Jeff Lindsay - Dexter By Design

...And yes, Dexter’s back on my blog, after what seems like absolute ages. I’ve had the fourth of the Dexter books on my shelf for over a year, and that in itself surprises me, as I lapped up the first three books in the series in about a week. Yes, I did enjoy them that much. The fourth book doesn’t disappoint, although, it starts getting a lot more.... what’s the word... melodramatic. You have your protagonist: blood spatter analyst by day, and serial killer by night, and now - now, he’s hitched, enjoying married life and being a father to two adorable children.

He’s back in Miami post a fantastic honeymoon in Paris, and he’s back at work. First day back, and Dexter and his “Dark Passenger” are in for a treat : dead corpses being artfully displayed, for one and all to see. One woman is turned into a fruit basket, and one man’s insides holds beer! No clues, no violence, no blood on the scene of crime. As Dexter and his sister, Deborah, try to get to the bottom of what’s going on, drama unfolds.

Deborah is still trying to deal with Dexter’s Dark Revelation, and she’s grumpy for the most part. Justifiable, to an extent, but on occasion, I did feel like giving her a slap, and saying get over it. After an altercation with her brother while on duty, she is stabbed and typically, her life is in grave danger. They rush her to the hospital, and as she battles for her life, Dexter’s dealing with his own battles: emotions. He’s unsure as to how to feel, and he’s accustomed to being this emotionless outlaw, so what’s the deal with the thoughts running through his head, and all the worse-case scenarios he is conjuring up?

Impulsively, i.e. very unlike him, Dexter seeks revenge on the person who was responsible for this heinous crime against his sister, and in the process, finds himself violating The Harry Code. Harry was Dexter’s foster father, who was aware of Dexter’s darker side, and encouraged him to channel his inner demons into doing good - killing the bad guys, getting rid of the scum on the planet.  His impulsiveness, though, leads him to making mistakes, and things get incredibly complicated... and to right a wrong, it almost looks like many more wrongs are going to be done.

This was interesting in the sense, it’s the first time we see Dexter acting on raw emotions, despite continuously insisting that he’s unemotional and detached. When he first realizes the implications of his sister’s attack, he goes down memory lane... and this book does focus on the past a lot - Dexter and Deborah growing up, Harry’s mentoring, and his initial battles.

The book is also quite humorous, and Dexter, despite everything, is highly intelligent. He alliterates his name all the time, with his current state of mind, if that makes sense? So, for example, while referring to himself, he says things like:   It did not belong in the prime time drama of Dexter’s Dim Days; Dexter the Drastically Deferred; Dark Dexter’s Dance etc. I love alliterations.

Other bits that I thought were tongue-in-cheek and worth re-quoting:

First things first has always been my motto, mostly because it makes absolutely no sense - after all, if first things were second or third, they wouldn't be first things, would they? Still, cliches exist to comfort the feeble minded, not to provide any actual meaning.

I don't know where the boyfriend is, really," I said. And it was true, considering tide, current, and the habits of marine scavengers.

However, all that said, I do think this is the weakest of Dexter’s books so far. It wasn’t as engrossing as the first two, and it became mildly more... soapy. When one is reading about a serial killer, they don’t quite want it to come with the baggage of a soap opera.

Anita Brookner - Hotel Du Lac

Belated birthday wishes to Anita Brookner, and a day late, but a happy International Anita Brookner Day to the rest of you. Some time back, I decided to re-read Anita Brookner's Booker-winning Hotel du Lac a few months back, as part of Sarah's Not A Rat's Chance In Hell, and last week seemed to be the right time to read it (what with 16th July being IABD, hosted by Thomas at my Porch and Savidge Reads).

I enjoyed Hotel du Lac the first time I read it, when I was still in my teens - the pathos, the despair, the richness of characters and the fact that it is set in Switzerland. Switzerland is, by far, my favourite country in the world, and I intend to live there at some point in my life. It just feels like... home.

The re-read, however, wasn't quite the same experience. I felt myself getting slightly more frustrated with Edith's character, and her complete lack of proactivity. It was almost like she was resigned to her fate, and was letting life pass her by; letting other people pull her strings.

Edith, an established writer, has been exiled to a hotel by Lake Geneva. Her friends have advised her to “disappear for a decent length of time and come back older, wiser and properly sorry,” for an act that she has committed, albeit it isn't quite clear what that act is, in the opening pages of the book. In the hotel, she meets a myriad of characters, each seeking a break from reality, and as she gets to know them better, we (as readers) get to know our protagonist better as well.

What it had to offer was a mild form of sanctuary, an assurance of privacy, and the protection and the discretion that attach themselves to blamelessness.

