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0755305094
| 9780755305094
| 4.04
| 225,768
| Sep 20, 2005
| May 08, 2006
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really liked it
| "Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spider-webs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look so prett "Stories are like spiders, with all they long legs, and stories are like spider-webs, which man gets himself all tangled up in but which look so pretty when you see them under a leaf in the morning dew and in the elegant way that they connect to one another, each to each."Indeed. And when the stories are told by a spider, who is nothing less than a god, they become even more interesting. Neil Gaiman is an expert in weaving myth with urban fantasy. His gods walk around suburbia, shop in the malls, down a few quick ones in the local pub, and then go on to work miracles. Or in the case of Anansi the spider-god from Akan folklore of Ghana, he goes on to play tricks. Trickster gods are common among the folktales of all aboriginal people. Anansi came to the West Indies, and then to the USA, on the slave ships; then settled down comfortably in the new country, his tales melding and morphing as they passed down from generation to generation, until he became part of America. But he comes from far, very far... There are myth-places. They exist, each in their own way. Some of them are overlaid on the world; others exist beneath the world as it is, like an underpainting. *** Fat Charlie Nancy an American settled in England, who has a difficult relationship with is his estranged father, who lives in America. Being the butt of all the practical jokes his dad had played on him in childhood, Charlies has grown up into a diffident young man; his lack of self confidence haunting him in all the aspects of his life, preventing him from getting ahead, whether it be work or romance. So it is with a sigh of relief that he hears the news of his father's passing in the USA; he flies across to settle his affairs and bury his ghosts for once and all. There, he learns that his father was actually a god, and that he has a brother who can be summoned by passing the message on to any random spider. Though sceptical, he does exactly that on a whim; and things take a serious turn for the weird. Because his brother "Spider" who materialises is anything but ordinary. What we have, from then on, is a roller-coaster ride of a novel involving Spider, Charlie, his fiancee Rosie, her gorgon of a mother Mrs. Noah, the pretty police woman Daisy, the elderly pussies Mrs. Dunwiddy and Mrs. Higgler, the wronged Maeve Livingstone and the unspeakable blackguard Grahame Coats. Not to mention various gods such as the cruel and bloodthirsty Tiger (from whom Anansi stole his stories), the terrifying Bird-Woman, and the dead-yet-not-dead Anansi. While the scene shifts from a familiar, almost Wodehousian England to an archetypal America to a quaint West Indies, the mythical land at the beginning of time (or end of time, depending upon one's direction of approach) shimmers just beneath the surface. Magic weaves in and out, and the phantasmagorical tangos with the mundane. *** The beauty of myth is that it has no beginning or end. You can enter the story anywhere you want, and exit anywhere you want - it will keep on playing in the background, on an endless loop. It is the lodestone from which all art, poetry and stories spring. Good writers like Gaiman can tap into it, and then they just have to channel the flow through their pen. They literally sing the world into being. He sang them the song of a boy who was half a god, and who was broken into two by an old woman with a grudge. He sang of his father, he sang of his mother....more |
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0007182228
| 9780007182220
| 0007182228
| 3.79
| 41,596
| May 17, 1992
| Feb 16, 2004
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really liked it
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Che Guevara, for me, was a childhood idol. India was left of centre initially, during the Nehruvian Era. During the Indira years, it became authoritari Che Guevara, for me, was a childhood idol. India was left of centre initially, during the Nehruvian Era. During the Indira years, it became authoritarian and centrist. Rajiv Gandhi moved it slowly to the right, and during the Narasimha Rao/ Manmohan Singh Era, it became unabashedly right liberal. And with the advent of Modi, the country has moved further to the right; it has also become authoritarian, just one notch down from a certain European country under the regime of a guy with a toothbrush moustache. But my home state of Kerala, located down at the bottom, has remained staunchly liberal. And secular. And left-wing. In fact, we were the first electorate in the world to democratically elect a communist government to power; and it is the only state where the communists are in power now. My generation grew up hearing the heroic tales of the October Revolution and the Long March. Marx, Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Castro et al were our role models. Our sacred texts wereDas Kapital|andThe Communist Manifesto.And Che, undoubtedly, was the mythical hero. The revolutionary par excellence, who threw away a lucrative career as a doctor; and eschewed a position as a minister in a newborn socialist country, just to plunge into the battlefield to liberate Latin America from the greedy clutches of Uncle Sam - and to die a martyr, looking into the eyes of the American GI who shot him, saying: "Shoot, coward, you are killing only a man." As I grew older, I understood that truth was a little more nuanced, and that there were no blacks and whites, only greys - and that revolutionaries and communists were not all that they were cracked up to be. But my fascination with Che remained, even when idealistic youth transformed into disillusioned middle-age and then to the current jaded and cynical sixties. Because, you see, this revolutionary is no longer a man but a symbol. Every hero undergoes a journey. He enters it as a raw novitiate and after the road of trials and tribulations, emerges as a sage. This trope is a staple of most myths and epics, and also of a lot of popular narratives in novels, TV and film. We rarely see it in real life. Che is one of the rare exceptions. In December 1951, 23-year-old Ernesto Guevara and his friend Alberto Granado, both medical doctors, set off on an epic journey across South America on the latter's Norton 500 bike, named "La Poderosa II". The journey was ostensibly to visit leper colonies and study the disease: the real intention was just to have a good time: two red-blooded Latinos whooping it up, wining, dining and fornicating. But when it ended 1n August 1952, Ernesto had transformed into a man who was deeply disturbed by the distressing history of his unfortunate continent: twice enslaved, once physically by Europe and then economically by the USA, her riches bled dry to fill foreign coffers while her sons and daughters lived in abject misery. As we read these memoirs which he kept during the journey, we can feel the change almost physically. The initial notes which are mostly about their mischievous escapades, slowly give way to long, thoughtful passages about the condition of the poor in Latin America, and the proletariat in general. For example, see how he describes a sick woman here: I went to see an old woman with asthma, a customer at La Gioconda. The poor thing was in a pitiful state, breathing the acrid smell of concentrated sweat and dirty feet that filled her room, mixed with the dust from a couple of armchairs, the only luxury items in her house. On top of her asthma, she had a heart condition. It is at times like this, when a doctor is conscious of his complete powerlessness, that he longs for change: a change to prevent the injustice of a system in which only a month ago this poor woman was still earning her living as a waitress, wheezing and panting but facing life with dignity. In circumstances like this, individuals in poor families who can't pay their way become surrounded by an atmosphere of barely disguised acrimony; they stop being father, mother, sister or brother and become a purely negative factor in the struggle for life and consequently, a source of bitterness for the healthy members of the community who resent their illness as if it were a personal insult to those who have to support them. It is there, in the final moments, for people whose farthest horizon has always been tomorrow, that one comprehends the profound tragedy circumscribing the life of the proletariat the world over. In those dying eyes there is a submissive appeal for forgiveness and also, often, a desperate plea for consolation which is lost to the void, just as their body will soon be lost in the magnitude of mystery surrounding us.Or a Chilean couple, who couldn't find a decent job and were forced to live a pitiful existence, because they were members of the banned communist party: There we made friends with a married couple, Chilean workers who were communists. By the light of the single candle illuminating us, drinking mate and eating a piece of bread and cheese, the man's shrunken figure carried a mysterious, tragic air. In his simple and expressive language he recounted his three months in prison, and told us about his starving wife who stood by him with exemplary loyalty, his children left in the care of a kindly neighbor, his fruitless pilgrimage in search of work and his compañeros, mysteriously disappeared and said to be somewhere at the bottom of the sea.The starving man is willing to share his frugal meal with the bums because "he, too, is a tramp." As Che says, he probably didn't understand what communism meant: but he could understand the slogan, "bread for the poor"! By the time they reach Cuzco and Machu Picchu in Peru, Guevara has become acutely conscious of the rich Indian past of the continent, which the Spanish conquistadors destroyed mercilessly. However, he says that the hybrid culture that the mixing of the invaders with the indigenous people created was not like the insular one of North America, with the natives totally segregated and marginalised: Latin America was one nation, one people, even though separated into different countries through arbitrarily drawn boundaries. When Che talks of a defeated people who live on when there is nothing to live for, just because "living has become a habit", we understand the depth of compassion which kindled the fire within. Read this book to understand the making of a revolutionary. ...more |
Notes are private!
