Atlas Shrugged

I was going to finish the Krishna Coriolis series before moving on to other books, but I realized that I have to write an essay on Atlas Shrugged for a competition, and delaying further would not be a good idea.

I kept putting this off, because I thought that a book so famous, and supposed to contain the essence of Ayn Rand's philosophy of Objectivism, would be dull and heavy. I feared that it would be like the other 'great' works I've read in the past two years: that it would be another God of Small Things. I feared that I would have to struggle to see the point, to convince myself of its greatness because the 'experts' said so and because I would have to write on it. The size scared me off, and the reputation made me apprehensive.

I was wrong.

Atlas Shrugged belied my every expectation. I find myself enraptured by it, engrossed by it, unable to put it down and unable to stop thinking about it. I sympathize so strongly with Dagny and Rearden that I cannot help but race along the book impatiently, flipping every once in a while to the 1069th page in despair. I cannot remember the last time I felt simultaneously that I needed to know how it ended and yet not want it to end. I do not know yet whether I agree or disagree with Ayn Rand's thinking, whether I agree partially, whether I disagree completely, but I know that Atlas Shrugged is a work of brilliance, truly a 'masterwork,' an awe-inspiring achievement that I will revisit many times hence, and that will inspire thought in me that will never cease, because there is so much to think about and so much to admire. I bow down before a mind so immense that it can write a book 1069 pages long, with a plot so compelling that I am bewitched by it. There may be flaws in Ayn Rand's philosophy. There must definitely be critics of it. But I am not far enough away yet to look at her work dispassionately, so I am sure that what I am writing right now must read as a tribute to her literary merit. Perhaps after a while, when I have finished reading and had time to think of other things, I can look at it more objectively, but right now I am in thrall of Rand's immediate message, of her belief that a man is 'a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.'

The Krishna Coriolis, books 1 and 2

I am very, very impressed by Ashok Banker. I like his writing style, I like his topic, and I find his books absorbing.

What is interesting is that despite writing in English, using slang and the vernacular, Banker somehow manages to retain the essence of the epics he is re-telling. It may be the usage of Sanskrit words like rishi, maatr and pitr which lends his version of the stories authenticity and regionality. And it may be the fact that he deals with them respectfully, passionately. The fact that Banker has done a lot of research to give a rich and detailed rendering is not lost on you.

That said, he has a slight tendency to melodrama, and he is sometimes a little redundant where there are large descriptive passages. I really enjoy his dialogue, though. I've read the beginning of his Ramayana series (I will finish it now) and it seems to me that he has evolved from that series to this. His Ramayana, despite the attributes I mentioned in the above paragraph, sometimes seems like a foreign fantasy rather than an essential Indian epic. In the Dance of Govinda I felt that I was reading about the Krishna we know from our childhood tales, which is no mean feat.

Slayer of Kamsa leads up to the birth of Krishna. Kamsa gets progressively worse, rampaging around Mathura, killing innocent people, disrupting the peace treaty negotiation between Vasudeva and Ugrasena (his father), allying with Jarasandha, and when his demon form comes to the fore, imprisoning his parents and Vasudeva and Devaki, and usurping the throne. It therefore paints a grim, dismal picture as many innocent people are dying and being imprisoned, and who cling desperately onto the prophecy that the eighth child born to Vasudeva and Devaki will be the slayer of Kamsa. The book ends with the birth and transportation of Krishna to Nanda's household as the whole city of Mathura miraculously falls asleep, allowing Vasudeva to safely leave Krishna at Nanda's household.

As I was while reading Banker's Ramayana, here, again, I was astonished by the depths of misery to which the city and its people sink, and the extent of Kamsa's depravity and inhumanity (it is emphasized that he is not human...)
As children, when we hear or read these stories, we hear blunted, censored versions that are mild and narrow in their depictions of 'evil' and grand and moralizing in their depictions of 'good.' The antagonist, be it Ravana, Kamsa, or Duryodhana, commits obvious, glaring sins, and is punished for it. In Ravana's case his 'sole' trespass is the kidnap of Sita. Here, we see more complex, intricate portrayals that convey the extent of tyranny that would require God himself to take human form and come among us physically to pull us out of nightmarish depths. It is no simple, on-off sin that requires elaborate defiance and warfare; it is cruelty in its highest form, cruelty that makes life hell for many. As you read of this cruelty, you find yourself awaiting deliverance as desperately and as eagerly as the victimized citizens.

