Argon Desaki's Report From Earth by Alan Walworth

Source: http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41H3yvUo7ZL._SX311_BO1,204,203,200_.jpg

In the interest of full disclosure, I proofread this book this summer and am proud to know its author. I have, however, tried to be as unbiased as possible.

           Argon Desaki’s Report from Earth defies easy categorization. It starts out as sci-fi, with an alien named Argon Desaki crash-landing on Earth. What follows is Desaki’s doctoral dissertation for ‘Stellar University’ in Pelonia, his home planet, on his findings regarding intelligent life on Earth. This is an effective plot device to describe our planet’s various issues from the point of view of an outsider. Desaki’s Report is a very strange book with an interesting and rather unique writing style that is often an asset but is sometimes a little distracting. Many of the book’s chapters are devoted to one or more issues related to the future of humanity, such as ignorance, apathy, wishful thinking, evolution, war, etc.

           

            I think the first few chapters could have flowed a bit better, and would have benefitted from a better structure. The author sometimes digresses from the plot into poetic or philosophical ruminations. Though many of these are interesting in content and style, I felt that they interrupted the action and were distracting, as in the case of ‘Wondering down a pleasanter pensive path, pursuing and perusing precious pastiches of times past, I recall our wonderful wandering before the crash…’ At first I was incredulous about this style of writing and the excessive use of alliteration, but I got used to it eventually and realized that it was intended to be humorous. There is also a lot of wordplay that is not always immediately obvious. For instance: ‘To tell you the truth, in my opinion people who think it makes sense to pay to hear what psychiatrists say have something wrong with their heads.’ My immediate response to this was to take offense, until I got the joke. I thought such double entendres were genuinely funny and enjoyed them.       

            For me the book really began to get interesting when Desaki started detailing his observations about the human race, even if I didn’t agree with all of them. Various important points were intriguingly presented, such as: ‘It took over a hundred thousand years for the Earthling population to first reach a billion in 1804. After that it took only 123 years to add the next billion. By 1987, adding another billion took only 12 years.’

            Many of Desaki’s opinions are controversial. For instance, he suggests that since it seems that people today can only afford one or two children as opposed to many more in earlier times, there has been a “serious decline in prosperity.” I think that the opposite is the case, as research shows that more highly educated individuals and more developed nations tend to have fewer children.

            Desaki’s views are not necessarily shared by the author, who mentions in the introduction that when he read a draft of Desaki’s dissertation, he didn’t agree with all of it. Although I also didn’t agree with many of these views, I found them intriguing and wondered whether the author was being intentionally provocative in passages like:

“ Once males desire females, their naked attraction is apt to prove problematic. An attracted male in the presence of an attractive naked female may act in ways she could consider – at least if unwelcome – harassment or worse. (On the other hand, if males giving possibly unwelcome attention to attractive females is the norm, how is a female they ignore supposed to feel?)” 

            I enjoyed the sections on opposition to knowledge and anti-intellectualism, which is definitely a dangerous trend (look where Bush’s gut got us). I also liked the section on Apathy and was gleeful when Desaki disparaged Ayn Rand’s enthusiasm for greed. However, some of Desaki’s arguments seemed strange, even illogical. For example, he posits that

‘Conservatives opposed to Darwin’s theory of evolution often in practice uphold social Darwinism’

and that

‘So many who say they believe in evolution seem not to truly believe in it, for if they did they should act differently…Liberals believe in evolution; they insist the theory of evolution is true. But…it appears that many believers in evolution would like to make sure everyone, however disadvantaged or defective, has an equal opportunity not only to survive but also to reproduce. Survival of the fittest is considered an unfortunate state of affairs from which people should be thankful they’ve escaped.’

There seems to be a confusion here: Desaki seems to think that believing in the right to life implies endorsement of that right, and that believing in the existence of evolution implies endorsement of a similar system in human society; however, believing in evolution simply means recognizing the reality of it, and does not entail endorsing it. So believing in evolution is entirely consistent with wanting to advance beyond brutal survival of the fittest. Again, I wondered to what extent this was Desaki’s alien perspective rather than the author’s real opinion.

            Similarly, Desaki’s arguments in support of eugenics are unconvincing. Arguing that eugenics is tainted by its association with Nazism, he defends it by observing, “You could settle for not letting defective people reproduce. There’s no need to kill them....” However, where would one draw the line? Who would decide who would be allowed to reproduce?