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Aug 25, 2024
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9382616799
| 9789382616795
| 9382616799
| unknown
| 3.87
| 9,966
| 2015
| Jan 01, 2016
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liked it
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India is a beautiful country if you are privileged (read upper-caste, rich and preferably male). Otherwise, it's a sewer pit. The only thing any right
India is a beautiful country if you are privileged (read upper-caste, rich and preferably male). Otherwise, it's a sewer pit. The only thing any right-thinking youth (who doesn't belong in the above-mentioned category) will want to do with respect to the country is get out as fast as possible, to one of those "phoren" * paradises like the USA, Canada or Western Europe. But of course, the prosperity one imagines exists in those countries is also the province of the privileged - something one learns to one's disadvantage after the crossing is made. The grass is always greener on the other side. This the tale of a handful of young men - two from Punjab and one from Bihar - who reach England, their promised land, only to see their dreams turn into nightmares. It is also the tale of a Sikh girl, a citizen of the UK, whose tale becomes unintentionally entwined with tales of these three runaways. Tarlochan Kumar (Tochi) is a Chamaar from Bihar - one of the most vilified and victimised castes of India - who has come to England illegally to make money by hook or crook, to offset the disadvantages of birth. His whole family has been murdered by "upper" caste goons. Randeep Sanghera is a callow youth, whose comfortable middle class world has gone up in smoke because of his father's mental illness and an act of sexual indiscretion in college which gets him expelled. He is on a fake marriage visa provided by Narinder Kaur, a pious young Sikh woman who is determined to provide a life to at least one person through this personal sacrifice. And finally, there is Avtar Singh Nijjar, who has sold a kidney and taken money from a loan shark to get to England on a student visa, to earn money and support his family at home as well as carve out a future for himself. He is in love with Randeep's sister. This is an essentially bleak tale, set in the twilight world of illegal immigrants who, as underpaid workers, support the economy of Britain. There are villains aplenty here in the shape of money-grubbing employers, but no heroes (except for Narinder, whose supremely innocent saccharine-sweet goody-goody nature is sometimes puke-inducing, to tell the truth). These young men fight, cheat and steal to keep body and soul together and to keep their dream of "Vilayat" ** alive. But all said and done, they are not totally unlikeable, because in such circumstances, we feel that we would have also done the same. The story is well-written, and once picked up, the book is hard to put down. But at some point of time, the reader feels that it could all have been condensed into a thinner volume. One does not have to read pages and pages about the hardships of the protagonists to appreciate the inhuman nature of the world out there. And the ending, when it comes, is surprisingly downbeat - it's as though the author said: "Enough! Let me stop this!", put down his pen, attached an epilogue, and send the manuscript on to the publishers. 3.5 stars. ------- * foreign ** archaic Indian term for England ...more |
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Aug 04, 2024
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0140094199
| 9780140094190
| 0140094199
| 4.27
| 3,609
| 1982
| Jan 01, 1988
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really liked it
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There was a time when we lived in the shadow of a nuclear holocaust. (The shadow is still there, I must say, though it's a bit faint.) What would happ
There was a time when we lived in the shadow of a nuclear holocaust. (The shadow is still there, I must say, though it's a bit faint.) What would happen after a nuclear war was anybody's guess: the only thing everyone pretty much agreed on, was that nothing would be left. The earth would be a radioactive wasteland. Dystopian film-makers had a field day with the concept. The stunning impact of a thousand suns lighting up at the same time; the images of people getting fried to a crisp; and the slow, lingering death of the "survivors" were too good for Hollywood to pass up, I imagine. And watching it on the screen was a sort of catharsis, because once the lights came on we could go back to our safe, cozy lives. But what happens when the bomb invades our drawing rooms? That is what Raymond Briggs explores in this graphic novel, through the lives of an old couple in the British countryside, James and Hilda. It is set in the cold war era, when a war was possible any day. James is a conscientious citizen: he has trust in the "powers that be". He is sure that they will take care of everything, including showing the "Russkies" their place. And now with "commuters" handling everything, there is no chance of error. James creates a "fallout shelter" based on the instructions given in a pamphlet put out by the municipal authorities - a pathetically inadequate one, but then, he doesn't know that - and asks Hilda to crawl into it with him. Hilda is more concerned with the practicalities of their existence, both during and after the bomb, and is constantly bickering with James on the finer things. But they do manage to survive the initial blast, when it comes - but it would have been better if they didn't... This graphic novel literally hits you with the power of a nuke. Unlike those Hollywood movies which you can tune out once you reach your homes, this brings the disaster right into your drawing rooms. By concentrating on an elderly couple who live away from things, and placing all the violence offstage, it makes you feel the horror even more: the slow destruction and disintegration of the world which you knew, never ever to return. The couple's reminiscences of the Second World War and its aftermath makes it even more poignant, because there is not going to be any return to normalcy ever again. In a war, there are no winners or losers. Only victims. ...more |
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Aug 2024
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0008389659
| 9780008389659
| 0008389659
| 4.16
| 5,221
| 2019
| Nov 21, 2019
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did not like it
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Sorry, Mr. David Walliams, when I want to read Roald Dahl, I will read Roald Dahl. With Quentin Blake's illustrations, Mr. Tony Ross. Imitations are n
Sorry, Mr. David Walliams, when I want to read Roald Dahl, I will read Roald Dahl. With Quentin Blake's illustrations, Mr. Tony Ross. Imitations are not required.