I felt that Vasudeva was beautifully drawn in Slayer of Kamsa. He becomes far more than a good man who fathered Krishna; he becomes a 'hero' in his own right. There are splendid conversations between Devaki and Vasudeva as they try to resolve the menace that her brother has become. Vasudeva, who is rational, and yet idealistic and non-violent, does not agree to catch Kamsa off-guard and kill him. He wishes to try to talk to Kamsa, to reason with him and negotiate. Devaki is aghast, telling him that Kamsa is well past listening to reason, but Vasudeva refuses to be convinced. Kamsa tries to kill him, not once but thrice. Each time Vasudeva is miraculously saved, the weapon either coming to a standstill in front of him, disintegrating, or even turning on its user. The first time Vasudeva stands his ground, trying to reason with Kamsa even as his comrades try to warn him of Kamsa's rising temper. Vasudeva's strength of conviction and courage are remarkable, as he fights for what is just regardless of what he believes the consequences of his actions may be.

Dance of Govinda was considerably lightened by the presence of the infant Krishna and Balarama. The joy he brings his parents (both real and foster) and Vrajbhoomi resonates through the book, overshadowing the grim realities of Jarasandha's rule through Kamsa, and giving you many smiles. Being superhuman, Krishna communicates to Yashoda (his foster mother) - and on occasion his father and real parents - telepathically. His dialogues are calming, teasing or innocent as the occasion may require. Somehow, despite the fact that Krishna has supernatural abilities, and knows far more than any normal infant ever would, Banker manages to give his actions an undertone of innocence and sometimes even a childish gaiety. Things are still grim in Mathura, but the citizens know as well as the reader now that deliverance is on the way.

I am unable to decide which book cover I like better. The Slayer of Kamsa cover is more sophisticated, but the Dance of Govinda has a beautiful Krishna on it...

Coming up next: Krishna Coriolis, books three and four.

Inferno

So, Inferno. I have a feeling that just mentioning it will boost my pageviews the way The Devil Wears Prada did.

I had only read two Dan Brown books before Inferno. Someone had told me the story of The Da Vinci Code beforehand, so I didn't find it as fascinating or engrossing as many people seem to find it. I found Angels and Demons more interesting, but the way in which the Cardinals were murdered was a little gruesome and sensational for my tastes. So I hadn't much experience with Dan Brown before Inferno. I didn't go in with a bias because critics always tend to be snobbish and delegate Dan Brown's prose to the trash pile. True, his prose isn't exceptional, and he does mix his metaphors occasionally, but I didn't find him as unbearable as all that.

My biggest takeaway from this book was Dante's Inferno. I learnt so much about Dante and Inferno that I feel quite cultured now. As for the writing, well - some grammatical errors niggled at me occasionally - but I read the book because I was out of town and it was the only one I could get  my hands on, and it suited the purpose of filler entertainment quite well. I thought it was adequately interesting. It was what you'd expect from Dan Brown - what else could you ask for?

Some of the plot twists were a little hard to digest. I won't give in to the temptation to include spoilers here.

I am not sure how much I liked Sienna Brooks, the ultra-brainy, 208-IQ (208? I'm not even sure that has happened in the real world) female doctor lead. She seemed - unreal. And I just didn't like her much. I'm not sure why I didn't though. Langdon was fine.

There's not really much you can say about Inferno without giving away the plot. I wanted to say something about the rogue bio-scientist in the book, but can't figure out how much is too much. But I was a little disappointed by the ending. In trying so hard to give the plot a twist that truly shocks the reader, Dan Brown deprives us of a truly satisfying ending. Things feel slightly incomplete and anti-climactic.

All in all, I liked the book for the tidbits I gained, and for the way it helped me pass my time when I didn't have a number of books to pick from. It isn't boring, which is a lot more than can be said of a lot of books. So, Inferno = good time pass if you are able to ignore notoriously bad prose.

Coming up next: Reviews of Ashok K Banker's Krishna Coriolis series.

I intend to end all my posts like the above hereafter.

Edit, 31st Jan 2014: Inferno shows a terribly simplistic, unsophisticated and inaccurate understanding of over-population and population problems. For example, developed countries, certainly don't need fewer children being born; in fact, many of them are suffering from aging populations and larger burdens on the workforce.

