The great travelers

Travels with my Briefcase was strongly recommended to me last fortnight, and I’m not disappointed. Also A Short Walk in the Kindukush, which I’m now reading, and I’m laughing every few passages. But I have to reconcile myself to this style of writing which, while it recounts enviable adventure, also looks derisively at the host—the native—for aspects in them to laugh at, jeer even. Humor is good, but these endless jabs at every character in the book? In Bangkok Biddlecombe probes the menu for varied crab poos and other Thai turds so he can bring laughter to his (certain) readers—his search for such gems is relentless, from beginning to end and in every location. Newby (I’ve reached page sixty) has no sympathy for a single native he has introduced so far, in Turkey or in Armenia.

After the laughter, a bad taste rises and lingers. I’m reading on, though: Newby’s book is a certified classic, my copy is a fiftieth anniversary edition, there are other things in the narrative that are admirable, and the prose, it has my attention in a vice-grip.

India, a Wounded Civilization

I’m reading it a second time, slowly, only a few pages a day. When Bharat put the book in my hands twenty-five years ago, I had enjoyed more its prose—I had cringed at Naipaul’s penetrating observation, had felt terribly exposed. I am now able to see the book in the eye, and there is fun reading it in this time of rapid change, of stupendous transformation. The prose even now entertains, and I am excited at the next book I’ll read, which Wounded Civilization points to: R.K. Narayan’s Mr. Sampath.

Technorati Tags: books

kendasampige

A promising new kannada blog appeared today: kendasampige, a herald for a new, ambitious Kannada portal which will appear later this quarter. The team of accomplished writers behind it is led by Rasheed who, besides being a great writer himself, has been a broadcaster for twenty years. He knows how to engage his audience, so if you can can read Kannada, go there. Expect flame and fragrance. Have fun.

among good men…

I've been reading good books all my life, but desultorily, reading only for the mood they bring upon me: I haven't the intellect to rise to mental engagement with the writer. So I've lurked and watched from a distance how intellectuals fence and embrace, and I've not had courage to step forward toward them. Yesterday, I went along with one great writer—Rasheed—who had arranged a meeting with that giant in Kannada literature—U.R. Ananthamurthy.

The man opened the door himself, we sat in his study for a while, and then he decided we should sit in his back-garden. He is fond of Rasheed and respectful of his writing. The talk ranged over many topics: the pure anger of Ramdas; linguistics and text beneath text; Lankesh and Tejaswi, Karanth and Kuvempu; writer's discipline and of those who have it; the magazine Granta. I delighted in the conversation between these learned men. Later, we spoke excitedly of some ideas. He fueled more thought, stoked our ideas—they crackled and multiplied. Now when I make notes of the meeting, my remembrances are of an aged hand that was warm and strong when it gripped mine in yesterday's chilly breeze at his door, his offer to make tea, the intensity of his conversation which made all forget tea, his watchful observant eyes that rested gently on whom he addressed, and his slow short elder's steps with us to the door where he realized he had forgotten to make tea. At the moment of departure his arm was heavy and relaxed across my shoulders, his gaze fatherly upon Rasheed.

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Don Quixote

I'm reading the thousand page book, and I can't believe it. However, each chapter runs only six or seven or eight pages, and is a full story. Our adorable hero bungles on a grand scale, completely without fear, and with enviable fortitude. The book is at my bedside, I've barely reached the hundredth page, but I'm glad more than nine hundred pages are left—bedtime is sweet these days.

Technorati Tags: books, reading