            I also disagreed with some of Desaki’s comments regarding the possibility that human intelligence is decreasing. Asking ‘Has Earthling intelligence, on average, already declined?,’ he cites ‘towering intellects’ in 5^th century BC Athens, the ‘Age of Pericles’ – Aeschylus, Themistocles, Sophocles, Protagoras, Herodotus, Euripides, Socrates, Thucydides, Aristophanes and Plato. Then he asks rhetorically ‘How many Earthlings of such stature arose in the last century in America? How many Americans of the last century will be considered so great, or even remembered 2500 years from now?’ Desaki argues that because America’s population is far greater than ancient Greece’s, it should have significantly more intellectuals as outstanding as those historical figures, and he claims it does not. My question is, how can one be certain it does not? ‘Towering intellect’ is an unquantifiable criterion. Whether today’s smartest people are as intelligent as the intellects of yore is very hard to determine. When science, philosophy and related fields were in their infancy, it was comparatively easy to determine outstanding or extraordinary individuals in those fields. But now that such fields are so much more advanced, does the role that giants such as Socrates, Hippocrates, Newton and Einstein played even exist any more?  Is there still any possibility for an individual to be a ‘Father’ of anything? Perhaps, because advances in these fields are now more incremental, we are less able to recognize genius. It is also possible that in today’s culture, we are less likely to revere our leading figures.

            I enjoyed later sections of the book most. The chapter on ‘War’ is spot-on with regard to excessive defense spending, the military-industrial complex and war mongering. The chapter on ‘Business and Politics’ does a good job of exploring the pitfalls of unbridled capitalism. It also contains an interesting discussion about the role of luck in politics. An enjoyable chapter on the unreliability of memory follows. Memory is far less trustworthy than is commonly supposed. It has become increasingly clear that witness testimony is far from foolproof, for example.

            Although the sections on ‘Moron Problems’ and ‘Insanity’ are interesting, I found an out-of-context quote from Dr. Nassir Ghaemi’s book A First-Rate Madness confusing. The last few chapters lay out unique and thought-provoking ideas about how to resolve the many problems described in the book, and flow more smoothly than the earlier sections.

            While the book is evidently a work of fiction, nearly a third of it is endnotes, many of which demonstrate that much of the work’s content is factual. Some of these endnotes offer helpful elaboration, while others felt unnecessary.

             On the whole, Argon Desaki’s Report from Earth is an intriguing book that I feel could have been improved by brevity in some areas and elaboration in others. Some of the arguments seemed fallacious, but that may be consistent with the book’s intent to be thought provoking rather than a straightforward presentation of facts. While Report from Earth is by no means an easy read, it raises important questions and is rewarding. Essential points about current affairs and the state of humanity are presented in a very intriguing and palatable manner, leaving the reader with many things to think about.

You can purchase the Kindle version of this book at: http://www.amazon.com/Report-Earth-Alan-Walworth-ebook/dp/B00HWMQCNS (Kindle books can be read on a laptop or PC with the Kindle app, even if you don't have a Kindle).

You can check out some of the author's work and ideas at:

http://yousa.net/
http://imps.yousa.net/
https://medium.com/@AlanWalworth

The YouSA communities are easy to join and rewarding to use, and the Realistic Idealist publication on Medium is open for essay submissions. 

My Cousin Rachel by Daphne Du Maurier

I've never read Daphne du Maurier before. In fact, I've hardly ever read psychological/ Gothic thrillers before - with the exception of Jane Eyre (and Northanger Abbey, if you count a satire of the Gothic romance - it didn't work for me, because obviously you need to be familiar with what the author is satirizing). This is really not my cup of tea - I suppose I could occasionally read, even enjoy psychological thrillers, but the Gothic romance is not for me. It always, for me, conjures up images of howling wind and rain, and gloomy marshes (or moors). Not for me. I prefer to laugh.

My Cousin Rachel reminded me constantly of Jane Eyre. I read later that Jane Eyre and the Bröntes were a great influence on du Maurier - it certainly shows. The evocation of atmosphere, the friendless, dependent woman, the unequal romance (age and otherwise), all bring to mind Jane Eyre. But My Cousin Rachel is a very different book from Jane Eyre.

Others have said that du Maurier has a way with words. I was too engrossed to particularly notice, which means she certainly does. The brilliance of My Cousin Rachel is neither plot nor suspense - it is atmosphere, even more than character. In fact, I'd say the atmosphere was a character in itself, playing strongly in shaping the reader's feelings and mindset. The amazing ability to conjure up mood is what makes My Cousin Rachel more harrowing than the plot might suggest.