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0345298349
| 9780345298348
| 0345298349
| 4.04
| 68,131
| 1981
| Feb 12, 1982
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liked it
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This book found me, more than four decades after I purchased it. I was cleaning my library, with a view to getting rid of some unwanted books, and thi
This book found me, more than four decades after I purchased it. I was cleaning my library, with a view to getting rid of some unwanted books, and this tome fell of the shelf, saying: "Hello! I am still unread." It started sidling up to me, in the hope that I will pick it up. I was initially doubtful. The blurb told me that this was a tale of intrigue in the former Soviet Union, written by an American novelist.Trash,I told myself.American anti-communist propaganda disguised as fiction.I have been off these cold-war thrillers for quite some time now. But the poor thing looked so forlorn, lying on the floor, so I just didn't have the heart to abandon it. I picked it up, ready to drop it the moment the going got nauseous. Wonder of wonders, I completed it. I rather liked it, too. *** Don't get me wrong - I don't consider this a great book. It has its good points and its flaws. But the story pulls you in from page one and keeps you engaged. Three skaters - two men and one woman - have been murdered in Gorky Park, in the middle of Moscow. Their faces have been cut away, and fingertips removed to prevent identification. For Chief Investigator Arkady Renko, the crime smacks of state intrigue and he is sure that it would be taken away by Major Pribluda of the KGB. He only has to make a show of investigating, and dig up enough evidence to show that state security has been compromised. But to his surprise, Prosecutor Andrei Iamskoy keeps him on the case. Excellent investigator that he is, Renko starts uncovering foreign involvement, smuggling and international intrigue involving some really important people, and issues which could affect relations between the USSR and the USA: immediately making him persona non grata. Running from the law and the villains at the same time, Arkady further complicates his life by falling in love with Irina Asanova, a dissident. From then on, it's the familiar Hitchcockian tale of a single man against the system. What I liked about the novel was the way the way the author built up its world and its characters. I don't know how familiar Martin Cruz Smith was with the Soviet Union, but his descriptions are detailed and authoritative. And all his characters are finely rounded and believable, including the unimportant ones. What I disliked was the way a mini-climax was inserted midway, after which the story slowed down to a crawl, before it built up steam for the final assault. In a thriller, one expects the pace to be maintained. There is no "aha" moment - the secret comes to light slowly, through painstaking police procedure. But that's one of the attractions of the novel, not a drawback. I would give it 3.5 stars. Did not quite make it to a 4. ...more |
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Jul 28, 2024
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Jul 31, 2024
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Jul 28, 2024
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0143459112
| 9780143459118
| 0143459112
| 4.21
| 14
| unknown
| May 01, 2024
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really liked it
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I had loved the L. Somi Roy's previous book,And That is Why: Manipuri Myths Retold.Here, in collaboration with Dr. Thangjam Hindustani Devi, he is d
I had loved the L. Somi Roy's previous book,And That is Why: Manipuri Myths Retold.Here, in collaboration with Dr. Thangjam Hindustani Devi, he is doing the same for Manipuri folktales - though in the case of this mountain kingdom, there is a considerable overlap. One thing I love about these retellings is the way the authors directly address an imaginary, nameless child sitting in front of them. According to the situation in the story, he/ she is called "My Brave One", "Dear Curious One", etc. as though in response to the child's reaction. It gives the tales a dynamism. Another thing is how Roy and Devi make the stories contemporary. The king has an army having AK-47s, AR-15s, Leopard tanks and Stinger missiles. The princess refuses her animal groom saying: "Do I have any say here at all? This is the patriarchal nonsense our teacher taught us about!" A feminist princess, indeed. The third thing is the sheer delightful quality of the prose. Dear Gassy One, this was the granddaddy of all farts. The earth trembled. It was a thermo-nuclear explosion of a fart. The needle flew off the seismograph at Cape Canaveral. A tsunami rose off the coast of Sumatra. The large earthen pot was shattered to bits. The shards flew off in all directions. Birds dropped from the sky. Squirrels were flattened against the tree trunks. The monkeys were blown up to the treetops in Mahabali Wood where they dangled by their tails, and the little brown monkey was blasted into space.Have you ever encountered a fart described so poetically? ...more |
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Jul 22, 2024
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Jul 23, 2024
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Jul 22, 2024
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1443434876
| 9781443434874
| 1443434876
| 4.07
| 540,369
| Aug 26, 2014
| Apr 11, 2017
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really liked it
| A hostile civilization from a nearby galaxy has taken control of Earth and enslaved Earth's population, but a few hundred rebels managed to steal a sp A hostile civilization from a nearby galaxy has taken control of Earth and enslaved Earth's population, but a few hundred rebels managed to steal a space station and escape. Dr. Eleven and his colleagues slipped Station Eleven through a wormhole and are hiding in the uncharted reaches of deep space. This is all a thousand years in the future.This is not the premise of this novel. It is the premise of a comic book series one of the characters in this novel plan to create. A series which dies on the vine (so to speak), except for a limited edition of ten copies each of two volumes, because the world goes to hell on a handcart unexpectedly due to a pandemic that wipes out 99% of humanity. But Station Eleven survives as a metaphor. *** The opening scene of the novel is set in Toronto, where the aging star Arthur Leander dies of a heart attack during the climax ofKing Lear,in which he is performing the title role. Immediately afterwards, people start dying of a flu emanating out of Georgia: it's insanely contagious and death occurs within 48 hours of anyone contacting it, except for the 1% who is miraculously spared. Civilisation soon unravels, and we have a handful of stragglers wandering across the nightmare dystopian landscape. All this is pretty old hat. What makesStation Elevenstand out is not the premise or the tale, but how it is told. From Arthur's death, the book follows four characters: Jeevan Chaudhury, a papparazzo turned paramedic who tried to give CPR to Arthur when he collapses; Kirsten Raymonde, an eight-year-old girl who is part of the play, and who is presented theDr. Elevencomic book by Arthur; Miranda, Arthur's first wife who is the creator of the comic; and Clark, Arthur's