Edith is in love with David, a married man, but her affair with him is not the reason behind this exile. And, it's not her absolution. She writes letters to David regularly, and yearns for his presence, which doesn't seem forthcoming. She attempts to return to her writing in the hotel, but the characters that surround her distract her - mostly, the women, but there is the one man who catches her eye? Or, does she catch his eye?

The women in the hotel, which is indeed very selective of its guests, include the extravagant superficial Puseys whose interests most involve shopping and living an expensive lifestyle; Monica, who seems enviously condescending of the Puseys, as she spends her days sharing coffee, ice-cream and cakes with her dog; and Madame De Bonneuil, an old lady, who's been abandoned by her son after his marriage. Then there's Mr. Neville, a self-proclaimed romantic who thinks he's good for Edith...

A lot of the book focuses on women, and how their stature evolves with age and marriage; the importance of marriage and of having the significant other. Of course, this is predominantly due to the time in which the book was set - possibly the 70s - but subjecting all women to such... banality... was what got me slightly annoyed. A woman's place in society should be incidental to her marriage, not a result of it - that's my verdict, but then again, I live in the twenty-first century, so it is easy for me to say that.

The company of their own sex, Edith reflected, was what drove many women into marriage.

Brookner does pull out a couple of good twists though, which almost saves Edith's character, for she does come across as a passenger in her own life, not an active participant - definitely not the driver. It was well-written and slightly humorous, but, despite being under two hundred pages, oh-so-slow, that it almost feels like a book you want to curl up with, a glass of red wine in one hand, and the Moonlight Sonata playing on the stereo.

Thought I'd share some gorgeous pictures of places that have been mentioned in this book as well... it really is a place I would recommend to go to, to get some respite from the world.

Oh, and do let me know which Brookner should I read next? Just go chronologically, or... which are your favourites?

Colum McCann - Let The Great World Spin

New York, 1974. The magnificent twin towers are unveiled to the world, and the consensus is that they are ugly compared to the splendid sky-scrapers that grace the New York skyline (the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Centre etc). But, a marvelous feat from an athlete, Philippe Petit, almost changes the perception. Petit walked across a tightrope between the towers - he danced, he entertained, he wowed, and he enjoyed himself thoroughly, as the New Yorkers below looked up in awe, wondering if the man dancing with the clouds was suicidal, crazy, or if he had some perfectly legitimate reason to be doing what he was. After all, it’s not often, you see someone dancing with the clouds.

Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief.

In McCann’s award-winning Let The Great World Spin, on the day Petit takes on the skyline, lives of various New Yorkers intersect. Almost a six-degrees-of-separation kind-of premise, the chapters tell the stories - some in first person, some in third person - of these New Yorkers. Amidst other things, love and loss bring them together. Some live in South Bronx, others in Park Avenue; some are prostitutes, others judges; some have lost one son to the ‘Nam war, some three; some are escaping their drug-addled past only to confront yet another battle, and some are looking for a new future. But - the nameless figure in the sky (in McCann’s book, Petit remains an un-named person; his performance a mere backdrop.), and grief bring them together.

The simple things come back to us. They rest for a moment by our ribcages then suddenly reach in and twist our hearts a notch backward.

The book starts slowly with an introduction to two Irish brothers, who have immigrated to New York as adults - Corrigan, a radical monk living amidst the prostitutes and pimps in the Bronx, and Ciaran, aimlessly trying to find his place in life. The next chapter cuts to Claire, living in Park Avenue, mourning the loss of her son in Vietnam. A group of other mothers who lost their sons will be arriving at her penthouse apartment later in the day, so as to find comfort in each other... but, when people come from totally different walks of life, there is more that divides them than what brings them closer. And then there’s the next story: an artist in her twenties, with a history of drug abuse (now cleaned up), is in the passenger seat during a fatal hit-and-run accident - an incident that is bound to ensure that her life will change forever. And then - then we go back to the beginning, where Tillie, a thirty-eight year old prostitute recounts her life’s story, while at court: slightly hackneyed, quite unsurprising, marginally apologetic. Jazz, her daughter, is a prostitute as well, and while Tillie doesn’t make any excuses, there is a tinge of contriteness to her recap. All this against the historical event of the man on the wire.

It was America, after all. The sort of place where you should be allowed to walk as high as you wanted.

