.::Song Of The Little Road::.

Another year has passed by... Today is Tagore's birthday. Cheers to a blessed day!

In the past few months, cut off for most part from the Internet, I've been reading voraciously, devouring all sorts of books that I could lay my hands on. I'm in the habit of reading many books simultaneously. During this period, the thought of this humble blog crossed my mind only sporadically and fleetingly, as did the thought of reviewing all the books I was reading. Time to make amends...

I've in my possession The Complete Novels - Kafka, which I'm currently reading. If we all live in a Kafka book, then my world is quite complete. ;-) The most surreal turn of events populate this man's writing, and though he seems fatalistic, I feel there's much more to it than that. He seems to write naturally, more naturally than even Chekhov (though comparisons are uncalled for). And he should be required reading...

I'm currently also wading through Lessing's The Golden Notebook, a book that might take me my longest time to finish a book. Her scholarship, instinct and almost insistent prose peels away many layers to expose the truth of the narrative. The structure of the novel is unique amongst all that I've read, and she has so many themes that it is quite a task reading the intensely analytical narrative. I was at one time thinking of giving up finishing the book. However, the vignettes the book conjures and passes to the reader are so unique that I stayed the course. Given the highly analytical treatment, I was surprised to have myself thinking of The Golden Notebook as a intensely visual novel. But I think that readers who've known the book for sometime will agree with me. To sum it up, a book one can turn to again and again and come away with something different each time.

I'm whizzing past Dasgupta's Tokyo Cancelled, and perhaps the best thing I can say about the book is that at one point, I almost forgot that it was Dasgupta and blessed Rushdie for turning out such a fine book. However, I must say that Indian literature (what little I know of it) seems to be full with story-telling. The cult of magical realism has become so hackneyed that I was quick to place Tokyo Cancelled in that realm. In spite of all the innovation, the works make one think of a practiced flair. There is hardly any trespassing of boundaries, any major flouting of rules, ruffling of feathers that may be remebered in the long run - something that one almost expects of say Lessing or Murakami. And the philosophical streak of novel writing is hardly to be seen in Indian English literature, the quality that makes one set down a book to do some clear thinking to make meaning out of what the writer is trying to say and to identify the various themes laid out in the matter of a fictional narrative. Our literature seems to be made more for downright consumption rather than any philosophical rumination.

I've read two Wodehouses in the recent past - Big Money and Ring For Jeeves. And what can I say, that man blows me over! Capital!!!

I also have in my possession The Complete Feluda Stories of Satyajit Ray, arranged in two volumes in chronological order. The mysteries make for wonderful light reading, and I wonder why Feluda is not as popular in India as Sherlo9ck Holmes...

Finally, I must highly recommend Pallavi Iyer's Smoke and Mirrors, non-fiction writings from her stay in China. Naipaul is my ultimate man for non-fiction, and though Iyer is not as passionately inquisitive as Naipaul, she writes naturally and truthfully and throws up many gems. The book taught me many things about China, but most importantly the extent of my ignorance and prejudice about China. I respect China much more now!

That's it for the time being. Au Revoir!