And to cap it all, the heavens turn grey and it starts to rain

After a long sabbatical enforced purely by extreme laziness disguised as equally extreme over-workedness, I have finally been motivated to post – about one of the greatest authors of the 20^th century. While there are many others who may lay stake to the claim, I feel quite justified in saying that very few of these others had as much mastery of human emotion. As connoisseurs of Indian music say, no song is as melodious, or indeed, pulls at one's heart-strings as fervently, as does a Rafi song that's full of sadness; so too it may be said that Kafka alone, among his peers, has the ability to describe every emotion, in whole and in detail, in such a manner as to leave one spellbound.

Let's be clear – Kafka pulls no punches. He plows the depths of pathos. In some sense, he completes what Thomas Hardy begins – if the lives of Hardy's Jude and Henchard slowly descend unwaveringly into misery and obscurity, their Kafka-created counterparts are already there, leapfrogging more memorable and pleasant times. This isn't more clearly evident than in The Metamorphosis – Kafka's seminal work starts with the following line:

'When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed'

Neither does Samsa change back into a human at any point in the story, nor does he live happily ever after as do the ever-resilient vermin. That defines Kafka, this use of pain or relative misery as the starting point to his tale – and the end. Of course, his stories do often carry the promise of better times – but as often, they revert to hopelessness. Thou art from despair, and to despair thou wilt return.

At this point, one would just about be ready to dismiss him as an everyday fatalist, or, if one were particularly cruel, as a run-of-the-mill, throw-a-dart-and-you'll-hit-one, pessimist. But, as one would no doubt guess from my tone, one could not be more wrong. Kafka's stories do carry the hope of a change of luck, of a turn of fate, of the imminence of 'a final improvement in one's condition'. Whether they do (they don't) is a trivial matter, what leaves the reader struck is the manner in which Kafka follows and describes the protagonist's thoughts. He seems to have what it takes to find his way through the deepest and darkest labyrinthine passages of the human mind, and he isn't afraid of what he finds in them. Zen masters say that events are not happy or unhappy – both feelings are in the mind. This platitude, in a sense, symbolizes most of Kafka's stories (not all of them have the hero wake up to numerous tiny, vibrating legs). Events happen at the beginning of the story – they slowly and gradually affect the subjects, as the latter succumb to their thoughts.

And they slowly affect us too. Most readers, I'm sure, would come away with the opinion that Kafka's stories, with their minimalistic plots, are intensely allegorical. And in the vein of the Emperor and his new clothes, they would each pretend that they understood his work. But the truth, as Michael Hoffman puts it, is usually that 'We obscurely feel, we bet, we know that there is something more going on in a story, something probably to do with sex or violence or families or metaphysics, but we're damned if we know what it is.' The meta-story is sometimes relatively easy to decipher, as in The Judgment or An Old Journal; often, it is too abstruse for ordinary mortals.

While he doesn't shirk any morbidities in his writings (The Metamorphosis,
In the Penal Colony), he does, from time to time, allow himself to indulge in a little humor (For the Consideration of Amateur Jockeys), which makes him somewhat easier to stomach (but not too much). Most times, one enjoys, nay, is awe-struck by the manner in which he describes the dissolution of hope, and cruel disbandment of aspirations. As he says, 'There is infinite hope … but not for us'.

And this part of my life is called … reading books

Since childhood, I've always been driven, like those characters in pulp paperbacks by Jeffrey Archer, et al. The only difference is that in contrast to those glorious heroes who have been driven singly by a sense of adventure or a sense of patriotism since 'as far back as they can remember'; I'm driven by different things on a day-to-day basis. Sometimes the urge to get out and do something is a little stronger, and lasts about a week. A week of smoldering tensions and plans and initiatives that never leave the drafting table.