The emotional aspect of this book is what makes it so riveting. Claire’s hesitance and tentativeness, Ciaran being overtly protective of his magnanimous brother, Tillie’s raw honesty... how different people cope with grief, and how they try to fathom the crazy world around them. It’s a novel of massive scope, heartbreaking but not depressing... hinting that there is light at the end of the tunnel, and eventually, hope is not in vain.
The diversity of characters is incredible, and one can’t help but cheer on all the primary characters, although... some of the backup characters (including some of the mothers in Claire’s support group) - the less said, the better. It’s so real, so... non-fictional. The irony, of course, is, the one event that seems fictional (i.e. the grand walk across the towers) is what is non-fictional.

In the wake of 9/11, the significance of this walk seems so much greater. Everyone stood up and took notice of this marvelous feat, and in spite of all the grief in the world, on that fateful day, Petit’s act was what was on everyone’s mind, and they all came together to witness that... and then there was 9/11, which, for completely different reasons, brought the city together again, and showed just how resilient, brave, strong and heroic the people are - in spite of the horrors that life brings in its wake.

Erin @ ErinReads has scheduled this as her Reading Buddies read for the month of July. Pop over to see more thoughts and discussions on this book, for I really don't think my post has done an incredible book much justice.

Colette - Claudine at School

Written at the turn of the century (i.e. first published in 1900), this delightful and entertaining novel is an intimate diary of fifteen year old Claudine who attends school in Montigny in France. It's scandalous, it's humorous, and it's feel-good. Largely autobiographical (and the first book of a four-part series), this book covers the last year of Claudine's (Colette's) school life, in an all-girls school. Claudine is precocious - flirtatious even - but charming; so full of life, but a bully; accustomed to getting her own way, but still being at odds with the dreaded Headmistress.

It was so long since I had hit one of my companions that people were beginning to believe that I had become rational. (In the old days, I had the annoying habit of settling my quarrels on my own, with kicks and blows, without thinking it necessary to tell tales like the others).

The frank unabashed narrative was quite endearing. Despite some exceedingly scandalising bits, the innocence was a breath of fresh air (specially if you compare it to the school series of today...). You had Claudine involved in a homosexual love triangle, where the other two involved were the Headmistress and her assistant, and I did wonder... when this book was first published, just how controversial was it?

The mannerisms, the way the girls spoke, the freedom, the mannerisms and the ambience - it was all very French (referring to the teachers as Mademoiselle obviously added to it) - and the protagonist did remind me of the title character in Claudine at St. Clares at some points. The way she was used to getting her own way, how people couldn't help being amused by her pranks, her  impulsiveness, how she easily befriended and influenced people, and how she was naturally gifted, with an incredible lust for life.

I am immediately curious to read the rest of the books in this series (published between 1900-1904), and I suspect they will find their way to my shelf before the month is out. The edition of the book I have is age-old though, first published in 1979, and the price at the back of the book is all of £1.25.

I've been saving this book for Paris in July hosted by Karen at BookBath and Tamara at ThymeForTea. Do pop over and have a look. So many French authors, so little time... I have another Colette and Irène Némirovsky's Suite Francaise on my shelf, both of which I'll hopefully read before the month is out.

Which other French authors would you recommend? Or, thoroughly captivating school stories? There's something about a good school story, which takes you back in time, and makes you recall, with much nostalgia, the stationery shopping, the smell of new exercise books, the exam stress, the good times.

JG Ballard - Empire of the Sun

World War II literature is a genre that interests me tremendously. It would be wrong to say that I find it enjoyable, but the fact remains that I actively seek out books on WWII. So far though, most of the WWII fiction (and non-fiction) I've perused has taken place in Europe, so Ballard's much acclaimed Empire of the Sun intrigued me immensely.

The book is a personal not-completely-accurate-and-somewhat-romanticised account of Ballard's childhood where he was living the war, in a war-ravaged Shanghai (which was occupied by the Japanese at the time). The account begins in 1941, and continues till the horrific bombing at Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 and the subsequent devastation in Nagasaki three days later. Jamie, the protagonist, is eleven years old at the start of the story, and we see the War unfold in Shanghai through his innocent eyes. Occasionally child-like, occasionally grown-up, somewhat disoriented, predominantly emotive.

Jamie gets separated from his well-to-do expat parents during one of the Japanese strikes, and eventually, after scrounging around for food at various houses, looking for his parents, or in fact, any Briton, all alone, finds himself at a prison camp, living the survival of the fittest adage. He befriends those who will protect him, continues his schooling thanks to some of the adults at the prison camp, and tries to make the best of the awful situation by finding comfort in the smallest of things, be it having the biggest sweet potato or pocketing one slyly, just in case he needs it in the future, when the paucity of food may become a real issue.

