, voice that Lisa uses in her youtube instructional videos. A classic book from a classy lady.

Since this is such a vast subject, and this book had to be sketchy by necessity, I look forward to more books from Lisa.

 

This is one of the best gifts I have given myself on my birthday. My first book of 2016