Of Authors and Prejudices

Does presentation of a dish alter the way the food tastes? Does it say anything about the cook who made the dish? I am not doing a research on these subjects. I do not wish to get an Ig Nobel Prize for such a research. But replacing the food for a book, the presentation to the writing style and the cook to its author puts things in a different perspective. Would you read a book of an author whose character you dislike? Would you like the book for what it is?

I found out I am prejudiced in my opinions in such cases.

Oscar Wilde
On my iGoogle home page I have a widget that delivers 3 quotes everyday. I make a mental note of writers whose quotes are humorous but ironically true. George Bernard Shaw is one that appears regularly, Oscar Wilde is another. Off I went to pick up a book from any of these authors. Collection of Oscar Wilde's best was what fell into my lap. Picture of Dorian Gray was the first story. Soon appeared all those famous quotes from the mouth of Lord Henry. What I found discomforting in his writing style was the way he kept explaining the male beauty. I looked up about his biography and it was no surprise to find out that he was a bi-sexual. Maybe the terrible crowd in Mumbai trains have made me a homo-phobe. That was the last book I would read of Oscar Wilde no matter how good Importance of being Earnest would be.
On similar lines I disliked slight references made by Vikram Seth in A Suitable Boy.

Ayn Rand
This is one author of whom all I've heard is praise. After my aunt persisted I read Atlas Shrugged. I think I could write a whole book on why I disagree with Ayn Rand's philosophy of an ideal world. But the thing that irks me is the manner in which she thrusts her ideas on the reader. First drill the thought in, take a hammer and keep banging it in till its secure. Pick up another tool and go about the hammering to ensure job is complete. A 50-page non-sensical chapter called "John Galt speaking" can only be written by a psychopath.
I get reminded of a scene from V for Vendetta where V does something exactly similar to John Galt, but his words, his manner of delivering the same ideas are so effective. Effective because they are concise and leave scope for the audience to think on their own.

"... Ofcourse there are those who are to be blamed more than others and they will be brought to justice. But truth be told if you are looking for the guilty, you only need to look into the mirror. Why did you let this happen?..."

But Ayn Rand picks up every occupation on Earth and tells why everyone in the world is wrong. Even though I swore never to read that author again, I tried Fountainhead and comes back the pain again. Howard Roark, a rather quiet character in the beginning goes on to give a discourse similar to John Galt.
In this case, however, the prejudice is rather different. Ayn Rand has a huge cult following. I'm just compelled to go against the tide.

O. Henry
As a kid some of the best short stories that I came across were by O. Henry. After Twenty Years and The gift of the Magi are stories I remember vividly. Beautiful stories. The book I currently read is a collection of his short stories. In the preface I read that he was caught embezzling funds in some bank and ran away to Honduras. I read his stories in a completely different light now.

For similar reasons, I dont wish to read Arundhati Roy, V S Naipaul or even Salman Rushdie. Are my prejudices justified?

Reading: Leisure vs Speed

My library is not one of those modern well-catalogued libraries where you can search for your books on a computer and then find the exact rack where you will locate it. Its a small lending library with rows of racks dedicated to various types of books. I don't like visiting my library.
I start looking for the book I need and sweat starts trickling down my forehead. The librarian sees me wipe it off and turns on the fan in my section. I look at him and smile. He possibly thinks the ventilation is inadequate. He is wrong. I turn back to my section and the agony is back. The trouble is not in the search of the book I need. The actual torture is to see all the books I have not read. To see so many books worth reading and yet having to choose just one is truly an intimidating task.

Leisure Reading
The problem I find out is the speed at which I read books. I am the kind that likes to soak in the words from a book. I devour each sentence. I delve into each sentence that explains a character and start picturing him/her. I have to put myself in every actor's shoes. I start painting every scenary the author tries to explain. I have to feel the place in my mind. Maybe that is what everyone calls as Leisure reading. It takes me days together to finish mid-sized novels. The full fledged big ones take weeks or even a month. I dread picking them up.

Speed Reading
At my office, my boss picked up some book to read. I just glanced at the name and continued my work. In an hour, I look at him and he is lost in the book. A glimpse at the book and I get a shock. He is about to finish the book. A couple of minutes later, as he put the book aside, I started my interview. He actually read through the whole of 300 odd pages in an hour. Speed Reading is something he can do on just about any book. It is just when you feel down on knowing such things that you get to meet even more people of the ilk! People reading the whole Harry Potter series in a month, people reading 1000 page novels in a day! Aah! The jealousy.

Categories
Novels, fiction, non-fiction books have a certain similarity in the manner in which they are written. You get a grip of the writer's style and soon you start completing sentences even before you read them. The story unravels automatically even before you've read it. Maybe speed reading is easier on Fiction. The technical books are the worst of the lot. I can never get around them. They need to dealt with a different manner altogether.

Oh! How I wish I could grasp the elusive art of Speed Reading. So many books to read. So much to learn. So little time.

Recognising Imbecility

I've been childish, foolish and stupid very often recently. The worst facet of it that makes me an imbecile is that I knew all the while I was being those things. Maybe, that is what separates me from kids who would do it innocently. Its time I start acting my age. Oh! That counter keeps ticking away rapidly. So hard to catch up. Sigh!

Ideas turning to Tripe
I've somehow taken to writing a lot lately. Most of it goes to my Twitter account, some of it to my Flickr album and the rest of the tripe is stored in my mobile. All of them were meant to be put in here - my favourite jaunt - my personal space. None of them made it. What I did in the previous post was atrocious. Just picked up a few Haikus I wrote on Twitter and stuffed them together. All written at different times, with different feelings. When clubbed together they look so ugly - Divided they stand, United they fall - miserably.

I am just a Worthless liar - Sober (Tool)
What I did was Cheating. Cheating with my own work. They deserved more attention, to be thought over well and placed coherently in apt situations. Sometimes Ideas hit me and I begin jotting them down. Halfway down, the urge to complete it so high, that I cheat again. The rest of the work is like a drivel, taking away the charm of the whole work. What I realise is that every time I cheat my thoughts, it shows glaringly. Again the Imbecile.

Solemn Promise
I know New Year is around the corner and everyone is wild conjuring up resolutions. Here is mine. I Promise not to cheat with my work. I promise to complete it patiently. I vow to quit my childish pursuits (even though my poetic secrets shall be hampered). I promise to have more self-restraint.
Remains to be seen how much will-power I truly possess.

Haiku Overdose

Caught up with childhood mates,
Relived, rejoiced the old tales,
We are all different people now.

I am back. Back to writing for my own pleasure. The pressure to write just because I haven't written for a while is no longer compelling. I wish to write and the words are flowing. As non-sensical as they ever were. But they make every little sense to me. That is where I encrypt my secrets.

The sky moves from blue to gray,
Time gets frittered away,
But I just sit and stare.

Like bullets, the drops fall from the sky,
a music melodious to get you high,
but yet motionless I still stare.

Haikus have been the sort of poetry that has always captured my attention. Nandan believes they should be called as "Trivenis" because of the confusion in the form of Haikus. 2 lines guiding your thoughts in one direction and out of the blue comes the anti-climax. The irony of Life seems beautifully embedded in such a style of story telling.

Skilfully stacking up the sands,
Castles built with bare hands,
There comes the high tide.

Threat of a storm inevitable,
Conscience swings intermineable,
Yet I chug on... with Diesel Power!