His views are slightly skewed (maybe this is just retrospection talking), as he advocates the Japanese, and in fact, at one point, states that he would like to pilot one of the Japanese aircrafts. A little tentative of change, he gets nervous when the war is drawing to a close, and just wants some kind of stability in the turbulence.

He ate every scrap of food he could find, aware of the rising number of deaths from beri beri and malaria. Jim admired the Mustangs and the Superfortresses, but sometimes he wished that the Americans would return to Hawaii and content themselves with raising their battleships at Pearl Harbour. Then Lunghua Camp would once again be the happy place he had known in 1943.

It's really sad; the rationalisation and the innocence. The prison camps didn't sound as horrific as the concentration camps in Europe, but irrespective, for anyone to live through that is shocking... and for a child, even more so. What... is the point? What was achieved?

But a flash of light filled the stadium, flaring over the stands in the southwest corner of the football field, as if an immense American bomb had exploded somewhere to the northeast of Shanghai. [...] Jim smiled at the Japanese, wishing that he could tell him that the light was premonition of his death, the sight of his small soul joining the larger soul of the dying world.

"Kid, they dropped atomic bombs. Uncle Sam threw a piece of the sun at Nagasaki and Hiroshima, killed a million people. One great flash..."

"I saw it."

All said and done, this book was quite harrowing. What made it a bit of a strange experience, though, was how, at times, it almost read as a documentary - stating facts, narrating events - almost as though the writer was an observer, not an actor. Perhaps that is completely valid, if one thinks about it. Why focus on emotions when the story is powerful enough to evoke extremely strong reactions to the war, its perversity, and the trepidation, monstrosity and futility of it all. It really does fill me with immense despondence and sadness... and even those words feel extremely trite.

Do you recommend any other books set in Asia during the second World War? Or, any other books set during WWII? What is it about that genre that just.... beckons? I almost feel masochistic. Sadistic would be equally apt.

Toni Morrison - Sula

Spanning almost forty-five years (1921-1965), Sula revolves around two best friends: Sula and Nel, and how their friendship evolves and implodes over the years. Growing up in a poverty-stricken black town in Ohio called Bottom, Sula is accustomed to men coming and going, as they please. Her mother and grandmother are fiercely independent women, and after her father died, her mother (Hannah) is keen for companionship, and doesn't really care if the man is married or not. Still, Hannah is well-liked, despite sleeping with half the married men in the town... That stands testimony to the richness of the characters - that Morrison can make someone quite despicable come across as a lovely person.

Sula is a complex character though. Straight after Nel's wedding, she leaves Bottom, and goes off to college and to enjoy the city life. She returns some ten years later, and carries on where her mother left off - sleeping with the men in the village and living a purely hedonist life.

The town-folk treat her as a pariah - the yardstick against which they measure good and evil. The truly godawful people in the town turn over a new leaf, and Sula continues to do as she pleases.

"When you gone to get married? You need to have some babies. It’ll settle you.'

'I don’t want to make somebody else. I want to make myself."

The glimpses into the lives of the villagers, through the years is not pleasant. Accidentally killing people, murders, a mother setting her own son on fire, and a daughter watching her mother burn with indifference, infidelity, broken promises and Suicide Day - this book really doesn't make for comfortable reading, but then again, that's not what Morrison's aim was, with this book.

Instead, it's a glimpse into the trials and tribulations of the African-American society in America in the early 1900s, where they are left to themselves and their own superstitions, trying to figure out where they belong. It's a world where racism is rampant, and even the proudest African-American is subservient to the white people, when they are forced to interact.

The richness of the characters, and the depth of the story, despite it being a short book (174 pages) is incredible and it does show why Morrison is considered to be one of the most talented authors out there. While my first experience with Morrison wasn't exactly amazing (I hated it), with time, I am slowly beginning to love her writing as much as some of the other bloggers out there, and I reckon with time, I will read her entire backlist. Love is next for me. And for you? Which is your favourite book by the Nobel Laureate?

Ryu Murakami - 69

The vibrant cover of this book caught my attention while I was drifting through eighteen miles of books in New York a couple of months ago, and I ended up purchasing it. In The Miso Soup and Piercing have been on my radar for a few months, but considering that this is semi-autobiographical, I thought that it's a good place to start.

This coming-of-age story starts in 1969 when the narrator, Ken, is a lazy selfish self-satisfied adolescent living in a small town in Japan (in westerrn Kyushu), with just one objective in life: getting attention from the fairer sex, and he is ready to go to some pretty extreme lengths, dragging his friends with him.

Inspired by the political movements around him, the Beatles and the Stones, Rimbauld and Camus, Hendrix and Simon & Garfunkel (god, don't you love the sixties?), Kensuke "Ken" Yazaki, aspires to be a rebel, to stand out, and win the affections of his Lady Jane.