I would say that the plot is not extraordinary or very suspenseful. With the heavy doses of foreshadowing, and Ambrose's letters, it becomes rather obvious what has probably happened, and is happening. The narrator, Philip, is an orphan adopted by his older cousin Ambrose (he is also a stupid, obtuse dolt). Philip is Ambrose's heir. Ambrose, who suffers from bad health in the winter, travels to warmer climes every winter. This winter, he travels to Italy, where he meets the titular 'Cousin Rachel', who is constantly referred to as such, and is half-Italian. He enjoys her company, and, as you can probably guess, he falls in love with her and they marry. Rachel is the widow of Count Sangaletti, who, on his death left a large number of debts behind. She is quite impoverished when she meets, although not too impoverished to be able to reside in a large villa, in the best English fashion, where impoverished means that they live in a large house instead of a mansion, and employ only a few servants instead of an entire retinue. Anyway, the only one surprised (and unhappy) at the marriage is Philip, the poor dolt. The reason that I keep referring to him as such will become obvious as I progress.

Now, I did not start out hating Philip. He is sympathetic enough in the beginning. Even when he failed to foresee Ambrose and Rachel's marriage, I was still sympathetic. After all, we are sometimes most blind about those closest to us. I didn't even hate him when he is extremely jealous of Rachel, because it makes perfect sense for the orphaned, unsociable person with only one true friend and relative in all the world to be jealous of someone who could potentially take that one friend away. And of course, there is the new uncertainty about his rights, and whether he will still inherit the estate. Philip hates Rachel, and with good reason. This hatred grows stronger when Ambrose dies in Italy, before he can return home. Ambrose has sent home ambiguous, mysterious letters hinting at something dark and terrible. "She watches me constantly." - he writes in one letter. And in his last - "She has done for me at last, Rachel my torment." Now anyone with half a brain would infer that there is a high probability that Rachel either killed Ambrose or caused his death somehow. At this point, still possessing half a brain, this is exactly what he believes (actually not exactly - the character don't yet know that Ambrose is dead here, but Philip is extremely worried), despite the strong opposition and disapprobation of his godfather, who believe that these are the delusions of a sick man (they say he died of a brain tumour). On receipt of this letter, he leaves immediately to see Ambrose. I was still with him. Of course Rachel killed Ambrose. It seems obvious.

Where things start to change is when Rachel arrives at the estate. Almost overnight Philip's attitude towards Rachel changes. He throws caution to the winds and allows himself to like her. Even here things made sense. I was surprised myself at how likeable Rachel turned out to be. But of course, she cannot be a complete shrew if Ambrose fell in love with her. The genius of du Maurier here is that we are not shocked at Philips 180 degrees change in attitude, because we experience the same thing. I was conscious of wanting her to turn out to be completely innocent. du Maurier even succeeded in convincing me, along with Philip, that those letters truly were delusions.

SPOILERS ahead. Read at your own risk.

When, however, Philip, discovers further letters (and letter fragments) from Ambrose insinuating the same (and more) things about Rachel, I was bought back to Earth with a jolt. At around the halfway point of the book, Philip finds a coherent, logical, fully conscious letter from Ambrose explaining that Rachel is an extravagant spendthrift who does not seem to have quite the same moral outlook as they do. He writes that she is constantly with Rainaldi (an Italian who is Rachel's man of business), and they seem to have secrets from him. Oh, also, he thinks that he is being slowly poisoned by Rachel. Surely this is explicit enough to make anyone suspicious.

Not Philip, though. He buries the letter. He dismisses it out of hand. He denies it. You'd think the love and care and respect of decades of affection would outweigh a recent infatuation. Yes, Philip, who is twenty-four to Rachel's thirty-five, is totally besotted. He plans to make over the estate to Rachel when he turns twenty five, when it comes fully into his possession from his godfather. He plans to continue to reside on the estate as Rachel's man of business. Yes, he is that foolish and besotted. He continuously ignores every scrap of evidence that Rachel is not what she seems, as well as the good-natured, sound advice of his godfather and his daughter Louise, who is Philip's childhood friend. He grows angry at her when she talks sense. Again, you'd think long-term ties would outweigh short-term infatuations, but no. Not so, my friends. The world is a traitorous place. Expect a lifelong friend to choose the older, sophisticated vampire over you.

When Philip begins to show doltish signs, you hope he will snap out of it, because he was quite promising in the beginning. He even had a semblance of intelligence and sense. This hope is steadily defeated, with Philip's moronic-ness just growing with the passing of the pages. It is not just that Philip ignores caution about the woman he loves. That makes sense. It is that he outright ignores and defies strong evidence that Rachel is a manipulative witch who murdered Ambrose. Loyalty to the friend who bought him up with such affection and love does not trump infatuation, when it should. That is what made me hate him more than anything else. This betrayal of the father figure in his life, after his death.