I've also been fascinated by the act of collecting stuff, from 'as far back as I can remember'. When I was a kid, I was a stamp collector, like so many others. Ever the intellectual, I quickly reasoned that philately would be the easiest occupation for me, given that both my parents used to collect stamps when they were young, and had preserved their collections for posterity (and me). So, one day I decided that I would collect stamps, and the next day I had ~3000 of them. Some collection that! I think the seeds of the decline of this wonderful hobby of mine were laid when I visited a stamp exhibition at Nehru Center (which is what connoisseurs did, someone I prided myself on being). Much to my dismay, the exhibition also had an area where budding collectors could buy a packet of 1000 stamps for a very reasonable price. Not reasonable enough for me though (I had a very Spartan childhood, without any pocket money). I'd gone to this exhibition with a pal and his grand-dad. I enjoyed hanging out with this friend, as he had also just begun, and had a princely collection of 10 stamps. Our favorite occupation during our summer holidays was to pore over our collections. I would run through each one of my stamps and say, "Have you seen this one?" or "Guess which country this is from". After a couple of hours, he would say, "Let's look at my collection now." And 2 minutes later, he would go home. Much fun! People might wonder as to the relevance of this aside here, given that we were at the exciting juncture of my discovery that I didn't have money to buy stamps. Well, unlike yours truly, the friend used to receive pocket money. And approximately 10 minutes after my discovery, he had more stamps than me. His grand-dad offered to buy me a pack too, which I reluctantly refused because much though I adored stamps, I didn't care much for the beatings I would receive at home sweet home for accepting money from people. However, one shouldn't look at my parents in an unkind light. After all, they could have easily offered me pocket money to see if I accept it, and then proceeded to beat me; but they were clearly never that malicious.

Afternoons were not that much fun anymore, as he also had a (positively) boring collection now. Soon, I gave it up, and rummaging through my parents' old stuff, I became a veteran numismatist. Then, moving from coins to MP3s to E-books to movies over the years, I am now firmly a book collector. And over the past few months, I have taken up reading with a renewed vigor. The past week was exceptionally exceptional (what's this figure of speech called? Have I invented a new one?), as I am now 'driven' to read. Since last Sunday, I've read The Great Gatsby, William Golding's Lord of the Flies, The Little Prince (shouldn't really count, as this excellent book has probably fewer words than this post will end up containing), Umberto Eco's Faith in Fakes (another grueling chapter in my seemingly ill-fated and arduous struggle to become a stoic European erudite) and Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut. While I thought that The Great Gatsby was overrated, the others were definitely worth the read. And I would assume that my less-than-ebullient response to the former is quite possibly a function of the different time and place for which it was penned, given that the book does count among the best ones written in the last century.

Both Slaughterhouse 5 and Lord of the Flies (similarity to Lord of the Rings begins and ends with the title) are excellent reads, and are both about war. They are also similar in that they both enjoy pride of place in TIME's list of best English novels since 1923, a pride they share, incidentally, with The Great Gatsby. In an event of pure chance, I was lucky to read these two not necessarily divergent but slightly dissimilar takes on war and human nature, within a short span of time. While Lord of the Flies was written in a dark, allegorical fashion, Vonnegut's book was a satire, intermingled with good-old 'aliens!' science fiction – two genres not often blended, I dare say. Vonnegut's protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, is sent to the war as a chaplain's assistant (a chaplain played a stellar role in Joseph Heller's Catch 22 as well, I seem to recall). There, stumbling from one misfortune to another, he ultimately reaches Dresden, a scene of one of the most equally horrific and ridiculous massacres at the hands of the US during World War II. The story is not linear, as Billy has 'come unstuck in time', i.e., without any control, he keeps meandering from one stage of his life to another. At some point in the interim, he believes he was abducted by aliens as well, from the planet Tralfamadore. While the author never says outright whether the alien abduction is a figment of Billy's imagination or not (he broadly hints that Billy is imagining it), the overall point he makes is about the lack of free will. While describing how absolutely unneeded the aerial attack on Dresden was (it killed almost double the number of people annihilated at Hiroshima), he also says that history would not have had it any other way. As one of his aliens puts it, Tralfamadorians have visited many planets across the breadth of the universe, but it is only on Earth that anyone believes in 'free will'. As the author and these incredibly gifted aliens would condescendingly say, "So it goes."

William Golding, in Lord of the Flies, talks about a group of kids (oldest being 12 years old) stranded on a remote island, with no escape. He describes starkly their descent into savagery, as lack of any societal encumbrances stimulates the surfacing of the baser instincts in children who were otherwise 'propah' English schoolboys. As the struggle for authority and survival continues, violent clashes of steadily increasing ferocity begin to take place among the children. How the book concludes is something that readers should find out for themselves. This storyline is an incredibly far cry from pre-war style; in James Barrie's Peter Pan stories of 1904, the Lost Boys engage in vivid adventures of many kinds, in a land where they never really lose their innocence – a startling example of the effects of the bloody unfolding of the 20^th century on the psyches of those who had the misfortune of partaking in the harrowing experience.