This is a light-hearted fun book, filled with moments of hilarity, and occasional moments of utter disbelief. Much like the song (Summer of '69), the book does seem to recount some of the "best days" of Ken's life. One of those people who manages to influence those around him very easily, in the span of a year, Ken organises a rock festival to blow away the minds of the girls, barricades the school under the pretext of political ideals and communism (when he doesn't really care either way), gets suspended from school for over a hundred days, films a movie for the festival on an 8mm camera, and manages to get on the wrong side of the yakuzas. All to impress Lady Jane.

Adama and I looked at each other. I can't stand myself. That was one line a seventeen-year-old must never, ever let himself say -- unless he was trying to make it with some chick. [...] But certain phrases were taboo, and you cast a shadow on the rest of your life if you uttered them.

So while I thoroughly enjoyed this book, I couldn't help but dislike the narrator. Yes, I know he's a seventeen year old, who probably doesn't know better, but he just came across as a pretentious selfish jerk, who probably deserved a tight slap. Quoting books he hadn't read, sitting in a cafe sipping tomato juice just for effects, stereotyping those around him, and using his influential skills to get up to no good, dragging others down with him... those are just some of the issues I had with him. The blurb likened this book to Catcher in the Rye, and unsurprisingly, I disagree. Holden Caulfield was a hypocrite, but he was not pretentious nor was he affected. One empathised and sympathised with Caulfield. Can't say the same about Kensuke.

That said, I look forward to reading more books by Ryu Murakami (and yes, by Haruki Murakami - no relation - as well). His other books are meant to be dark and surreal. How can one back away from that?! Which would you recommend?

I read this as part of Japanese Literature Challenge V hosted by the lovely Belleza. Pop over to read more reviews on books by Japanese authors, and do join in! The more Japanese authors I read, the more I want to read, so... this is great! Also, obviously, if you have any recommendations, please do let me know. I feel some Ogawa and Mishima coming up...

Téa Obreht - The Tiger's Wife

Téa Obreht, at the age of twenty-five, won the Orange Prize for her debut novel, The Tiger's Wife, which was given to me as a birthday present on my twenty-sixth birthday. In the blogging universe, the opinions on the book were widely divided, and I wasn't quite sure what to expect.

Almost immediately, I was struck by how direct and wonderful the writing is - it's emotive without being sensational, and it's beautiful without being hyperbolic.

Set against the backdrop of the Balkan civil wars, Natalia, the narrator traces back to her childhood and recalls the stories her grandfather told her, after she finds out about his death in a strange city from her grandmother. He had told the family that he was going to visit Natalia, but... that was not the case.

As Natalia embarks on a journey to figure out who her grandfather was, she realises that there are two stories - two legends, if you like - which sum up her grandfather's life.

Everything necessary to understand my grandfather lies between two stories: the story of the tiger’s wife, and the story of the deathless man. These stories run like secret rivers through all the other stories of his life – of my grandfather’s days in the army; his great love for my grandmother; the years he spent as a surgeon and a tyrant of the University. One, which I learned after his death, is the story of how my grandfather became a man; the other, which he told to me, is of how he became a child again.

Her grandfather was an avid animal lover, with a special place in his heart for tigers, and he oft' took Natalia to see the tigers at the local zoo, before war erupted and the zoo was forced to shut down, resulting in a strain in the relationship between the two - a strain that they conquered with time. I found myself completely floored by some of the thoughts put forward by Natalia's grandfather, who, despite being the secondary character, took centerstage.

"You must understand, this is one of those moments."

"What moments?"

"One of those moments you keep to yourself," he said.

"What do you mean?" I said. "Why?"

"We're in a war," he said. "The story of this war -- dates, names, who started it, why -- that belongs to everyone. Not just the people involved in it, but the people who write newspapers, politicians thousands of miles away, people who've never even been here or heard of it before . But something like this -- this is yours. It belongs only to you. And me. Only to us."

The multiple narratives that transpire - the story of the deathless man, the story of the tiger's wife, the present-day mission that Natalia is on (to help young children at an orphanage across the border) and the story of her grandfather's life - on her quest are handled effortlessly and had me gripped throughout. Perhaps some of the stories were fictional fables, perhaps some were plain superstitions. Indeed, some were not even believable, but all of that took a backseat while I read the legends and tried to work out how they all fit together.

While the relationship between the grandfather and granddaughter was the essence of the book, what had me captivated was the awe and reverence that the scenes about the tiger invoked. Tigers are one of my favourite animals - they are definitely the most regal, and command all the respect in the world. However, to be completely honest, I've never once spared a thought to how wars affect animals.