My annoyance with Philip fought with my liking of du Maurier's writing and hampered my enjoyment of the book. I do not know if he was meant to be exceedingly unlikeable. I looked it up on Goodreads, and it looks like I'm not the only person who thought Philip was an ass. I do know that I spent a majority of the book wanting to hit Philip, or throw something at him. I'm lucky I was able to rein in these violent impulses, because my book is from the library.

Anyway, towards the end of the book, when Philip finally realizes that he cannot deny Rachel's villainy any longer (after he finds poison seeds in her belongings - she begins poisoning him as well, after he leaves the estate to her - that is what it takes), he still has Louise (his childhood friend) to rely on, despite his egregious mistreatment of her (I might have left him to suffer the consequences of his actions). Surprisingly, though, Philip, after discovering that Rachel is a murderess (although he cannot find concrete evidence), deliberately allows her to walk on what he knows is a dangerously unstable bridge, and she dies. This amounts to manslaughter. This surprising violent tendency actually makes an appearance earlier in the book, when Rachel refuses to marry Philip after leading him on, and his fingers close around her throat. That is the first indication that Philip is not quite a reliable narrator, and that he, also, might not be what he seems. Although (again from Goodreads) most people seem to believe that Rachel did murder Ambrose and was about to murder Philip (including me), the ending is supposed to be ambiguous. Philip himself is unsure about her guilt, and is therefore racked with guilt at his retribution. The question we are supposed to ask ourselves is: was Rachel guilty, or was she the victim of the suspicions of two jealous and possessive men?

I quite firmly believe that Rachel is guilty. However, when I think about Philip's unreliability as a narrator, I begin to feel a little doubtful. I would personally have preferred an ending where Philip took her to court after finding evidence that she is guilty. I would have liked to see the interaction between the two in a drawn out court battle, and I would have liked to see how Rachel changed. What would Philip's feelings be at having to accuse the only woman he ever loved of murder? At the end of the book, strangely enough, Philip still loves her in a twisted way, even having murdered her.

Part of what is amazing about this book, apart from the atmospheric detail, is how du Maurier changes our mind two, three times about Rachel. I was quite as firmly convinced as Philip at one point of her innocence. I liked Rachel. I wanted her to be innocent.

At the same time, while Rachel is the subject of the books, and of Philip's obsession, by the end, we still don't really know her. We don't know anything of her past, of how she was with Sangaletti, her first husband. We don't know how she became the way she was. We don't know who she is - murderess, or twisted victim of circumstances, or person with fatal flaw, like a Shakespearean protagonist. There are inconsistencies in her character - kindnesses, nice touches that don't fit in with what we know and believe. But then Captain Hook liked flowers and wanted a mother.

On the whole, I enjoyed reading My Cousin Rachel. When I was done, I thought that I hadn't really been frightened by it, or shaken by it. But I woke up three times yesterday night, and each time I was thinking about Rachel and Philip. Obviously I was more affected than I realized. A story that does not leave you is the mark of a master storyteller. While I still don't think that Gothic romances are my cup of tea, I do want to read more of du Maurier, particularly her famous Rebecca.

I read My Cousin Rachel for an online book club at https://theoldfashionedgirls.squarespace.com/ and https://theoldfashionedgirls.squarespace.com/the-ofg-book-club/2014/9/14/my-cousin-rachel-the-first-half.
Do check it out.

A Tangled Web by L M Montgomery

Hello everyone,

Please check out my review of L M Montgomery's A Tangled Web for the newsletter Shiny New Books at http://shinynewbooks.co.uk/reprints02/a-tangled-web-by-l-m-montgomery/. Also check out the website which is a lovely 'quarterly recommendations magazine, bringing you reviews of the best new books in hardback and paperback, from big name publishers to tiny independents, and features from writers, publishers, readers, and more.'

I don't know what to call this

I know that it is rather shabby of me to promise to post a piece of good news everyday and then to proceed to disappear for three weeks. On the brighter side, I have learned something about myself: I don't function well with rules, even self-imposed ones, on something I do entirely for pleasure. I love blogging. And while the simple set up I had for the Chronicle was neither too imposing nor too demanding, it still didn't work for me. I didn't like having this force in my head telling me that I had to post everyday because I had promised to do so (however short-lived). I want to post only when I feel I have something really worthwhile to say, and that I can put it well. Of course a blog is just an informal setting, but that is just the way I am. I'd rather not blog than blog something just for the heck of it.

