Smelly tale...

A cyclone has helped my blog ambitions. I can blog today because I am home early thanks to the cyclone warning.

I think we are lucky, incredibly so, because we share this world with some incredibly talented word weavers and dreamers. If only my imagination was as vast and as exciting.

I don’t consider Perfume an exceptionally well-written book. (Ha! As if Patrick Suskind cares.) However, that could be because it is a translation. But I love Suskind’s imagination (Ha! As if Patrick cares any more or less.)

Like the protagonist of the tale, I found Perfume a quiet and chilling book. Yes, I mean quiet, because I found nothing loud or sensational or dramatic in the book. But I found its subtle style apt. It inspires thought, followed by fear. Perfume imagines the olfactory version of hypnotism and the prospect is quite terrifying.

Apart from inspiring terror, Perfume also got me sniffing — doorknobs, people (embarrassing, I must confess, but I pretended it was a touch of common cold), paper. I don’t know about you, but my sense of smell raises its head only in the presence of overpowering stench or irresistible aromas. But now I am taking greater note of my mom’s pulao, the cold contented smell of the trees after a November rain… although I am sure I am still missing the very ordinary everyday odours. Jean Baptiste Grenouille though could identify people with just a whiff of their scent and even give you an accurate physical description by using just his nose. Sherlock would have apprenticed with Grenouille, if only he knew.

To me, Perfume was also a tale of the outsider. It is difficult to imagine a person born without a smell. But that one fact sets the irredeemable course of Grenouille’s life and the end of it too. The end of the novel is as undramatic as the rest of it and as unexpected and, at the cost of sounding repetitive, as scary. Perfume also raises questions on our perceptions of beauty, our ideas of love and of course, the state of our society and its absurd patterns.

Perfume can never be one of my favourite books; it’s too unsettling for that. But it’s a book I liked very much. And yes, it makes me take the occasional deeper breaths, hoping to catch and store away a scent, a perception, a memory.

The why and the wherefore

It is one thing to start a blog. Quite another to keep it going. The first requires very little time and even fewer resources. The second requires time, thought, ability... So much easier to curl up somewhere with a book instead.

I have often wondered why I read so much. Is it escapist? Is it enlightening? Is it just another mindless addiction?

I love reading. A new book, unread, waiting to be devoured is a beautiful promise, like the sight of a benevolent sun after a night filled with the tantrums of a thundercloud. Of course, all this could fall flat after I am down a few pages and a depression much like the one that strikes in the aftermath of a seven-day flu is quite likely. However, I am lucky. I inhabit a planet filled with talented conjurors. While some come close to the fantasy dawn, others go further and sculpt the Utopian version, complete with golden-hued sunlight, the smell of freshly soaked earth warmed by the sun, the twitter of birds and the glorious green of a land that is satiated.

And then there is the much beloved book. The one you go to with the knowledge that here is a much beloved friend. You might have woken up this morning to the realisation (yet again) that this world is not what you thought it to be and not what you wanted it to be either. But whatever else disappoints, here is something that won’t let you down. Here is a memory that is cherished and whose aura hasn’t faded. And as you turn the pages (of an Austen, maybe?) you find that rusty coat of cynicism scrapped off. And you smile again.

However, I am a realist. I accept that there are days when the rust is so thick and so sharp that it’s toxic and nothing will help get rid of it. You must indulge in some self-pity and wallow in some depression. And some self-flagellation with Thomas Hardy, maybe?

I have given up ambitions of enlightenment. I confess to a partiality for escapism. And I proclaim a deep-rooted addiction.

I read because it’s my tonic. I read because it’s what I do best. I read because I am.

I am off… Jean-Baptiste Grenouille and Patrick Suskind await.

Of men and women

Let the truth be told. My first rendezvous with poetry was probably in school but I was too busy to pay much attention (keep guessing!). I really met poetry in college but I fell in love much later. I discovered the subtleties and beauty of Hopkins and Donne after I left college. But with Emily Dickinson, it was almost love at first sight and the pleasures of Nash’s company never fade.

I prefer my tomes of fiction to poetry, but poetry is a siren… creeping up on you when you forget to plug your ears and then you are as good as lost.

Two rather diverse poems seduced me this weekend and since I am still hypnotised, I have no original contribution to make. But, I want to share these.

Phenomenal Woman, I have decided to adopt as my personal anthem. It makes me want to “sashay” into a room full of people and proclaim my womanhood. Thank you, Maya Angelou.