childhood friend. The timeline shifts between the Arthur's past to Arthur's present (when he dies), and jumps twenty years into the future to show Kirsten, moving across a devastated and dangerous USA (menaced by a "prophet" and his cult) as part of a travelling drama troupe, performing Shakespeare's plays. As the perspective shifts from person to person, the story comes together like fragments of a shattered mirror being painstakingly reassembled. Station Eleven and Shakespeare are the two metaphors that hold this novel together. While the comic book shows us a dystopia set in the future with its gadgets and gizmos, it exists in a world where technology has died a slow, lingering death (its artifacts like dead cellphones and laptops, useless credit cards and defunct passports being preserved in the "Museum of Civilization" by Clark). There is no electricity, no running water and no medicines. People survive by hunting deer with bows and arrows (guns have almost disappeared). To the children born after the pandemic, the dead cars and planes and the blank computer screens are leftovers from a past which never existed for them. People prefer Shakespeare's plays because of their timeless nature. They are from a distant past which could be an image of the dystopian present. They can be performed anywhere, even without costumes, since the make-believe is so evident. The play happens in the minds of the audience. Even many of the members of the troupe have lost their names - they are known by names like second guitar, third cello etc. "All this world is a stage - and we are all players" - isn't it? But at the heart of the novel is humanity: how we pull together, even in the time of total despair. About how we are all interconnected, across time and space. How, even in times of utter chaos, there will be a Dr. Eleven to ferry us over the rough waters. And how art and literature will always sustain us. ...more |
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1
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Jul 20, 2024
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Jul 21, 2024
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Jul 20, 2024
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0330311468
| 9780330311465
| 0330311468
| 3.33
| 36
| 1962
| Jan 01, 1990
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liked it
| "They are styled Birds of Paradise because when discovered various and most extravagant fables were reported concerning them; amongst which, it was lo "They are styled Birds of Paradise because when discovered various and most extravagant fables were reported concerning them; amongst which, it was long generally believed, that whence they came, or whither they went was unknown; that they lived on celestial dew; that they were perpetually on the wing, taking no rest but in the air; were never taken alive, and consequently could only be obtained when they fell dead upon the earth; so that the vulgar imagining them to drop out of Heaven or Paradise, and being struck with the beauty of their shape and plumage, bestowed on them the singular name by which they are still distinguished.” The ‘Bird of Paradise’ of the above passage is a myth: however, there exists a certain variety of bird by that name in the tropical jungles of Indonesia and New Guinea which boasts of exotic plumage, which is the only correct zoological facet of the legend. Of such fables is our collective race memory composed, which gives us sustenance in this drab, mundane and dispiriting universe. Paul Scott writes in metaphors. Not only is his prose cloyingly rich with them, but his characters, situations and even whole novels are metaphors for a past which existed only in the imagination of the privileged few who lived through it – the vanished splendour of the British Raj in India. India was a hell-hole of poverty, deprivation and daily violence for the majority of Indians: the brilliant colours of the decadent aristocracy that most colonial gentlemen fondly remember belonged to a miniscule segment of the population. This was the India that Britain was trying to preserve, and this was why they lost. William Conway, the narrator of this novel, is the son of a former political agent and resident of the British Empire, Sir Robert Conway. William has been forcibly removed from his beloved India at the age of ten and compelled to join his uncle’s business (most probably because his father sensed that his son won’t have a future in India, with the winds changing); an action for which he has not forgiven his father. War cuts short his commercial career, and after a horrendous interval in a Japanese POW camp and a disastrous marriage and a divorce, William sets out to chase his childhood dream – to discover the famed bird of paradise. For this, he journeys to India, where he had seen the birds first, stuffed and hung lifeless in a cage in the palace of his childhood friend Krishi, the prince of Jundapur. There he meets Krishi and his childhood sweetheart Dora – the threesome that used to be: but now, somehow dead. In the lifeless fossil of his childhood friendships, William also discovers the rotting birds. However, he travels on to the island of Manoba, where we find him, writing his memoirs, still trying to catch a glimpse of the birds of paradise. Paul Scott’s prose is rich, thick and almost gooey. It sticks to the palate of your intellect and has to be scratched off in multiple attempts. This makes reading him a chore sometimes. Scott stops just short of Virginia Woolf. And like I said before, all of it is metaphor. I absolutely loved this style in theRaj Quartet.It was perfect for capturing the fading days of the British Raj in India, through the intertwined lives of multiple personalities. But used on such a small canvas as in this novel, it just becomes too rich: too much to digest in a rather short novel of 200+ pages. Scott’s atmosphere is brilliant: his characterisation, superb: and his prose, delectable. But in this novel, I felt it was all a bit of too much dressing on what is, after all, an eminently forgettable story. ...more |
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2
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Aug 20, 2018
not set
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Aug 25, 2018
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B004SZC55Q
| 3.32
| 25
| 1953
| Jan 01, 1967
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really liked it
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I love these "Golden Age" SF stories. They had uncomplicated plots and straightforward storytelling - also science reigned supreme in them (though it
