“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.� It is only fair to begin with this sentence whicEvocative, poignant, and beautiful!
“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.� It is only fair to begin with this sentence which ruefully announces that things have now changed, however not without a sigh of relief. Nostalgia can sometimes be like an unopened letter which allures us to open it, but when we open and finish reading it, a pang of guilt makes us regret our decision. Now, Leo Colston is met with one such situation in his sixties and his source of guilt lies unopened and sealed in front of him and the memories of his repressed past slowly come to life from his ‘teenage� box of secrets.
The story is about his visit to one of his friend’s house “Brandham Hall� where the little Leo is made “acutely aware of social inferiority� which exists (existed, if that may satisfy you) between upper and lower classes. The chance-displays of a grown-up masculine body made him “confronted by maturity� and the angelic aura of his feminine company made him aware of unexplored emotions. Innocence and Infatuation lead him as a “go-between� between his lady of affection and his effigy of masculinity not knowing the actual purpose of the messages he carries. But, the insinuations can be hardly mistaken.
What I loved most about the book is the way it relates the predicaments of its characters with that of Paradise Lost. When Leo discovers “the matter� of his “go-between� ventures, he says “Not Adam and Eve, after eating the apple, could have been more upset than I was.�
Disturbed by the rising conflicts in this affair in which he is now empathetically entangled, he questions his own position in this amorous pursuit: “What an Eden Brandham Hall had been before this serpent entered it!�
As Adam and Eve tried to cover themselves when they become aware of their nakedness after committing the ‘forbidden� act, Leo too feels the shame of the affair he is caught up in and tries to “to cover her shame�.
I’ve read that Hartley had put all he knew in this book, I can’t help but agreeing to it even if it may sound like an exaggeration. The writing is sublime with paradisiacal analogies, and at the same time, does not stray from the juvenile perspective of a teenage boy. Without revealing further interesting aspects of this rather-disturbing story, I am ending this gibberish of a writing here with a hope that you might like this book as much as I do....more
An Excellent work on human malice. The protagonist "Marquise de Merteuil" can't be any more wretched and brilliant at the same time.
�Marquise De M
An Excellent work on human malice. The protagonist "Marquise de Merteuil" can't be any more wretched and brilliant at the same time.
�Marquise De Merteuil: When I came out into society I was 15. I already knew then that the role I was condemned to, namely to keep quiet and do what I was told, gave me the perfect opportunity to listen and observe. Not to what people told me, which naturally was of no interest to me, but to whatever it was they were trying to hide. I practiced detachment. I learned how to look cheerful while under the table I stuck a fork onto the back of my hand. I became a virtuoso of deceit. I consulted the strictest moralists to learn how to appear, philosophers to find out what to think, and novelist to see what I could get away with, and in the end it all came down to one wonderfully simple principle: win or die.�
P.S. This is an abridged version written for the film using the original letter...more
Not all loves come together; Not all loves fade away; some remain dormant as an indelible image of memory within us and gnaws at us from inside only dNot all loves come together; Not all loves fade away; some remain dormant as an indelible image of memory within us and gnaws at us from inside only during the loneliest hours. Especially, the first love!
This is such a story of a loving image which lives forever in the shadow of an ill-fated lover. It has been years that Ganin saw Mary lastly. But her smiling eyes, her twitching lips, and her halo in the evening sun remain as fresh as morning’s rain in his memory. The past is irretrievable but also unforgettable and the future is uncertain, while the present offers nothing but a hopeless, dull reality. Mary seems to be the only medicine for his never ending, isolated living.
While the countries were making war, they were waging love in the autumnal evening, careless of sneaky eyes behind the tainted glasses. He has been dragging his shadow to all places but part of him, he thinks, always belongs to Mary. Ganin, now, in a foreign city, recollects everything about Mary, and grows drunk with her memories. Now, even the memory of her cheap perfume seems luxurious to him. But, an old, faded photograph in a neighbor’s table-drawer announces to him that she is not his anymore.