The tiger did not know that they were bombs. He did not know anything beyond the hiss and screech of the fighters passing overhead, missiles falling, the sound of bears bellowing in another part of the fortress, the sudden silence of birds. There was smoke and terrible warmth, a gray sun rising and falling in what seemed like a matter of minutes, and the tiger, frenzied, dry-tongued, ran back and forth across the span of the rusted bars, lowing like an ox. He was alone and hungry, and that hunger, coupled with the thunderous noise of bombardment, had burned in him a kind of awareness of his own death, an imminent and innate knowledge he could neither dismiss nor succumb to. He did not know what to do with it. His water had dried up, and he rolled and rolled in the stone bed of his trough, in the uneaten bones lying in a corner of the cage, making that long sad sound that tigers make.

I loved this book, and would recommend it greatly... and I look forward to Obreht's next book.

William S Burroughs - Junky

Junky is William S. Burroughs semi-autobiographical story, about being a drug-addict - a "junky," if you will - in the 1940s in the good ol' US of A. At less than two hundred pages, this is an extremely short, albeit insightful read. This first-person narrative is an unapologetic unemotional documentary of Burroughs' experiences, the friends he made, and the encounters with the law, as they tried to clamp down on drugs, addiction and peddling, with the help of "pigeons".

Originally published under the pseudonym, William Lee (Lee being his mother's maiden name), at the very outset, the reader is told that the narrator is an Ivy League graduate (Harvard), with a trust-fund to his name. So, the theories of a "troubled childhood" or "hard-times" or "bad company" are almost instantly cast aside.

The question is frequently asked: Why does a man become a drug addict?

The answer is usually that he does not intend to become an addict. You don't wake up one morning and decide to become a drug addict. [...] You become a narcotics addict because you do not have strong motivations in any other direction. Junk wins by default. I tried it as a matter of curiosity. I drifted along taking shots when I could score. I ended up hooked.

Burroughs does not make any excuses, but instead writes about the junk community with a kind of objectivism that would make a good journalist proud. His tale takes him through New York City, and then Kentucky, New Orleans and finally Mexico. However, in spite of the change in location, the paradigm remains the same:

Junk is often found adjacent to ambiguous or transitional districts: East Fourteenth near Third in New York; Poydras and St.Charles in New Orleans; San Juan Létran in Mexico City. Stores selling artificial limbs, wig-makers, dental mechanics, loft manufacturers of perfumes, pomades, novelties, essential oils. A point where dubious business enterprise touches Skid Row.

What makes this a truly tremendous feat is that Burroughs managed to get it published in the anti-drug America of the 1950s, where books like this, in all likelihood, got censored. However, despite being unapologetic, this book is almost a narrative on why addiction is bad, and how difficult a habit it is to kick, despite one telling oneself they have it all under control.

From junk sickness, there seems to be no escape. Junk sickness is the reverse side of junk kick. The kick of junk is that you have to have it. Junkies run on junk time and junk metabolism. They are subject to junk climate. They are warmed and chilled by junk. The kick of junk is living under junk conditions. You cannot escape from junk sickness any more than you can escape from junk kick after a shot.

The singular focus of the book is junk, despite it being autobiographical. Trysts with law, friends Burroughs scored with, friends he relied on and how he got the money to score are all detailed impeccably - you could say, it's almost documented. Morphine, coke, heroin - how to procure them and the high you get off them - you name it, it's there. However, the one complaint I had with the book is, the reader is not privy to the author's personal life at all. For example, in a passing statement, we learn that Burroughs has a wife - wait...hang on... what?! Some of those bits were slightly confusing, but then, one must take a step back and remember that this is all about the addiction, and everything else is secondary.

I quite enjoy the Beatniks, in an almost perversive sense - from Kerouac's On The Road to this. As Kerouac says:

But yet, but yet, woe, woe unto those who think that the Beat Generation means crime, delinquency, immorality, amorality ... woe unto those who attack it on the grounds that they simply don’t understand history and the yearning of human souls ... woe in fact unto those who make evil movies about the Beat Generation where innocent housewives are raped by beatniks! ... woe unto those who spit on the Beat Generation, the wind’ll blow it back.

Have you read any Beatnik literature? Or, do you have any on the to-read pile? I suspect my next one would be another Burroughs...Naked Lunch.