I love these "Golden Age" SF stories. They had uncomplicated plots and straightforward storytelling - also science reigned supreme in them (though it was never complex). They were mostly set in the future, and almost all stories had space travel. So what if the characterisation was a bit flat, and there were no philosophical questions asked? You could enjoy a thumping good story. This enchanting collection contains ten tales, all set in the future. 1.The Tinklerby Poul Anderson: A cautionary tale for kids who visit their relatives on an unfamiliar planet. Mildly enjoyable. 2.Superiorityby Arthur C. Clarke: The master comes up with a brilliant story on the perils of too much technological sophistication. It resonated with me especially, since I encounter this problem every day as a specialist in Industrial Safety! 3.McIlvaine's Starby August Derleth: A humdrum story about extraterrestrials - till the very end, when the tale takes an unexpected turn. The ambiguous ending is very effectively done. 4.Brother's Beyond the Voidby Paul F. Fairman: The perils of taking extraterrestrials lightly. Rather predictable. 5.Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautifulby Stuart Friedman: A tiny philosophical tale which questions the nature of beauty. I felt it was a bit weak. 6.The Dead Planetby Edmond Hamilton: A space exploration story in the classical mould. Predictable towards the end, but enjoyable all the same. 7.Like a Bird, Like a Fishby H. B. Hickey: Mind-bending time travel plus religion in a Mexican village. It might be a bit difficult to wrap your head around the concept, but the tale is so well-written that you can't stop in-between. 8.The Gardenerby Margaret St. Clair: I have a hard time deciding whether this is an SF story masquerading as horror or vice-versa. An arrogant man getting his just desserts for the breaking of a taboo is old hat; but the tale is anything but! Chilling. 9.Null-Pby William Tenn: A hilarious satire on humanity. I never thought I would see statistics used to such devastating effect in fiction! My favourite in the collection. 10.Strange Harvestby Donald Wandrei: A weird theme about sentient vegetation, weirdly executed. A fun read. Overall verdict: worth the while of any SF aficionado. ...more |
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1506711928
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0747595682
| 9780747595687
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| Jul 01, 2007
| 2008
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Neil Gaiman, for me, is magic. Like his (and mine, too) childhood idol Ray Bradbury, Gaiman situates his stories in the twilight land between reality a Neil Gaiman, for me, is magic. Like his (and mine, too) childhood idol Ray Bradbury, Gaiman situates his stories in the twilight land between reality and fantasy. His stories defy classification. They may be fantasy; they may be horror; or they may be spoofs - but of one thing, you can be sure: they will be magic. It this motley collection, you have: 1.The Case of the Four and Twenty Blackbirds- a hard-boiled private-eye tale in the American tradition, based entirely on nursery rhymes; 2.Troll Bridge- a familiar boogeyman in a not-so-familiar setting; 3.Don't Ask Jack- a jack-in-the-box, in a tale which could be a prototype for a Stephen King novel; 4.How to Sell the Ponti Bridge- a tale of a scam, set in an imaginary country (but quite possible in today's India!) 5.October in the Chair- Gaiman's tribute to Bradbury, where his favourite month of October tells a (not quite!) children's story; 6.Chivalry- a "parfit gentil knight" on the grail quest rides into a modern English town; 7.The Price- a black cat fights the supernatural on behalf of his adopted family; 8.How to Talk to Girls at Parties- a young man learns the art of chatting up girls, but unfortunately at the wrong sort of party; 9.Sunbird- a group of gourmets with jaded palettes in search of exotic meat, ends up getting more than they bargained for; 10.The Witch's Headstone- an extract fromThe Graveyard Book,Gaiman's unique retelling ofThe Jungle Book; 11.Instructions- telling the reader what to do in case he/ she is trapped inside a fairy tale. Or in other words, as I said above, magic. Read it - and be enchanted. ...more |
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0140263071
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| 3.56
| 5,346
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| 1990
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To say that Hilary Mantel writes beautifully would be a statement of the obvious. She has enormous control over the language; in addition, she can del
To say that Hilary Mantel writes beautifully would be a statement of the obvious. She has enormous control over the language; in addition, she can delineate characters so effectively with a few strokes of her pen, that they stand before you as living, breathing entities. And to top it all, her subject matter is always unique, so that the reader is hooked and pulled into the tale before she knows it. (I have faced some problem with her thicker books: but those were more to do with my powers of persistence than the quality of her writing.) InFludd,she takes us to the fictitious village of Fetherhoughton, which is proudly Catholic and conservative. It is presided over by Father Angwin, an elderly alcoholic priest who has lost faith in God but believes that the devil exists (moreover, that he is physically present in the village). The convent and its attached school are ruled with an iron hand by Mother Perpetua (popularly known as Purpiture or simply, Purpit). There are a handful of protestants, as well as the sister village of Netherhoughton populated by atheists. A few choice quotes: The village: The village lay in moorland, which ringed it on three sides. The surrounding hills, from the village streets, looked like the hunched and bristling back of a sleeping dog. Let sleeping dogs lie, was the attitude of the people; for they hated nature. They turned their faces in the fourth direction, to the road and the railway that led them to the black heart of the industrial north: to Manchester, to Wigan, to Liverpool. They were not townspeople; they had none of their curiosity. They were not country people; they could tell a cow from a sheep, but it was not their business. Cotton was their business, and had been for nearly a century. There were three mills, but there were no clogs and shawls; there was nothing picturesque.The language: The speech of the Fetherhoughtonians is not easy to reproduce. The endeavour is false and futile. One misses the solemnity, the archaic formality of the Fetherhoughtonian dialect. It was a mode of speech, Father Angwin believed, that had come adrift from the language around it. Some current had caught them unawares, and washed the Fetherhoughtonians far from the navigable reaches of plain English; and there they drifted and bobbed on waters of their own, up the creek without a paddle.The women: Consider the women of Fetherhoughton, as a stranger might see them; a stranger might have the opportunity, because while the men were shut away in the mills the women liked to stand on their doorsteps. This standing was what they did. Recreational pursuits were for men: football, billiards, keeping hens. Treats were doled out to men, as a reward for good behaviour: cigarettes, beer at the Arundel Arms. Religion, and the public library, were for children. Women only talked. They analysed motive, discussed the serious business, carried life forward. Between the schoolroom and their present state came the weaving sheds; deafened by the noise of the machines, they spoke too loudly now, their voices scattering through the gritty streets like the cries of displaced gulls.The Protestants: The Protestants were damned, of course, by reason of this culpable ignorance. They would roast in hell. A span of seventy years, to ride bicycles in the steep streets, to get married, to eat bread and dripping: then bronchitis, pneumonia, a broken hip: then the minister calls, and the florist does a wreath: then devils will tear their flesh with pincers.The Bishop, a man of modern sensibilities, decides to reform Fetherhoughton and bring it out from the Middle Ages. As a beginning, he gets Father