Imagine, what Mary would mean to someone who is living in an exile from his home land and who lost everything. Her arrival gives him hope for a promising escape from his bleak life in his dull lodge. To doubt her love for him, after all these years, is pointless, he thinks. She has always loved him. But, what-if can’t be excluded. Here, he awaits the arrival of Mary with the memory of her image, sitting on a cold, park bench.
(view spoiler)[ The questions of reality pass his mind. The world of memories grows darker while the image of Mary flickers. The sleeping, drunken husband, back in his old place, can be thought of. Now, not letting the arriving reality hinder with her memory seems to be the only viable step to preserve the loving image of Mary. ‘Other than that image no Mary existed, nor could exist� - He thinks. There he is boarding a train taking him to a distant city. (hide spoiler)]
This is not only a story of a first love but also the first book of Nabokov. Another strong example which portrays the unmatched writing ability of Nabokov. There are paragraphs where he can make you get lost in the woods and get caught by the lovers for observing them closely. Purely magical! ...more
“There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak and sentimental kind, which is really no more than the heart's impatience to be rid as quickly as possible“There are two kinds of pity. One, the weak and sentimental kind, which is really no more than the heart's impatience to be rid as quickly as possible of the painful emotion aroused by the sight of another's unhappiness, that pity which is not compassion, but only an instinctive desire to fortify one's own soul against the sufferings of another; and the other, the only one at counts, the unsentimental but creative kind, which knows what it is about and is determined to hold out, in patience and forbearance, to the very limit of its strength and even beyond.�
Samuel Beckett is often mistaken as Existentialist, like Camus. These stories are few among the other existing proofs that he is not. This is not to aSamuel Beckett is often mistaken as Existentialist, like Camus. These stories are few among the other existing proofs that he is not. This is not to argue who or which is better, but to find how he is different: His unnamed principle shows significant signs of desolation, destitution, dilemma, and drama but not completely void of will to survive in this calmative and troubleseome world.
“I didn't understand women at that period. I still don't for that matter. Nor men either. Nor animals either. What I understand best, which is not saying much, are my pains.� [First Love]
His characters are aware of worldly ignorance, earthly pains, societal disappointments, and moral dilemmas. But they don’t let these inhibitions imprison them in ever elusive ennui or unwholesomeness. Even if they are covered in the universal muck, they try to spring up from the ground like forgotten seeds. In The End (the first story in this book), the anonymous narrator, unable to move, clings to the udder of a cow which, on a chance visit, stumbles upon him in his filthy abode and let himself be dragged. Let not this dark visual dissuade you from exploring this work. But this painstakingly shows his willingless to carry on without yielding to the aging-misery wich befell him.
“The memory came faint and cold of the story I might have told, a story in the likeness of my life, I mean without the courage to end or the strength to go on.� [The End]
Expelled from his home (for elderlies), exhausted of all strength, and having nothing else to do, the man resorts to extend his hands for pity-pennies exposing himself in the mercy of others, but only to be ridiculed by a commie. Still he moves on. Begging is all he can possibly do with his failing body. He won’t give up and the end may approach him!
“I knew it would soon be the end, so I played the part, you know, the part of � how shall I say, I don’t know.� [The End]
The First Love opens up with an interesting Epitaph that the protagonist chooses for him:
“Hereunder lies the above who up below So hourly died that he lived on till now.� [First Love]
Mourning over his father’s grave, contemplating his future epitaph, and wondering his existence in this very graveyard stands the man who is bereft of everything but the hat which was given by his deceased father. He thinks that he can really live there with his father under the ground, him over the ground, and nothing else to hinder their surreal coexistence among angels and crosses. Like an angel from heaven, she comes to him. But he doesn’t need her. Cupid has no effect on him for which his emotions are hardened and his faith is broken. However all the love is not lost�
“I could have done with other loves perhaps. But there it is, either you love or you don’t.� [First Love]
There are two other stories which are inexorably beautiful, containing nameless characters, relentless meditations, and helpless lives. There is also a trace of connection between these four stories which author might not approve of, but we can’t help noticing it. This may not be (These are not!) his greatest works but definitely worth reading once as many times as it pleases you. Welcome to the world of Beckett Effect!