Then there’s Donne. It’s been a long time since I visited Donne. 'Batter my heart three-personed God' still echoes though. A hot summer day, a classroom with slatted windows with dappled sunlight streaming through and the urgent, insistent rhythms of Donne shaking us out of a haze-induced stupor. And now this, Donne cast in the role of a cocky lover… again, thanks to the Guardian. It’s been too long, I said to Donne, we should do this more often. (http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/oct/05/john-donne-the-sun-rising)

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!


Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.
— Maya Angelou

The Sun Rising
Busy old fool, unruly Sun,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windows and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late schoolboys and sour 'prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the King will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shoulds't thou think?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th'Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou left'st them, or lie here with me?
Ask for those kings whom thou saw'st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, 'All here in one bed lay.'

She's all states, and all princes, I;
Nothing else is.
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world's contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that's done in warming us.
Shine here, to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere.
— John Donne

Vacation plans

What’s your favourite midnight snack? Mine varies. Sometimes I go foraging in the refrigerator for a Snickers bar and at other times, nothing but Maggi will do.

Tonight I am not hungry. I am feeling, shall I say, creative? It is a much abused adjective so I feel no qualms taking such liberties.

I just finished reading Agatha Christie’s One, Two, Buckle My Shoe. I checked, but the book isn’t on Guardian’s latest list of Agatha Christie’s top 10 books, which I found very disappointing, but then I console myself with the fact that I have yet to read most of the books on that list so maybe the best is yet to come.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/sep/15/top-10-agatha-christie-novels

I digress. The reason for this post is the idea that popped into my head that an Agatha Christie is the perfect book to carry on vacation. Then, I got to thinking why? And then, I realised that trial and error had taught me what would probably be ideal reading matter for my vacation.

1) Like butter and aerated drinks, the diet version is better.
I once lugged Inkdeath on a vacation. I had finished the first (Inkheart) and second book (Inkspell) in the trilogy and had been gifted the third one and was eager to finish it. The poor book never left my suitcase. Let’s face it. If your vacation involves sight seeing and you need something to keep you occupied on the bus journeys to and fro, a heavy book is a bad choice, which most people with more common sense and a little less ambition than me would have realised long ago. An Agatha Christie is a much better choice simply because it’s enough of a cliff hanger to keep your fingers itching to get back to your bookmark (note please: I am an earnest believer in bookmarks and denounce as heretics those who prefer to fold the edges of their books). Also, on the return journey, there’s so much more place for souvenirs and you can hope to meet the airline’s luggage restriction more easily if you’ve only carried a couple of slim Christies along.

2) Familiarity needn’t breed contempt.
Experimenting might prove risky on a vacation. When you are at home and you merely have to walk to your bookshelf to exchange one book for another, it’s easier to experiment because you can exchange something that doesn’t hold your interest for something more engaging. That might not be possible if you are vacationing. What’s worse you could be stuck somewhere where the nearest bookshop/library offers a limited choice or none at all. I once had academic ambitions and was to study for my MA. So, I picked up a university syllabus and started reading up books marked for study. That’s how I happened to pack William Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury with my clothes and camera on a short trip some time ago. I don’t remember ever being so miserable. I remember making it through till the last page and feeling like I had walked across the Sahara on a parched throat. I am too dumb for a Faulkner. Only my ambition (again!) was blind. Oh how I missed my Pratchetts.

3) Judge the book by the cover.
I am feeling a little hesitant about expanding on this one because it might be considered the antithesis of what has just gone before. I read The Color Purple by Alice Walker and was floored. I immediately added Alice Walker to my wish list and decided I wanted to read more. And sure enough every time I saw an Alice Walker book, I picked it up. I now have four in all. I carried The Temple of My Familiar on a trip and wept because I couldn't go beyond mid-way and even the journey until then had been accomplished by sheer determination. I should have known. Part fable, part feminist manifesto, part political statement and part love story, the jacket said. But I wouldn’t heed good advice. My other two books are suffering as a result. They’ve been inadvertently (or maybe deliberately) pushed to the end of my shelf and are at the bottom of my Own and Planning to Read list on Shelfari. The jacket never lies (ok, so maybe it does, because sometimes the unputdownable might be put down very early in the tale, but maybe reading between the lines would help?)

Do you have any tips? Any criteria for elimination? I’d love to know. They might make my reading during vacations more pleasant. I do seem to suffer from errors in judgement, but at least I learn from my mistakes.