The Devil Wears Prada

As I mentioned in one of my earlier posts, I don't usually read books like The Devil Wears Prada. Barring the Shopaholic series by Sophie Kinsella, I therefore have no experience with this genre. However, I enjoyed this book. It was light, funny, sarcastic and interesting enough that I finished the book pretty fast. The other book in the omnibus I borrowed, however, (Everyone Worth Knowing, also by Laura Weisberger) did not hold my interest. It somehow seemed a bit too similar to The Devil Wears Prada, even though the plots are quite different. The protagonist did not capture my sympathy immediately, and I did not persevere, because I have a lot of books on my list right now.

It is easy to feel sympathetic towards Andy. As the under-dog, and apparently a virtual slave to her demonic boss, Miranda Priestly, she inspires sympathy. As someone working for a company whose views/principles she does not agree with or endorse, she inspires liking as a victim of a scenario that is - sadly - very familiar. I have not had a job yet, but I still understand (and am very familiar with) the thinking that leads one to take up a job one hates, because it will one day lead to greener pastures. The book has a very clear message - Priestly's powerful and prestigious position gives her no right to trample over her underlings and whoever she believes to be her inferior in class and taste. The author also seems to believe that fashion is a field that is given far too much importance (the gravity with which Miranda's myriad eccentric orders are treated is heavily satirized in the book), and that it endorses many unhealthy fads including the belief that one has to be stick-thin to be attractive. The book is reportedly partly based on the author's experience working as an assistant to the notorious, fur-endorsing editor of Vogue, Anna Wintour. The author however, refutes any allegations that Priestly is based on Wintour. Anna Wintour makes a small appearance in the book, but we are told she and Miranda dislike each other.

Doesn't Meryl Streep look amazing as Miranda Priestly? I haven't seen the movie yet, though.

Miranda Priestly is a very one-dimensional character. It is impossible to like her or feel any understanding, because we see her through Andy's eyes, and Andy constantly fantasizes about killing or otherwise maiming Miranda. Although the author makes valid points about the unhealthiness of endorsing, and creating, the view that girls need to be razor-thin to wear good clothes and look beautiful, and the pettiness and hypocrisy that sometimes exist in Priestly's world, it seems that she is biased against the fashion world, and believes it to be shallow and undeserving of the attention it receives. It would have been nicer if she had made Miranda a more complex character, and developed her a bit, but the book is, after all, written in first-person from Andy's point of view, and in Andy's view, Miranda is the Devil who wears Prada.

The Spanish Bride

The major difficulty I had while reading this book was a lack of understanding of the military terms and maneuvers and a very shallow knowledge (actually almost non-existent) of the Napoleonic wars. So I did not understand at least half the book. However, the rest - the interactions between the characters and the descriptions of the conditions tolerated by soldiers and their suffering in certain environments and battles - was easy enough to understand.

The Spanish Bride, by Georgette Heyer, starts off with the marriage of Brigade-Major Harry Smith and Juana. Juana is married at the tender age of fourteen. However, the marriage is not forced; Harry Smith and Juana fall in love almost on sight. Thankfully Harry Smith is only twenty three; if he had been in his thirties or forties, I think I would have abandoned the book then and there. Juana travels with Smith while he campaigns and does battle, sharing all the privations and inconveniences of army life. She is tough and determined, never complaining about what she has to face, or despairing because she has no contact with her Spanish family (I actually found this very strange. Juana is married at the age of fourteen - fourteen! - and loses contact with her family so totally that she is effectively orphaned, and she seems to forget all about them as soon as she is married. She doesn't as much as mention that she misses them). The book follows their life until the defeat of Napolean, with some very interesting insertions of what Wellington said and did at different times, and depictions of what his soldiers and generals thought of him.

Juana seemed strangely like a female lead from one of Eva Ibbotson's books - fiery, passionate, short-tempered, able to get on with just about anyone, almost able to talk to animals and sing with the birds. While hugely enjoying Ibbotson's books, I always had the idea that such women did not exist in the real world. If Heyer's portrayal is any accurate, it seems that Juana was hugely charming and charismatic - liked by everyone - and also very democratic, brave, and compassionate. Descriptions of her actions and words and interactions with Smith were entertaining and enjoyable. Harry Smith comes across as impetuous, brave, boyish, hot-tempered, and a little immature. The chemistry between the two is wonderful, and seems very real. There were also some very nice secondary characters, including Cadoux and George Simmons, some of Smith's superiors, and Smith's family.

There is a bias towards the English in describing the wars. I always have difficulty rejoicing when one side wins a battle in a book (especially when the battle has really occurred) because I am always thinking of the other side and its casualties. But despite the background, the book wasn't too heavy or depressing. Overall, I enjoyed the book, but I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I understood the historical background and the military terms and maneuvers.