Angwin to get rid of most of the statuary from the church (the padre buries them!) and decides to appoint a curate to keep the old man in line. Enter Fludd. The curate is strange. He can penetrate the very souls of people (especially the fair sex), yet nobody can recall his features from memory. He eats and drinks without seeming to do so. His approach to religion is unorthodox, to say the least. Soon, the influence of Fludd is felt everywhere. The padre's middle-aged housekeeper Agnes Dempsey and the young sister Philomena feel his magnetism. Mother Purpit is intimidated. Father Angwin is emboldened in his unorthodox views. The Fetherhoughtonian on the street becomes more pious, and even the atheists of Netherhoughton are affected. Fludd, who talks in alchemical terms, effects his own alchemy on the sleepy village before leaving in the most unusual fashion. I am not a Christian: but this novel compelled me to think deeply about Christianity and the "morality" it hoisted on its followers. The sense of being in perpetual sin, the need for redemption, and guilt about being human and having human emotions... these are highlighted, especially through the thoughts of Sister Philomena, who has the burden of being a nun in addition to being a Catholic. True, the church in Fetherhoughton does not bear much resemblance to the actual Roman Catholic Church of 1956 (when the events take place), but that creative exaggeration enables the writer to highlight some universal issues. In one hundred and eighty-six pages, Hilary Mantel has managed to tell a thumping good story as well put a lot questions into the reader's mind. No mean feat! PS: The author states at the beginning: "The real Fludd (1574-1637) was a physician, scholar and alchemist. In alchemy,everything has a literal and factual description, and in addition a description that is symbolic and fantastical."(Emphasis mine). That could be said of this novel, too. ...more |
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B07T86SM33
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| 186
| unknown
| Aug 14, 2019
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I am an avid horror fan - the scarier the story, the better. And I have to thank EC Comics for some of the most gruesome fare out there. Before the USA I am an avid horror fan - the scarier the story, the better. And I have to thank EC Comics for some of the most gruesome fare out there. Before the USA had the comics code which 'sanitised' stories so that young minds would not be 'corrupted', they had EC comics which celebrated the horrific nature of human existence. Beautifully narrated and exquisitely drawn, these tales of ghoulies and ghosties, of murder and mayhem, of illicit sex and gratuitous violence enchanted twisted weirdos, both young and old. Unfortunately, being born both in the wrong place and time, I couldn't partake of this exquisitely bloody banquet. But now that official morality is dead and buried, EC Comics is bring old skeletons out of the closet. A big salute to them! This book contains a choice collection. Of course, everyone would have their favourites: some of them would be here, some of them would be missing. Three of my most-loved tales -Yellow,Split SecondandDead Right- are included, but Ray Bradbury's absolute shockerThe October Gameis not. But that's only a minor complaint. Reading these tales, I was struck by how radical they are (even now) - anti-establishment, anti-war, pro-environment and lampooning white supremacy at every possible opportunity. Horror fiction is subversive indeed. ...more |
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1552453901
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I was sitting alone in my den, resting my bean on the desk, when Jeeves shimmered in with a much needed restorer on a tray. "Jeeves!" I said. "I bet yo I was sitting alone in my den, resting my bean on the desk, when Jeeves shimmered in with a much needed restorer on a tray. "Jeeves!" I said. "I bet you are clair... clair... well, whatever you say about birds who can guess what other chaps need! How did you know that I needed a drink?" "It seemed indicated, sir," said Jeeves. "Your demeanour suggested that you were a bit distraught. And may I add," he continued deferentially, "that 'clairvoyant' is the word you are searching for?" "That's it, Jeeves!" I said. "You guessed right. I am in a spot." Jeeves didn't say anything, but waited for me to continue. But his right eyebrow went up by one-sixteenth of an inch, showing how perturbed he was. "I promised to read and review this blasted book for the book club meeting this Saturday," I said pointing to the tome in question, which was lying on my table. "But I can't make head or tail out of it!" Jeeves glanced at the book. "Ah,The Baudelaire Fractal,sir? Quite an amusing little novel, if I may say so. " I looked at him reproachfully. "Amusing, eh? You find this load of tripe amusing? Well, let me tell you, you are talking out of the back of your neck!" "Maybe my choice of words was incorrect, sir." Jeeves said apologetically. "For a reader like you, accustomed to the simpler forms of literature, this novel might prove a bit opaque." I was miffed. "So you mean to say that I am not smart enough to read this book, eh?" "Oh, no, sir." The man was all contrition immediately. "Such a thought was furthest from my mind, I assure you. What I meant was that a novel of ideas such as Ms. Robertson's tome in question might not be palatable to a person who prefers more straightforward ways of narration." It seemed that he was saying the same thing again, but I let it go. "Novel of ideas, Jeeves? What do you mean?" "Well, sir, in an ordinary novel, there would be plot, characterisation, and a story that has a beginning and an end." Jeeves said. "Whereas in a novel of ideas, the characters are only mouthpieces for the author to expound upon his or her philosophy." "Philosophy?" I was angry. I picked up the book and beat my fist against it. "What philosophy is there in this bucket of bilge? There is this beazel, moving from room to room, talking about poems of this French chap Baudelaire, paintings of a lot of other French and Italian chaps, and the various dresses she wore. And half the time, she doesn't make any sense. I feel she's soft in the head." Jeeves didn't say anything. When I looked up at him, his mouth had turned up one-eighth of an inch. The chap was smirking! Seeing my stare, he again went back to his deadpan expression. "Sorry sir, I was not laughing at you. I found your rather simplistic statement about an acclaimed avant-garde novel a trifle amusing, hence my involuntary reaction. I regret if I caused distress to you, sir." "Oh pshaw, leave it, Jeeves!" I waved my hand. "Like Aunt Dahlia's cook Anatole says, I can take a few roughs with the smooth. But you call this novel acclaimed?" "Yes, sir." Jeeves said. "It's well thought of in literary circles." "Oh?" Said I. "So can you tell me what it means? Especially when the popsy says she has written all the poems of the blasted French poet? It seemed to me like lying on a large scale." "The tome in question, sir," explained Jeeves, "raises the point of individual authorship of any form of literature. The protagonist realises that the poems of Baudelaire belong to her as much as belongs to anybody else: remember, it was Baudelaire himself who said that in the works of Poe, he discovered his own writing. It is an interesting viewpoint, even if one does not agree