Sebastian Faulks - A Week In December

Set in London, against the backdrop of the subprime crisis and 7/7, Faulks' A Week In December takes place in the week leading up to Christmas in 2007. It's my first foray into the literary world created by Faulks, and I come out the other side marginally ambivalent. The book follows one week in the life of a myriad of characters: a hedge-fund manager and a porn star, a footballer playing in a top-four club and a jihadist, a tube driver and a lawyer, and... well, there are many characters.

The scene is set with Sophie Topping, the wife of a recently elected Tory MP, contemplating the invitation list for a dinner she is hosting in honour of her husband winning a by-election. This contemplation is merely an effective plot device to introduce some of the characters, as the author lists them out in a bullet-form. Their relatives and friends make up the rest of the cast, with two villainous personalities getting the star-billing. And, the book screams London, so much so that it probably is one of the more important characters of the book - it puts everything in perspective, and it brings everyone together.

The question though is, what's so special about characters that this book attempts to bring together? What makes them click? What sets them apart? And, the resonating answer is - nothing. The characters are flat, bordering on stereotypically boring, and the events range from unbelievable to are you kidding me? For example, an uneducated Asian pickle manufacturer is about to receive an OBE, and feels that he is inadequate to meet the Queen, lest the Queen would want to discuss literature, so, he hires a book reviewer to bring him up to speed on literature. Then, there's the tube rider, who lives life to the fullest in the alternate reality internet world, Parallax, neglecting reality. And the lonely alcoholic-loving wife of a rich banker, whose teenage son is enjoying skunk while watching a reality TV show called It's Madness (based on Big Brother?). Oh, and the jihadists communicate with one another using a porn site, by encrypting their messages in one of the images - the model on the image unsurprisingly makes a real appearance in the book.

That said, at times I thought that Faulks really enjoyed writing the book, with present-day pop-culture references being thrown around, subtly. Subtle enough so that it's not in your face, but once you notice it, you appreciate it. For example, Girls From Behind is a popular girl band, and there's a reference to Lemon Brothers - an obvious nod to Lehman Brothers. Social networks play a role too, with YourPlace being the chosen website - not sure if that's meant to be Facebook or MySpace. And then of course, there is Pizza Palace and Orlando (which I believe is a reference to the girly dive-prone footballer, Cristiano Ronaldo). Some of the references do come across as a tad forced, but nonetheless, all things considered, it makes the book feel very 2007.

While the subtlety was appreciated, the narration of the story left much to be desired. A lot of research has gone into the book, and a couple of the story-lines had me quite curious, but the "telling" of the story came across as forced, and the way events transpired left me confused and unsure...

* START SPOILER ALERT *

In the end, the quasi-jihadist who goes through all the trouble to procure the raw materials to make multiple bombs to blow up a hospital in London redeems himself by dropping the bag of detonators in the Thames, whereas the banker, Veales, is shown as the true force of evil. The way he manipulates the markets in his favour, and almost single-handedly causes the collapse of one of the national banks is shocking - and in light of the subprime crisis, that's probably the reaction Faulks was going for. Wealth and riches are his only interests, while his wife, children, TV, socialising and sports take a back seat.

How much does Faulks hate the bankers? How heartless does he think it is? It almost seemed like he had a personal vendetta that he wanted to settle, and he used this book as the medium. We live in a world of shades of grey, but Faulks managed to create a fairly black and white world, and while I find it hard to sympathise with banks whose greed led to the global economic crisis in the first place, I also feel as though this book is looking at the industry from an extremely myopic point of view. It's inviting the readers to hate the industry, it's typecasting bankers into one fairly unforgiving category... whereas... whereas, a person willing to create a pure Islamic world manages to redeem himself with no regrets or repercussions. It's baffling, really.

The last line of the book further pushes the point: "As he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out over the sleeping city, over its darkened wheels and spires and domes, Veals laughed."

Instantly, my thoughts went to The Fountainhead, which starts, "Howard Roark laughed." Roark is the epitome of all things pure and unadulterated, the un-mercenary, if you like. Yes, this could be purely coincidental, and unrelated, but it was almost like Veals was offsetting the righteous and oh-so-irreproachable Roark.

{the below extract is from the first page of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead}

He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with sunrays.

The lake below was only a thin steel ring that cut the rocks in half. The rocks went on into the depth, unchanged. They began and ended in the sky. So that the world seemed suspended in space, an island floating on nothing, anchored to the feet of the man on the cliff.

[...] He laughed at the thing which had happened to him that morning and at the things which now lay ahead.

He knew that the days ahead would be difficult. There were questions to be faced and a plan of action to be prepared. He knew that he should think about it. He knew also that he would not think, because everything was clear to him already, because the plan had been set long ago, and because he wanted to laugh.