When I started writing a little while ago, both books seemed to be similar only insofar as both of them spoke of human nature, etc. But as I went on, I realized (and this is something I should have known all along) that they are not that different after all, the style of writing, the characters and even the complete stories notwithstanding. While one spoke of the absolute lack of free will, the other lends to an extrapolation that awarding anyone free will (which now seems like the Holy Grail, given my incessant harping on it) will inevitably result in complete loss and anarchy, an outcome not dissimilar to a Pyrrhic war.

There, I think I'm done. What was meant to be a decent comment on two more-than-decent books has turned out to be a narcissistic monotone, with the aforesaid objective relegated to an epilogue. Anyway, hope the future makes me less self-indulgent, for my stories of childhood and friends et al are bound to run out sometime. And a friend, who has begun blogging in recent times, is fast proving to be a far more able chronicler of funny goings-on in my circle of friends. The next book I'll read is a collection of Anthony Burgess' (author of A Clockwork Orange) writings. I'll be sure to write how that goes.

For people who haven't been distracted by my random rambling from the strong sense of déjà vu that the title inspired but have still not quite figured out why, let me help out a bit (another instance of the magnanimity which is clearly visible in how I let my philatelist friend enjoy my riches). For the next few weeks, I'll be arranging to pay my taxes for the first time. While the utter lack of connection with the previous statement may move some to dismiss this as work of a deranged maniac, rest assured that the previous statement holds within it the solution to the sleepless nights you will doubtless endure in attempting to uncover the reason for the strange familiarity of the title (if you think it is familiar, of course). May you succeed!

Elementary, my dear Watson

Yesterday I had a flashback. To the time I was 10 or 11, and had just finished an abridged version of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. You know, that pocket-sized 'Classics' series, aimed at getting children interested in books? I was already interested in books (I think I had read all the Hardy Boys stories when I was in 3^rd or 4^th), but the one in question certainly caught my eye. So, consequent to some beseeching and imploring with my parents, I got my hands on the Complete Stories of Sherlock Holmes or some such, which contained all 56 short stories and 4 long ones. Unabridged, of course. It was a blissful read. My next major problem was that 10 days after I got the book, I'd already devoured it (it was during my summer holidays, and I was in Madras with nothing to do). I still remember jumping around then, saying I wanted to become a detective. This continued, if my memory serves me right, for a reasonably long time. My next major career decision was when I was 14, after reading Chromosome 6 by Robin Cook. At that point, it was obvious to me, for I had seen the light. I was destined to become a genetic engineer… Of course, today I'm neither. But nevertheless, those were glory days. I used to feel I was Superman (He-man is also a very applicable metaphor – I used to love that series and the sword used therein when I was 4-5 years old). After reading the Bible Code, I wondered where I could get my hands on the software the book mentioned, to check what it would unearth about me from the Torah. Funny days, too. Paradise lost and all that.

Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant invention of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's mind. He gripped the imagination of avid readers like no fictional character before. Of course, there were only two notable detectives in fiction before Holmes came along (Edgar Allan Poe's Dupin and Gaboriau's Monsieur Lecoq; Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot came much later). I've read of neither of Holmes' esteemed predecessors, but he does disparage their techniques and intelligence ever-so-slightly. So much for them. His popularity was unprecedented. The story of how he was literally brought back to life (dare I say poorly constructed pun intended? The most redundant two words in English ever, closely competing with "Don't laugh") is a very well-known one. And Sir Doyle wasn't the only one who resurrected him. His story has been adapted into numerous plays, television series, etc since. In fact, an intriguing tidbit about Holmes concerns the title of this blog post – 'Elementary, my dear Watson'. Although this phrase immediately conjures up an image of a man with a sharp countenance and a deerskin cap, smoking a pipe (Holmes, in case these 'clues' didn't give it away), it never really appeared in any of the stories as penned by Sir Doyle. In that sense, it is a misattribution (one cannot call it apocryphal though, since Holmes himself is, arguably, fictional). It did appear, however, in a later adaptation, and pretty much stuck.

The reason for this (extremely) labored journey back in time was a book I just finished reading yesterday (and started the day before – it was an incredibly easy read) – The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon. For those you haven't been extremely devoted Holmes-ians, this is a line from the mystery Silver Blaze, a story about a missing race-horse. This is how the exchange goes. I've taken the liberty of embellishing the statements slightly for effect, given the near-total lack of context, and given the fact that I don't remember them phonographically.