with it, sir." "Jeeves," I said. "This is pure apple sauce. You mean to say that nobody writes anything by themselves?" "Anything original, sir." The corner of Jeeves' lip went up once again. "The novel works on the premise that everything is endless repetition. The author extends it not only to literature, but also to paintings, the dresses she wears, the perfumes she uses, and all her visual, auditory, olfactory and tactile sensations." He paused, and continued, a trifle disapprovingly: "As I said before, sir, one does not necessarily agree with it." I was squirming like a stuck pig by this time. "You mean the author wrote two hundred pages just to spew this blasted nonsense?" "Well, sir, in literary fiction the form is the content. One reads a book mostly for the experience of the text in general." Jeeves paused again. "The title is a good clue to both the philosophy and the structure of the book, sir." "The title?" I said. "Oh yes, the fractal thing. I thought it had something to do with astronomy." "No sir." Jeeves said. "A fractal is a mathematical pattern which keeps on repeating itself at different levels. As one digs down, one will find that the larger pattern is built up by smaller models of the same, ad infinitum. It's a fascinating mathematical concept." I was silent for a minute. I could now see the seriousness of the pickle I had landed myself in. "What do I do, Jeeves?" I wailed. "The Book Club expects me to speak on this book in a couple of days. I have to stand up and deliver a speech on it, in front of an audience of blooming intellectuals." I sighed. "I will look a prize ass, like that time I gave a speech at the girls' school." Jeeves coughed deferentially. "Sir," he said, "that may not be required." "Jeeves!" I exclaimed, hope arising in my heart. "You don't mean you have a plan?" "I have devised a simple stratagem which I believe would be adequate for you to avoid this event, sir." Jeeves said. "Just inform them that you have laryngitis, and that you have lost your voice." I shook my head. "Good idea, Jeeves, but it won't work. They will expect me to speak on it when I recover. I can't claim to have laryngitis for ever!" "But your speech will be delivered this week itself, sir." Jeeves said. "I will do it on your behalf, based on the written review you have given me. I will represent you and read it at the meeting." "Written review -?" I started in confusion, but then illumination struck me. "Jeeves! You don't mean you will write a review and present it in my name?" "I have already written a review, sir." Jeeves said. "When I saw you reading this book, I anticipated an eventuality such as this." "Jeeves! You are one in a million! Thank you!" I hollered. "I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir," said Jeeves. ...more |
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1550548913
| 9781550548914
| 1550548913
| 3.64
| 2,093
| Aug 01, 2003
| Aug 01, 2003
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Modelled onHow to Be an Alien: A Handbook for Beginners and Advanced PupilsbyGeorge Mikes,this is a book which desperately tries to be funny but s
Modelled onHow to Be an Alien: A Handbook for Beginners and Advanced PupilsbyGeorge Mikes,this is a book which desperately tries to be funny but succeeds only sporadically. The problem is that while the book it was inspired by pokes fun at the foibles of the British which is common knowledge all those who read English books, the jokes on Canada and Canadians would be funny to only those who know the country thoroughly. And some of the jokes are too topical for an outsider. Still, it's a mildly enjoyable light read which is hilarious in places. ...more |
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0385664222
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| 0385664222
| 4.25
| 16,586
| Nov 13, 2012
| Aug 13, 2013
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really liked it
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History is full of people that governments find "inconvenient". For example, Palestinians are inconvenient for Israel. Kurds are inconvenient for Turke History is full of people that governments find "inconvenient". For example, Palestinians are inconvenient for Israel. Kurds are inconvenient for Turkey. Tamils are inconvenient for Sri Lanka. Muslims are inconvenient for a hell of a lot of governments. So what do you do with these inconvenient people? Assimilate them (by destroying their identity), isolate them (by ghettoising them) or - worst comes to worst - eliminate them totally (by ethnic cleansing: what Hitler tried to do with the Jews). And these strategies are what governments across the globe adopt. Oh come on,I can hear people saying.It can't be that bad. After all, we are in the Twenty-First Century! The world is developed! Precisely. We reached here on this pinnacle of "development" by the systemic destruction of people who are a hindrance to colonialism and its modern counterpart, global capitalism. Today's nation states are nothing but the result of land grabs, by the use of sheer muscle power. They have no legitimacy beyond the fact that they have the military to enforce the "sovereignty" of their (artificial) borders. Because the earth belongs to all living beings equally. *** There is an image from my teens and twenties: a man in a riding vest and jeans, wearing a J. B. Stetson hat riding off into battle with both guns blazing. The iconic cowboy from the Wild West, off to war with the wild, bloodthirsty Indian who is hell-bent on torturing white men to death and carrying off white women. A grand image, but unfortunately, without an iota of truth in it. The traditional "Western" is the biggest con job foisted on the public by Anglo-Saxon authors and film directors, to justify the worst land grab in the history of the world. Settlers from England, France, Spain et al waged a ruthless war on the native tribes of the American continent. The aboriginals had no chance against the guns, germs and steel (to borrow from Jared Diamond) of the conquerors and quickly capitulated. Whatever desperate treaties they made with the white man were broken almost immediately. So if there is to be a realistic image of the cowboy, it should be one of a heartless ruffian preying on a hapless people who had no chance against his superior firepower. It would make for a hell of a movie, but I don't think Clint Eastwood would be interested. *** However, the Indian didn't disappear. He survived, and became a thorn in the flesh for the governments of the USA and and Canada. And he still remains, despite concerted efforts to make him disappear. It is this inconvenient Indian (of which he himself is one!) that Thomas King writes about. According to King, there are three type of Indians: 1. The "Dead Indian", the one found in fiction and film. A species which existed only in the imagination of white Americans. 2. The "Live Indian", the one actually found on the streets of the USA and Canada, and totally ignored by the non-Native population. 3. The "Legal Indian", the pesky individual who asserts his aboriginal identity. The one who demands his rights. The "inconvenient" individual of the book title. The governments of both Canada and USA (read: capitalists who control them) want the land, and the wealth that lies beneath it. The Indian ( "Native American" in the USA and "First Nation" in Canada) also want the land: but to be held collectively, in perpetuity, for them and their children. For the former, land is a commodity: for the latter, a part of their collective psyche. These are two worldviews in collision here. Thomas King narrates the tale of this unequal battle over the centuries in an anecdotal and non-linear fashion which is totally engaging. It is a story of unrelenting brutality and injustice, and as a member of the group at the receiving end, the author's indignation shines through in each sentence. But he tempers it with a huge dollop of sarcastic and cynical humor, so that what would have been a gruelling read otherwise actually becomes pleasurable. The heartening takeaway from the book is that even after all the attacks on his identity, the Indian refuses to go away. Moreover, he insists on remaining inconvenient. That gives hope for the future. ...more |