That said, I think I will still post news if I find it inspiring or heartening, whenever I come across it and feel the need to share it. In fact, I might write about news I find interesting too, even if it isn't strictly good news (an interesting fact or finding, for instance). But I think my strength might lie in writing reviews and personal reflections. So I will go back to my old 'format' (if you can call it a format at all) of writing uber-long posts that I feel certain contain something of interest or value, when I feel I am able put things across particularly well. I am very vain about this, you see: I don't like any writing of mine appearing half-baked. It needs to be as polished as I can make it. I'm all for a degree of informality, and certainly of honesty, but that has nothing to do with making sure your writing flows well and sounds good, does it?

Anyway, a little contrary to what I've been saying here, I don't really have anything in particular to say in this post. I just wanted to make an appearance to show you guys that I haven't dropped off the face of the Earth or anything - although if you've read my blog for a while you'll know that sudden, long breaks between posts aren't really all that surprising, and that this one has been comparatively short. I'm in the last two weeks of this semester, and there are finals coming up. It is entirely possible that I will once again disappear and only re-emerge once I've reached India for my summer holidays and all work is safely out of the way. I will be reviewing L M Montgomery's A Tangled Web for the Shiny New Books newsletter then, which I'm very excited about! Check out the website guys, it's pretty awesome - I found it because I read Simon's blog (he is one of the co-founders). I asked if I could write a review as a guest contributor and he very kindly said yes, so...

Can't wait for the holidays! I do wish more of you had taken my polls. I had 2 respondents. It was pretty sad.

A Civil Contract

I really enjoyed A Civil Contract. It is very different from Heyer's usual. I read it on the heels of The Grand Sophy, and there's a large contrast. The Grand Sophy is uproarious fun, with an unlikely lead (for her time) and lots of light-hearted humour. I think its one of Heyer's best, but so is A Civil Contract, in a very different way.

A Civil Contract begins with the unexpected death of the irresponsible Lord Lynton in a hunting accident. His son, Adam Deveril, who is army-mad, finds himself called home to face his father's legacy of debts and near-bankruptcy. Upright and sensitive, but with little knowledge of estate management or agriculture, Adam tries to learn as much as possible in very little time, but soon finds that the situation is bleak. His mother, who is selfish, weak, and frankly quite annoying, has her own - I'm not sure what the word is: settlement? allowance? - but his two sisters need to be taken care of. The elder one, Charlotte, is sweet and vapid, like Frederica's sister in Frederica (I don't even remember her name!); the younger one, Lydia, is irreverent, young and naive, and a lot more taking than her namesake in Pride and Prejudice. Charlotte has a suitor, Lambert, but Lydia hasn't even come out yet. Adam, at his wit's end, and considering selling the ancestral home, Fontley, is told by his business agent, Wimmering, that his best (and only) option is to marry a rich heiress. Adam, who is in love with a beautiful, ethereal creature named Julia, is aghast at the notion, even though he knows that he can now never propose to Julia (as he has nothing to offer her).

Lord Oversley, Julia's father, is sympathetic to Adam's plight, but is unwilling, nevertheless, to let his daughter, in effect, marry a pauper. He does, however, think of the same solution that Wimmering does, and speaks to an extremely rich merchant friend, Mr. Chawleigh, with an eligible daughter. Mr. Chawleigh's goal in life is to have his daughter Jenny enter the ranks of the elite and live it up among the rich 'nobs'. He is overbearing, garrulous, and his manners are 'vulgar', but his heart is in the right place. He goes to see Adam, and oblivious to any and all hints, proceeds to elaborate on Jenny and a prospective alliance. He judges Adam to be a decent gentlemen and asks him to consider the proposal. Adam, dazed and unwilling at first, soon realizes that he truly has no other option if he wants to save Fontley. He agrees, and soon he and Jenny meet.

In a typical romance novel, Adam would come to realize that his love for Julia was nothing but puppy-love, and would fall head-over-heels in love with Jenny, after resisting through the initial half of the novel. The reader will be puzzled about this futile resistance to something that seems obvious, but the romance genre has a formula that is rarely broken. Jane Austen, and only Jane Austen, ever makes a romance that is far more than a romance - and that inspired half these clichés in the first place, I bet. Yet, somehow, even now, when this formula pervades the romance sections in the bookstores, you read Austen, and clichés couldn't be further from your mind.