It takes a mean adult to criticize a children's book; and a mean child to moralize a children's book, IMO. It takes a mean adult to criticize a children's book; and a mean child to moralize a children's book, IMO. ...more
“You make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters- all “You make the mistake of thinking you have to choose, that you have to do what you want, that there are conditions for happiness. What matters- all that matters, really- is the will to happiness, a kind of enormous, ever present consciousness. The rest- women, art, success- is nothing but excuses. A canvas waiting for our embroideries.� ...more
Why was her life so inadequate? Why did everything she leaned on instantly crumble into dust? These were the questions tormenting Emma (Madame Bovary)Why was her life so inadequate? Why did everything she leaned on instantly crumble into dust? These were the questions tormenting Emma (Madame Bovary) in her solitude that she never expected to exist in her nuptial life of which she dreamed. Yet, the gaps widened. The barriers grew stronger.
"A man, at least is free; he can explore the whole range of the passions, go wherever he likes, overcome obstacles, savor the most exotic pleasures. But a woman is constantly thwarted. Inert and pliable, she is restricted by her physical weakness and her legal subjection. Her will, like the veil tied to her hat with a cord, quivers with every wind; there is always some desire urging her forward, always some convention holding her back."
The solitude, she was forced to invent for her, had soon become unbearable. Is it the city life she was longing for? There are traces to positively acknowledge this question. But this is not the reason for the entirety of her distress. There must be something or someone she is really longing for.
"Don’t you know there are some souls that are constantly tormented? They need dreams and action, one after the other, the purest passions, the most frenzied pleasures, and it leads them to throw themselves into all sorts of fantasies and follies."
Was she a sacrifice to her marriage? A woman who had imposed such great sacrifices on herself certainly had a right to indulge in a few whims. She remembered the adulterous women from novels she read and their amorous adventures, imagining herself to be the heroine of her romantic adultery and victimizing herself to "Women like that ought to be horsewhipped!". But fantasies fooled her. Follies tormented her. Alas! Heroes left her, once they grew tired of her feminine refinements.
"Would this misery last forever? Was there no escape from it? And yet she was certainly just as good as all those other women whose lives were happy! She had seen duchesses at * who had dumpier figures and cruder manners than she, and she cursed God’s injustice..."
Is she to be blamed for her distress? Are not those princely guys who entered her life, uninvited, and ravished her dreams, even distantly responsible for her self-torment? or Can we just call it as an ill-fate of a wretched soul?
The author strictly prohibits you from drawing any conclusion or even making any inference from this story brimming with sad tears which touch the nuptial rings on the delicate fingers of the fragile beings. This is just the account of Madame Bovary. The ordeals of poor Monsieur Bovary are inexpressibly sad. Hence, better not expressed in words or emotions or any form. God save their daughter Berthe! Period!
Movie - Warning: Please don't see the movie and underrate this excellent book. It is really disgusting how someone can badly mess up a story like this one. I just don't get it. You have a written script and why can't you make a movie as it is? or If you want to change the story totally or make it meaningless, why to use the title? Meh! I would happily call this movie as "Confessions of a shopaholic - 2" or something like that, given a chance.
Notes on translation I didn't find any major difference between the translation of Geoffrey Wall (Penguin Classics) and Lydia Davis (Penguin Deluxe). However, Davis' translation is found to be easier to read and have better words at certain important places. But, when it comes to the question of paying more (Deluxe Editions are expensive. At least, here in my country, they are!) for a better widely acclaimed translation, I have to say that I am little disappointed. Neverthless, it is a keeper!...more
But full of sheep and wolves, forming the human life. These wolves are not “Born to be wild�, but alienate“Life is not an epic poem with heroic roles�
But full of sheep and wolves, forming the human life. These wolves are not “Born to be wild�, but alienated for their hunger to find the meaning in everything. For the sake of argument, I am going to singularize the pack of wolves to a single, certain wolf - STEPPENWOLF. And you are allowed to assume any arbitrary number of sheep and if required, a mama sheep can be also brought in for contentment and coziness. Well, Isn’t this how the stories have been usually told?