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0888940254
| 9780888940254
| 0888940254
| 3.52
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| Mar 01, 1991
| Jan 01, 1983
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A quirky collection of legends and myths. Unlike the "fairy tales" we are accustomed to, these have no proper structure: many do not even have a story
A quirky collection of legends and myths. Unlike the "fairy tales" we are accustomed to, these have no proper structure: many do not even have a story arc. The tale starts somewhere and ends somewhere else. That said, they have the raw beauty of stories which have not been doctored to meet modern sensibilities. These legends have been collected and presented without any window-dressing by the author, in 1912 - and going through them, we get the picture of a wild country inhabited by a hardy folk who existed in tune with nature. They lived, loved and quarrelled in an idyllic landscape untouched by time, before the white man arrived with his "civilising" mission. A world worth aspiring to return to - even though it may be only be a pipe dream. ...more |
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Tan, Amy
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| 3.97
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| 1989
| 1990
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really liked it
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Quite a few years ago, my mum told my kid sis (who was born eleven years and three months after me): "My immortality was assured after your birth." Mys Quite a few years ago, my mum told my kid sis (who was born eleven years and three months after me): "My immortality was assured after your birth." Mystified, my sister asked: "Why?" Mum said: "When a woman gives birth to a daughter, she gives birth to her own womb, ensuring the continuity of life. Therefore, a daughter is calledatmaja('self-born'). " This weird yet beautiful concept, especially relevant in a matrilineal society like ours, was in my mind throughout when I was reading this novel about mothers and daughters. Chinese society is not matrilineal. But unlike the West, where the nucleus family rules the roost and patriarchy is the order of the day, mothers and daughters do share a bond across generations. InThe Joy Luck Club,Amy Tan explores this bond, and how it weakens and breaks in the melting pot of the United States of America. Suyuan Woo, wife of a Chinese military officer in Kweilin at the time of the Japanese invasion of China during the Second World War, invents the "Joy Luck Club" to keep her mind off the impending disaster. Four women would join to play mah jong, party with whatever food was available, and talk into the night, trading stories. She continues this after she immigrates to America, after facing unspeakable personal tragedies. When Suyuan dies, her daughter Jing Mei "June" Woo is expected to carry on this tradition, with her mother's friends An-Mei Hsu, Lindo Jong, and Ying-Ying St. Clair - women from various walks of life, bound together only by memories of a distant Chinese past and their complicated relationship with their daughters. During one of these meetings, Jing Mei comes to know of two daughters her mother was forced to abandon in China: her twin half-sisters. Her mother had spent her whole life trying to locate them; but when they are finally found, she is no more. Now Jing Mei has to take up the mission. Against this backdrop, the story of four mothers (Suyuan Woo, An-Mei Hsu, Lindo Jong, and Ying-Ying St. Clair) and four daughters (Jing-Mei Woo, Rose Hsu Jordan, Waverly Jong and Lena St. Clair) are narrated by the characters themselves - the narration switching between Imperial China before the war and 80's USA. These disjointed narratives give a kaleidoscopic feel to the story, and is extremely effective in conveying the wonderment and alienation of an expatriate from an ancient land in a country without a past. It is also an exploration of how mothers and daughters get estranged, but still remained joined together by an invisible thread. Truly, the womb marches on... ...more |
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9789354820915
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| Oct 28, 2021
| Oct 28, 2021
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ഏറെ ചർച്ച ചെയ്യപ്പെട്ടിട്ടുള്ള ഒരു ചിത്രമാണ് ലിയോനാർഡോ ഡാവിഞ്ചിയുടെ "മോണാ ലിസ" - പ്രത്യേകിച്ചും അവളുടെ കണ്ണീരിന്റെ നനവുള്ള പുഞ്ചിരി. ജീവിതാനുഭവങ്ങളെ ത
ഏറെ ചർച്ച ചെയ്യപ്പെട്ടിട്ടുള്ള ഒരു ചിത്രമാണ് ലിയോനാർഡോ ഡാവിഞ്ചിയുടെ "മോണാ ലിസ" - പ്രത്യേകിച്ചും അവളുടെ കണ്ണീരിന്റെ നനവുള്ള പുഞ്ചിരി. ജീവിതാനുഭവങ്ങളെ തൻ്റെ ഓർമ്മയെഴുത്തുകളുടെ പ്രിസത്തിലൂടെ ദീപ പ്രകീർണ്ണനം ചെയ്തെടുക്കുമ്പോൾ, അവ സുഖദുഃഖങ്ങളുടെ സപ്തവർണ്ണങ്ങളണിഞ്ഞ മോണാലിസച്ചിരികളാകുന്നു. ദീപയുടെ എഴുത്തുകൾക്ക് വലിയ ആഴമോ, പരപ്പോ ഇല്ല. സാഹിത്യപരമായ നാട്യങ്ങളൊന്നും തന്നെയില്ല. എങ്കിലും അവയ്ക്ക് അസാദ്ധ്യമായ വായനാസുഖമുണ്ട്. സത്യസന്ധതയുണ്ട്. സാർവ്വജനീനതയുണ്ട്. നമ്മൾ പലരും ജീവിതത്തിൽ നേരിട്ട പ്രതിസന്ധികളും കണ്ടുമുട്ടിയ വ്യക്തികളും ഈ കുറിപ്പുകളിലുണ്ട്. മമ്മൂട്ടി സുബ്രഹ്മണ്യൻ്റെ ആലിനു മുൻപിലൂടെ ഞാൻ നിത്യേന പ്രഭാതനടത്തം ചെയ്തിട്ടുണ്ട്. ചുളിവു വീണ അനേകം ജീവിതങ്ങളെ കണ്ടുമുട്ടിയിട്ടുണ്ട്. "ശോഭായാത്ര" എന്ന കലാപരിപാടിയിൽ അതിന്റെ നിഗൂഢ ലക്ഷ്യമറിയാതെ പങ്കെടുത്തിട്ടുണ്ട്. ഇന്നും കാലയവനികയ്ക്കുള്ളിൽ മറഞ്ഞ പലരുടേയും വീട്ടാക്കടങ്ങൾ ജീവിതത്തിന്റെ കണക്കുപുസ്തകത്തിലുണ്ട്. ആണ് ഈ ഭൂമിയിൽ ഇന്നും പെണ്ണിന് പലപ്പോഴും നരകമാണെന്നും, അടഞ്ഞ വീട്ടുവാതിലുകൾക്കു പിന്നിൽ കരഞ്ഞു തീരുന്ന ജീവിതങ്ങൾ ഇപ്പോഴും ധാരാളമുണ്ടെന്നും ദീപയുടെ അനുഭവങ്ങൾ സാക്ഷ്യപ്പെടുത്തുന്നു. ജാതി ചോദിക്കരുതെന്നു പറഞ്ഞ യതിവര്യൻ്റെ ഫോട്ടോ വെച്ചു ജാതിക്കല്യാണം നടത്തുന്ന നവോത്ഥാനകേരളത്തിൽ ഇതിൽ വലിയ അത്ഭുതം തോന്നേണ്ടതുണ്ടോ? ഇല്ലെന്നാവും "ജാതി ഒരു മരമല്ലേ?" എന്നു ചോദിക്കുന്ന ഗ്രന്ഥകാരിയുടെ അഭിപ്രായം. ...more |
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Apr 25, 2024
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Nandakishore
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Aug 25, 2018
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3.56
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it was amazing
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Jun 15, 2024
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3.52
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May 14, 2024
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Tan, Amy
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really liked it
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Apr 30, 2024
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3.75
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liked it
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Apr 25, 2024
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