I digress. The point I was trying to make was that A Civil Contract is not your typical romance. Jenny is plain - and I mean actually plain - not attractive in an unconventional way to the hero - and she is bordering on stout. She is practical, with a sense of humour, but unromantic. Julia, on the other hand, is sylph-like, romantic, innocent, beautiful, and I hated her guts. I don't know if she was supposed to be so detestable, but I thought she was self-involved, stupid and extremely impractical. I know practicality isn't supposed to be precisely an attractive quality, but I find the the kind of 'ingenuity' or 'innocence' Julia displays repellant. I felt like smacking her on the head atleast a dozen times through the novel. However, the men are clearly stupid, because instead of embarking on this worthy endeavor, they line up at her feet. Adam is blinded by Julia's ethereal beauty and the contrast between her and commonplace Jenny. He is kind, and tries to be charitable, but he cannot help comparing the two. Jenny, who had no expectations of love, and has no illusions about his feelings for Julia (even though Adam, to his credit, behaves very honourably to them both) does not think she has a right to complain. She, who is married to him, and therefore has a far greater right to anger, makes no complaint, while Julia makes a big fuss, dramatically telling Jenny that she has been betrayed (Jenny and Julia studied at the same boarding school, and incomprehensibly, are friends), and fainting at the sight of Adam at a gathering where all three concerned parties are present, along with plenty of onlookers. Jenny, who really has a little too much humility, tries her best to cover up this faux pas, trying to show society that all is normal between them by driving with Jenny, and inviting her to events. Meanwhile, Julia goes on behaving like an immature drama queen, looking anguished and playing sad music whenever Adam is around.

Why he sees no fault in this while Jenny is falling over herself trying to make their marriage work is beyond me.

That said, Adam really is a very nice protagonist. He is sensitive, kind and tolerant, and while he is a little unfair to Jenny, he really does try to get along with her as well. Also, he is not a 'rake' - at least Heyer doesn't mention it, if he is - which is a huge plus point in my opinion. I am sick and tired of historical fiction authors making their male protagonists 'rakes'. No, it does not make them attractive. And it infuriates me because the female equivalents, while intelligent and independent and suspiciously modern, are 'innocent' and fall ardently in love with one and only one man each in all their lives. I'm not saying that they have to make Victorian females 'fast' or flirts, but why the double standard? You never see Austen making her male leads 'rake' equivalents, and they are plenty attractive.

To get back to the point, Adam is a wonderfully nice gentleman. It really isn't his fault that he is burdened with duties he has never been prepared for, and it is easy to excuse his occasional displays of temper. I can see how it would be hard to find Jenny pleasing when her father dresses her like a peacock and makes her a 'walking advertisement for a jewellery shop', and constantly interferes in their life, particularly by giving them extravagant gifts, which the proud Adam particularly hates. Despite these substantial obstacles, however, Adam and Jenny come to an understanding, and therein lies the beauty of the book.

Jenny is 'commonplace' and she knows it. She has no charm or attractiveness, and is not an eloquent speaker. But she is practical, hard-working, generous and kind, and she has a wonderful sense of humour. I found her infinitely preferably to Julia, although I did wish that she would stand up for herself more often. After all, it is because of her that Adam is able to save Fontley, and she has every right to expect decent treatment. Adam himself seems conscious of this and even reproaches himself: 'I take all and give nothing.' But this is more Jenny's fault than Adam's because she is all too willing to buckle to Adam and to try to please him, even though he is not in the least dominating or unkind.

Adam does, however, gradually come to see Jenny's value. She is an excellent 'housekeeper'; she is very kind; she has, as I've already said around three times, an excellent, if rather understated sense of humour. Their relationship grows into a warm companionship, as they begin to feel easy and less conscious in each other's presence, and begin to actually talk to each other. Jenny gives birth to a baby boy, and the process of her pregnancy really brings them closer together, because Adam begins to forget Julia in his concern for Jenny's comfort and safety (which Julia finds vexing, and I found immensely satisfying). Even towards the very end of the book, I expected Adam to fall passionately in love with Jenny, after all, because which 'romance' novel doesn't end that way? But the ending is far more beautiful than if Heyer had put trite words of passion in Adam's mouth, because it is touchingly real. Jenny is in love with Adam; how could she not be, when he is handsome, kind, sensitive, and has a sense of humour? Adam, however, does not feel an undying passion for her, but rather a companionable love, more of a warmth and a comfort in her presence, and a consciousness that long years with Jenny will be very pleasant and harmonious. He knows that Julia would never have been half the mistress of Fontley that Jenny is; he realizes that he may occasionally have tired of Julia if he had married her. But there is no grand realization of all-consuming love, no pivotal declaration. Although Jenny feels a pang at the thought that Adam will never love her the way he loved Julia, she takes comfort in the realization that what they have may be far more valuable; a deep and abiding friendship.