Failing to find the reason for living among the sheep, the wolf goes away from the bourgeois existence of the sheep in search of a new meaning for the life which has become meaningless. But he has gone far away from the others and now there is no going “back to the nature� . Let alone a territory, for the poor wolf, there is not even a place which he can call home. The anguish of living alone among the weak, timid, and easy-to-govern contended-beings drives him to strange places in lonely hours.
Isn’t wolf the reason why the sheep stick together? He does not go after the unconsciously innocent sheep in their clothing, but in his own skin with a scornful grin. He is sickened by seeing how foolishly happy they are. As an unwritten rule, like the ancestral legends, all beings who push the common sense too far are bound to suffer. Steppenwolf is no exception to this rule. Howling “Pass me the razor!�, he continues to prowl along the dark path to ever-elusive eternity, hoping to find a cure for his moral sufferings.
What happens to the Steppenwolf?
----------------------------------------------- **** For Mad people only ****
This is one story, often misinterpreted, as I was warned before reading, in which you have to stick to the wolf instead of the sheep and see through his eyes. Glenn was even kind enough to lend me a hand so that I can comprehend better. There are certain things which might leave you in a mystic reality or sometimes even bring you out of what you think as reality. Sheep or Wolf, you may find in your own way!
The life of an individual, which is filled with Emptiness, is like an after-hours station which is otherwise full of people and events. The stillness The life of an individual, which is filled with Emptiness, is like an after-hours station which is otherwise full of people and events. The stillness of hours and the quietude of place can seem quite intriguing to an arriving traveler. But, for a passing traveler, it would merely seem like a futile existence. The void of the station forlornly awaits the speed of any passing train whose fleeting presence can enliven the station even for just few moments. Such is the life of Komako, a provincial geisha in a Snow Country!
Shimamura arrives at the station of this Snow Country, getting away from his crowded city and his dutiful wife. The starry sky, white earth, and hot springs amusingly please him. But her life strikes him as a frivolous oddity. Her ways of making entries of occasional events in diary, collecting crumbled cigarettes, and noting down characters of novels, he thinks, are pointless.
“But, drawn to her at that moment, he felt a quiet like the voice of the rain flow over him. He knew well enough that for her it was in fact no waste of effort, but somehow the final determination that it was had the effect of distilling and purifying the woman's existence.�
Love is not something she should entertain in her liaison with her guests. But the warmth of love rises from the depth of their hearts as the warmth rises from the Earth’s crust in Hot Springs. Her business* parties only make her want more to be with him. Wearied by the ever long, snowy winter, she seeks his help to escape from her loneliness. His presence solaces her like a winter sun.
� He was conscious of an emptiness that made him see Komako’s life as beautiful but wasted, even though he himself was the object of her love; and yet the woman’s existence, her straining to live, came touching him like naked skin. He pitied her, and he pitied himself.�
Not all bygones, against our wishes, remain as bygones but some, manipulated by present dwellers who know little or nothing about past, raise their ugly heads at unexpected times. A simple misunderstanding changes everything forever. It doesn’t always break the relationships but, in this case, it brings these two odd strangers together into a safe haven called Love. But, all love is not supposed to be born; or bound to be last, like the transitory snowflakes which does not get to embrace their object of love before melting away or which directly fall to the ground.
The surreal prose of Kawabata makes us get lost in the snow country in the seemingly-ever-falling snow among the tombstones of the lost lovers. This does not have many romantic moments but there are vivid scenes of helpless love struggling to earn its presence and ladyloves weeping over the departed lovers while the powder-faced geishas watch everything with stoical indifference behind their masks and sing melancholic songs with their samisens.
As I read:
The story is partly based on his own experiences with a Geisha in a hot-springs village. Kawabata again returned to Snow Country near the end of his life*. The short account of the same is added to the Palm-of-the-Hand Stories.