* END SPOILER ALERT *

It wasn't a comfortable read, by any stretch of the imagination, for there was no middle ground. Everyone and everything was over the top. The characters were dislikable, and even if this was all in the name of satire, one's got to wonder why the satire makes everything seem so bleak? In the twenty-first century, are we so doomed?

One of the reviews at the back of my copy reads:

The 19th century gave us Thackeray's Vanity Fair, Dickens's Our Mutual Friend and Trollope's The Way We Live Now; the 21st century has given us Sebastian Faulks's A Week In December.

If I may be so bold to say that the above statement is overtly generous, I would be understating the reality, and I make that comment despite never reading anything by Trollope. I want to read more by Faulks for I don't think this was anything close to his best, but I don't know where to start? Birdsong? Engleby? Human Traces? Or...? What would you recommend?

Gabriel García Márquez - Of Love And Other Demons

Last year, I mentioned how I'm trying to read one book by Gabriel García Márquez every year. That was a resolution I made on reading my first novel by the Nobel Prize laureate (One Hundred Years of Solitude), but now - now, I'm thinking, why shouldn't I read them back-to-back? That gives me ample time to go back and enjoy each of his books again, and again, and - you get the idea, right? This novella re-affirms the conclusion I reached. At only 160 pages, it's a fairly quick read, but I already feel like re-reading it, and losing myself in the wondrous world so skillfully created by Márquez.

Set in Latin America in the eighteenth century, this bleak story is about a twelve year old, Sierva Maria, who is brought up by the slaves in her parents' estate. She imbibes the cultures, languages and traditions of the slaves, and is closer to them than to her own parents who have little, if any, time for her. Subsequently, she's also prone to fabricating stories and exaggerating the truth, as per her convenience - sometimes, for no rhyme or reason ("She wouldn't tell the truth even by mistake").

When she is bitten by a rabid dog, despite not showing any signs of hydrophobia, people assume that she's either rabid, or possessed by a demon.This changes her father's attitude towards her, as he showers her with more love and affection, and tries to save her, but is forced to listen to the bishop, who believes that an exorcism is to be performed to cleanse the girl, despite the famous Jewish physician, Abrenuncio, dismissing the possibility of any such possession. In a world of wild beliefs and crazy superstitions, Abrenuncio is one of the few pragmatic minds, but the Bishop's belief that rabies is one of the forms the demon can adopt to enter the human body is popularly accepted.

Subsequently, Sierva Maria is incarcerated to the convent at St. Clara, where the Cayetano Delaura, the chief exorcist, is assigned to her. Delaura, almost typically, falls in love with the girl, and tries to figure out a way to save her life, with the help of Abrenuncio. However, because the girl's ways is so different from what they accept, it's almost impossible to cast the accusations aside. Her familiarity with the slave traditions, and the ease with which she speaks their languages and blends in with them is essentially why no one believes that she is perfectly unblemished, despite the bite.

Delaura, an extremely religious person, and the Bishop's trusted subordinate, tries sticking up for the girl, as love for the girl thirty years his junior, possesses him, but in a world where superstitions are predominant and rational reasoning dismissed, he is fighting a lost battle.

What are the demons though? Rabies? Traditions? Superstitions? Clashing of cultures - the Christians and the slaves? Or, love? And how does one overcome these demons? More importantly, can they be overcome?

People are desperate to cling on to the supernatural in order to explain some of the calamities that occur in their lives, at the expense of ignoring completely rational explanations. Is it that they don't know better, or that they choose not to know better? In this incredibly dark and gloomy book, Marquez again creates a world that shows the class divide and how the religious customs take precedence over all else. Despite this being a comparatively short read, the depth of the story and the emotions it evokes linger on long after you put the book back on the shelf.

Have you read anything by this incredibly talented Nobel Laureate? Which book is your favourite?

An Assortment Of Bookish Links - II

Super quick post from me. I have a couple of half-written reviews pending, but my parents were around for a couple of weeks, and they took priority. Sorry! Anyway, came across two links today that I thought I should share - yes, I know, two isn't really an "assortment," but hey ho! Seth Godin talks about the future of libraries, and how we need more librarians and fewer dull desk clerks, and how the role of librarians is changing. Do I agree with all of the article? Nope. Do I find it interesting? Yes.

The Guardian is running a competition, "Shelf Conscious," where they invite you to post pictures of your bookshelves.  I love seeing other people's bookshelves, and the Flickr group has some fantastic shots. I'll try uploading a picture sometime soon, but in the meantime, here are a few of my absolute favourites, which make me go: I want. Looking forward to seeing some of your pictures on there...