Hello again!

It has been too long. Way too long. Unintentionally long.

I'm sorry, faithful readers (if any, apart from my wonderful friends). My brilliant organizational skills combined with being in a new country, having to take care of my own laundry, and understanding college life have kept me occupied, although I have thought so many times of ideas that would make good blog posts that I have enough material for a while now, whether or not I get the time to read a lot.

Sorry for that painfully long sentence. I have really missed blogging.

I have had a number of experiences, wonderful and a little less wonderful, in the past one and a half months. I've seen the Niagara Falls twice, attended a fabulous play on Kasturba Gandhi, heard a magnificent concert on Romeo and Juliet by the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra, been late to class when I tried to cook upma, appalled my mom with the condition of my room when she visited, attended a garba event for Dussehra...

Having started this post yesterday, and twice before that, I think I now have an idea why I have been failing at this the past two months. I have always been terrible in writing on my life or thoughts in general - I go rambling on and on and never get anywhere. I need a focus - a particular incident or topic - and then words will just pour from me effortlessly. They usually need editing, but I can work with them. 

So for this post...

Lately, one of my earlier posts on this blog (one of the earliest) has been haunting me. I compared Charlotte Bronte unfavourably to Jane Austen, saying Bronte could never match up to Austen in my estimation. I feel now that I was unfair and rather hypocritical. What bought on this reflection? Recently, I came across a Jane Eyre vlog on Youtube in the style of the immensely popular Lizzie Bennet Diaries, and today I watched the 1996 movie version of Jane Eyre. This got me thinking about my post, and about the first few times I had read Jane Eyre (I rarely read a book only once). The book had me completely engrossed, and there was a time when I re-read certain passages in the book numerous times. My opinion of the book could, of course, have changed; but I went back to the book and re-read those same passages, and I realized that it hasn't, really. I really like Jane Eyre.

I love stills where the lighting is perfect and everybody looks beautiful because they're shown from the right angles.

So what bought on that post? One of the book bloggers I really admire, Claire from the thecaptivereader.wordpress.com, dislikes Jane Eyre. At the time I decided to blog regularly, I was reading rather a lot of The Captive Reader, and she puts things so well that I suppose I convinced myself about the deep flaws in the book. I do this sometimes when I really admire someone, and I don't do it consciously. I imbibe their opinions and convince myself that they're mine.

What was wrong with my post? First and foremost, Austen and Bronte simply cannot be compared. They were different people who wrote in different contexts in utterly different styles about very different things. An Austen romance is worlds away from a Bronte romance, which of course does not necessarily make one better than the other. 

Second, I was unjustified both in my evaluation of Rochester and in saying there is no humour in Jane Eyre. 

Mr. Rochester is the male protagonist that every wannabe dark romance has been trying to imitate for a while now. Wounded, cynical, witty, impolite in a very attention-grabbing way, and in need of love from a wonderful female creature who is whole, good and innocent enough to recover his faith in humanity, reform him and temper his cynicism all at once. This female creature manages to be sympathetic and relatable and not quite a paragon of virtue because of her passion. While I might find Rochester a tad intimidating in real life, he is somehow very magnetic in the book.  Maybe this is because, despite his occasional despotism and dominance, he comes across as capable of loving very deeply. When Rochester explains things to Jane after she has found out he is already married, I forgive him as immediately as Jane. I find it impossible to think of him as manipulative, scheming and deceitful. With his own twisted, desperate logic, Rochester sincerely believes that he would do no wrong in marrying Jane. The second time I read this book (when I was actually old enough to understand it, this time) I actually found myself wondering whether Rochester was right. What harm would it do to anybody if Jane stayed with him? She has no one to judge her and he cannot be with Bertha anyway.

However, he had no right to keep Jane in the dark and expect her to break the law.

I'm getting sidetracked. I'll keep the psychoanalysis for another post. What I meant to say is that Rochester is a suitably likable and attractive male lead. While reading the book I did not find it repulsive that they are so far apart in age (although when I consider it objectively I do)!

As for humour, Jane Eyre is not a humorous book, but it has dialogue between Jane and Rochester that is witty and entertaining. I said that 'Mr. Rochester and Jane don't ever seem to converse without undertones of something.' Don't conversations between any romantic pair have undertones? Besides, Jane Eyre is one of those rare romantic books where you can actually see the characters falling in love. Their whole relationship is built on good conversation (since neither has any sort of good looks, or so we're told). Finally, it was hypocritical of me to pretend that I read Jane Eyre in a dispassionate way, liking it just 'well enough'. I read it like I read every other book, head over heels. And surely there was something in the book that warranted this liking? 