A little while after our discussion, Holmes said, "Well, Watson, there was also the curious incident of the dog in the night-time". I replied, "But Holmes, the dog didn't do anything!" "That, my dear Watson", said Holmes, "was the curious incident."

And just like the story referenced in the title, this one too is a mystery – revolving around the murder of Wellington, a dog that was killed in the night-time. It is a great read, but not because the intricacies of the murder and its consequent solution are brought out exceedingly well. The story is as penned by Christopher Boone, a 15-year old autistic child. It made a reasonably deep impression on me, and also reminded me of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee, a children's book of which they say, extremely accurately, 'a book that every adult should read'. I agree. If anyone hasn't read this book yet, it must go to the top of one's reading list (and if one doesn't have a reading list, this book merits the creation of one). I think what works for The Curious Incident… is the fact that it underlines everything we take for granted but shouldn't. The author very effectively forces the reader to see the world through the eyes (and pen) of a child who hates being touched, and thinks that seeing 5 yellow cars on the road is a premonition of an exceedingly bad day. He doesn't talk to strangers (good advice for anyone), and doesn't eat his food if two or more items are touching each other on his plate (not so good advice).

The boy's heroics as the book proceeds are indeed noteworthy, as are his skills in mathematics, which overcompensate for his deficiencies elsewhere. I think the book's success cannot be summarized better than by saying that when you're done, you don't pity the boy, you admire him for what he is, what he achieves and what he plans to become. When, at the end of the book, Chris realizes that he can 'do anything', you realize it with him. And with the benefit of an external frame of reference, maybe even more so. Few books have left me with as much of a proverbial lump in my throat as this one did.

Unfortunately, however, I don't think I'm going to read any other book by Mark Haddon. He's written some others, mainly for kids. A Spot of Bother, published in 2006, is more targeted at adults. But I'm not going to read it. I'm convinced that he wouldn't have been able to create the same magic as the first one. Just like Harper Lee, incidentally, who's not published much since To Kill … Maybe that's how it should be. Maybe, just like Sherlock Holmes, the magic was never really the author's prerogative.

A Flawed Masterpiece

Life was so good back in school.. Always had plenty of time to watch movies and read books. Now, on most days, I have just about enough time to catch some sleep. Just about.

But, my cleverness and ingenuity led me to a solution – I started watching movies in episodes! Isn't the idea brilliant? J (my ineffectual attempt at sarcasm duly noted, I hope). Anyway, I saw Burn After Reading over a 2-week period, and the comedy didn't flag. I saw Slumdog Millionaire over a similar span of time, but that was because I found it too boring for one sitting. Speaking of Slumdog, I don't know how many people were shocked or pleasantly surprised that it won an Oscar, but I certainly was. And I set out to provide a basis for my incredulity by watching the other popular movies of the year. I'm done with The Reader and Vicky Christina Barcelona, and I must admit that Slumdog is much better. But more on that later…

One director whose work I've seen with some interest over the years is Clint Eastwood. The manner in which he's reinvented himself from a trigger-happy Westerner to a storyteller with other plot-lines up his sleeve has been worth watching. Although I cannot claim to be an expert in his direction style, etc – having watched only 4 movies directed by him; I can pinpoint sufficient differences between his previous movies and his latest slate to be convinced of the metamorphosis.

I saw Changeling a few months ago, and Gran Torino in the past few weeks, and both of them were exceedingly good movies. There's something about the manner in which this 70-year old geezer projects his stories, that forces you to accept every time-worn cliché he throws at you, with equanimity. In both these movies (and previous ones), there have been enough and more instances when any movie-watcher worth his salt would be able to guess the next dialogue or plot twist. But the way Mr. Eastwood tells it, or the way he grunts his dialogues, you decide to give it to him.

Gran Torino is a great movie, period. The clichés are present in full force, true. But the most important juncture, the plot towards the finale, wasn't entirely expected. In fact, it was a particularly apt example of the transition that Mr. Eastwood has been through. Without descending in to spoilers, let me just say that watching the last 15-20 minutes of Gran Torino and Unforgiven in quick succession, one wouldn't fail to appreciate the key differences.

No need for a movie review here, those are abundantly available. But yes, both movies are must-sees, from a master storyteller. Dirty Harry has made a clean break.