---- 1 - Whatever could be the business of a Geisha! 2 - ...more
"It is by the failures and misfits of a civilization that one can best judge its weakness" ~Unknown
Was it civilization which led to colonization or w"It is by the failures and misfits of a civilization that one can best judge its weakness" ~Unknown
Was it civilization which led to colonization or was it the other way? Trying to find answer for this question would like trying to answer the ever puzzling question "Which came first: chicken or the egg? I am sure that there are apparently acceptable answers for the latter but not the former. Because civilization and colonization are confederates encroaching on the foreign lands, enslaving the natives, shattering the simple lives, corrupting the dreams, belittling the believes, obviating the originality and instigating the inequality. Inequality which gradually and unobtrusively grows, runs its roots deep into our ruining our hope and harmony, giving rise to supremacy which makes what is worse even worse. This is one of the stories along similar lines.
The grass is singing:
.::Songs of the disrupted solitude::.
"It is terrible to destroy a person's picture of himself in the interests of truth or some other abstraction."
Mary, disillusioned by marriage and disconcerted by distasteful encounters, has little or no interest in marriage or any romantic affairs and she likes going out with all those men who treat her comradely. What her mother had to go through has been enough for her for not thinking of getting married, but the unfriendly reminders from the 'society' made her think, and later, even believe that her life is incomplete, when all her friends are married and seemingly happy with their lunch affairs, movie nights, and exotic holidays. But ‘She'd make someone a good wife. She's a good sort, Mary.' Reminders have grown into rude remarks and she has become the subject of 'their' gossips, when her marriage remains as an unaccomplished social mission.
"If she had been left alone she would have gone on, in her own way, enjoying herself thoroughly, until people found one day that she had turned imperceptibly into one of those women who have become old without ever having been middle-aged: a little withered, a little acid, hard as nails, sentimentally kindhearted, and addicted to religion or small dogs"
She halfheartedly looks for a different life and a suitable or any guy, just to see that what she has been missing or what others said that she has been missing. It is true that any thought of sex or anything which put her close with any man in any sort of uncomfortable situation scared her, as she is haunted by her past life.
"In this age of scientific sex, nothing seems more ridiculous than sexual gaucherie."
.::Songs of the oblivious rage.:.
'What is madness, but a refuge, retreating from the world?'
She is rescued from the mouth of social animals, but only to be brought into a secluded farm by her new husband Turner who, with his 'natives' run ('down', most of the time) the farm. When Turner with his unrealistic goals and foolishly ambitious ventures keep letting the roof (which is never there, but figuratively) of the house collapse and the burden Mary felt in all the heat and turmoil building up in her as an unfathomable wrath. As rivers always flow from higher to lower elevations, her anger always finds 'natives' to be easy targets, for which 'apart-hate' they had no other options but mutely bear what befalls them.
.::Songs of the locked loneliness::.
'For even daydreams need an element of hope to give satisfaction to the dreamer.'
The uninvited daydreams of the life which, otherwise, she might have had, keep coming to her during her lonely hours, while daydreams of Turner keep shrinking him. Whenever there is any altercation, Turner always left the room 'inarticulate with irritation', leaving Mary to drive herself mad against the 'natives' (who works at her house as 'houseboys', and often, gets replaced) and keep herself tight and go bad. Mary has again become a gossip fodder to the people around. But, she continued to live silently as she is queen of sorrows and martyr of 'this' marriage, 'facing her future with tired stoicism and inner disintegration'.
'Loneliness, she thought, was craving for other people's company. But she did not know that loneliness can be an unnoticed cramping of the spirit for lack of companionship.'
.::Songs of the awaited ending::.
'It is difficult to tell with women how they are.'
When the new houseboy, Moses, who once felt the whip of sjambok by his 'madame' in a heated situation, and always acts as 'an object of abstraction and a machine without a soul' starts showing his kindness during her hard-times, Mary bleakly remembers his existence in this world as human-being, though of different color and culture. Unable to bear the burden of 'Color Bar', Mary drives out Moses from her estranged comfort and her collapsing house hold and continues to frightfully wait for his return knowing what he might bring to her.
Doris Lessing's writing is so vivid when she explains the inexorable things: the brutal and the ugly things, and the broken and the fragile things. This is the first book of Doris I have read and I must say that there are some resemblances between Lessing and Woolf.
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