I'm not saying Jane Eyre is completely wonderful and flawless. But it deserves admiration for a number of things, including an absorbing story (except for when Jane is with the Rivers, and it seems to drag on interminably till she meets Rochester again), very unique protagonists, and the simple fact that it generally has a large impact on the reader (I know it did on me). 

I also realize now that that post was a little bit from indignation at the things Bronte said about Austen. It was a lot easier to disparage an author who had the impertinence and bad taste to dislike Austen. Kidding. About the bad taste. But it certainly coloured my opinion.

And with this I shall stop for now, and I promise I will never bring this up again. 

Atlas Shrugged part 2

I wrote this post a long time back (around a month back), but somehow never got to post it (I've been travelling a lot):


Besides the fact that I've been very busy preparing to leave for the US for my undergraduate studies, and also preparing for a vocal music program I had yesterday, I've been avoiding this post because I don't know how to put what I've now got to say about Atlas Shrugged, having (finally) finished it a few days back. I'm not sure how to justify my complete change in opinion from beginning to end. Reading my last, awe-filled post convinces me that it is impossible, but I will try.

Since I have now finished reading the book, for anyone who hasn't, there will be spoilers here.

Atlas Shrugged is not a novel. It is a vehicle for Ayn Rand's philosophy of Objectivism. As a friend put it, 'full of Objectivist claptrap.' I found myself less convinced by and less in agreement with this philosophy as I progressed through the book. I understand Rand's objections to Communism, but I do not think that Capitalism is, by any means, the perfect solution. Rand seems to suffer from the delusion that resources are endless. Perhaps I am biased by my environmental perspective- perhaps I misunderstood? - but I found it ridiculous that Francisco d'Anconia and Ellis Wyatt think that, having destroyed their copper mines and oil fields, respectively, they can miraculously conjure up further sufficient amounts of copper and oil. Seems to me that Rand had a very selective perception of reality. I also suffered very heavily towards the end of the book because I began to find the long, preachy monologues given by many of the characters quite unbearable. The 50-something page speech by John Galt in particular. After 19 pages, I gave up in despair and skipped right past it. Since that is a pivotal moment in the novel, it was unfortunate that I couldn't bring myself to sit through it. However, I felt that Rand was just repeating what she'd been saying throughout the book in an unnecessarily verbose manner. And her 'heroes' are just as convinced of the superiority and infallibility of their arguments as the 'looters' and 'moochers.'

Speaking of 'heroes,' I liked Rearden the best. John Galt felt unreal, harsh and distant. I liked Rearden better before he switches to Galt's side, and I liked Francisco better before he met Galt. I did not quite understand why Galt is superior to Rearden or Francisco. I really liked Dagny, but it seemed funny to me (not in an amusing sense) that four men would fall in love with her. While reading of her relationship with Rearden, I was convinced that she was in love with him - she certainly acted as if she was. I wasn't in the least convinced by the switch of her affections to John Galt. I'll say it again: What makes John Galt so wonderful?? Francisco seemed to have the same convictions, use the same language and was far more martyry and saint-like, if you want a hero to worship...

One scene that really jarred me was the first intimate encounter (euphemism!) between Dagny and Hank. It was so violently described that it seemed more like an assault to me. It made me - literally - flinch - because Rand seemed to be under the assumption that she was describing something pleasurable. Right - to a masochist. Also, if a person is only sexually attracted to her highest ideal, why is Dagny attracted to three men? Or did I misunderstand it? Couldn't Rand atleast have made a few women fall in love with the same man to balance things a bit? Four men in love with the same women? What is she, a siren?

I also thought that portrayals of those who didn't agree with the Objectivist philosophy were extremely one-sided. All the characters who are not for a free-market, competition and capitalism, are made to sound weak, fickle, greedy, and villainous. Surely it's not always that black and white?

The dialogue really suffered as the novel moved along and Rand tried to expound her philosophy, as all the characters began to sound much the same. Plus they never seem to have any light or 'normal' conversation. It's a little irritating. I've never been fond of books where the main characters are perennially having weighty or profound conversation, because that doesn't happen in real-life, and it isn't the least bit plausible.

I don't really know how to end this post. I have quite a few things to say about Objectivism, some points of which I greatly object to, but I'm a bit cowardly when it comes to anything that could be that controversial. I don't know if there still are die-hard followers of Rand, but if there are, I'd probably receive threats.

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.