Sabbath's Theater is easily the filthiest book I've read - Alexander Portnoy would be shocked at some of the goings-on, I'm sure - but, oddly, maybe one of the best? Asking myself why, I suspect it's because the book feels true to itself, and possesses that elusive sense of internal logic. As lechers go, Mickey Sabbath manages to be entertaining in his shame-free defense of his ways, and self-aware enough to come across as a genuine human being, one who has carefully considered all options and concluded that his chosen path is the right one. Which is more than you can say for most of us. And, of course, there's the fact that it's compellingly written. Maybe any subject can capture one's attention given a sufficiently talented writer. The yearning to peek into another life and see what drives other people is probably innate, and when a book gets things just right, we not only get to see but to live that counterlife. God bless the novel for allowing us to experience a multitude of such lives within this corporeal one. Does any other form offer such amazing possibilities? (That isn't a very insightful question, but I'll answer "No" anyway. )

Portnoy's Complaint is Sabbath's natural cousin, and while I may be retrofitting, I think one can feel that book's adolescence. By contrast, Sabbath feels mature, grown-up even if screwed-up. I suspected it very strongly with Exit Ghost, felt it corroborated by everything but the final scenes of The Plot Against America, but now it's confirmed that Roth is a masterclass.

When going through Nick Hornby's articles on books he's bought/read (which are significantly more entertaining than they sound), it struck me that I can't actually think of anyone else who has written so endearingly yet accessibly about the form, in particular about what is sometimes classified as "serious" fiction. While critical barriers of objectivity have been significantly demolished in music, with books the analysis is almost always of an academic bent (if not, it's often devoid of information). There is of course a very real need for such serious and semi-academic analysis, but so too is there one for Hornby's relaxed style of writing. I don't have that much else to say, except that I am glad to have found out about these articles, else I would have surely have him pegged as yet another pop-music obsessive (a charming one, mind!). I think my own shying away from books in this blog could be in part because I've felt ill-equipped in terms of the language needed to express my reactions about them. Hornby has made me reconsider that stance: perhaps unfortunately for you, dear reader! Stay tuned, I suppose.

Tangentially, before reading his articles, I had a vague idea that went something like: perhaps the place of classical music in the scheme of things is like the place of Dickens. Something you maybe dabble with when you're young, and then all but forget until (possibly) old age sets in. But his piece on Great Expectations makes me half-tempted to buy a fresh copy of that classic and re-read some 15 years on. Although, I should probably get through Anna Karenina first. And given this new uncertainty, lord knows what future awaits for all those Haydn symphonies...

Because it promises so much, a trip to the bookstore can be irritating, even downright frustrating when it happens to not shelve a particular book one is looking for. I sometimes find myself cursing whoever is in charge for the oversights ("You don't have Slaughterhouse Five?! Really?!"). At moments like that one grumbles, but is reassured that the book can be found online, at least. Back home, it's only a matter of seconds for Amazon to dutifully ship it to you the next day.

Yet one is missing something if they cite this as reason for shutting down the physical stores. Sure, the stocks there are finite, and sure, it sometimes lets you down because of that. But where else are you confronted by a great mass of books, staring in you the face, leaving you in awe of both your ignorance but also instilling you with a yearning to read until time runs out? Standing in the middle of the store, all around you are nothing but pages and pages of other men's thoughts, confessions, lives. At a particular author's section - if you're lucky! - you get to see his works neatly laid out, all those years of work sitting quietly next to each other. Flipping through the pages of any book, for a second, one is half tempted to sit down then and there and read through the entire thing. Even if the book is only vaguely familiar, it can be cause for hope: the sound of the title, the direction implied by the dust jacket, and the style that jumps out from a few pages picked at random - the excitement it generates at the possibility of this being one's next ticket to bliss!

Of course, one can conjure a similar sensation online: browse through the Amazon archives of literature and find yourself weeping at how there simply is no time for all of it. But does it have the same visceral feeling as when one is overwhelmed in the physical world? Hardly. No doubt the online store has its place. But it's purely a commercial affair. At the bookstore, sure, I'd like to buy something, but I'm also there for the experience.

I don't mean to suggest that the death of the physical bookstore - not as imminent as that of the record store, but definitely somewhere on the horizon - signals the death of books themselves. Ultimately, if you have the thing in your hand, you spend your time going through the pages rather than thinking about where you purchased it. (The electronic reader, of course, now that is the death of the book ;-)) But like a book itself, the trip to the bookstore offers an escape from the world. When it's just you and a shelf of books, the possibilities seem limitless. Life seems not so bad. There is the promise of satisfaction till the end of all time. The ego yields, the mind warmly accepts the limits of its own knowledge, and is thirsty for answers.

Literary retrospective 2007

Yes, the first of its kind in these parts, and more a conscious attempt to inspire me to read more in the coming years. Let the fear of having a blank retrospective keep me up at night, giving plenty of time for going through my latest whimsical read!

Now, unlike the musical retrospective, which distinguishes itself with its clearly mature and philosophical views of albums, songs, and what have you, this is decidedly the work of a neophyte. So do forgive any clumsiness in the writing, not to mention the sparsity of what I have to work with. While I didn't read a whole lot this year, there were a couple of good periods when I had lots of spare time that I filled with my old pastime.

The short yet dense Notes From Underground really captivated me at the start of the year, but I hope I didn't completely misunderstand it, because I found some parts of it unbelievably funny. I recall the description of the UM pacing up and down for hours on end to be particularly amusing. But on the other extreme, the way he expresses a choice towards the end (no spoilers!) was one of the saddest things I read all year. I read it twice just to check whether the fool hadn't done it, hadn't thrown away all he had, but...to no avail.

One of my occasional "random" reads, with no compelling backstory behind them, was Londonstani. Well, alright, that isn't entirely accurate, because my interest was piqued by a list that ranked it one of the best novels by an Indian author, but that doesn't seem particularly interesting. Anyhow, after reading it I wrote about how I felt somewhat unsatisfied; yes, the twist at the end is very well done, and yes, it does turn a lot of things on their heads. But I didn't like having to grapple with all the loose threads by myself, and I certainly didn't think that the twist made all of them irrelevant. Maybe I didn't appreciate the implications fully enough - unlike S, I really didn't feel like it questioned a personal prejudice or way I see the world, but perhaps that's because my prejudices are so entrenched as to seem normal, eh? ;) The writing itself is realistic and "authentic" enough, but you're probably going to have to embrace the volte-face with open arms to really love the book.

I came across Farrukh Dhondy entirely by chance - for whatever reason, he became the reigning expert on the racial row that ensued in the Big Brother house. He rose to the occasion, starting with the immortal (paraphrased) lines: "As I read about this, I felt like Napolean, watching the ruins of Elba". Anyone capable of beginning an interview with a line like that is clearly special, and so I became obsessed with him for a fair bit. It was cemented when, again by pure luck he contributed an opinion piece in the newspaper. Once again, he started off strong by providing an answer to Yeats' famous question in "The Tower", that asks where the imagination dwells. At this point, I simply had to read something of this man, and so found some of his writing with a bit of effort.

I like Poona Company better, though I usually seem to love well-crafted short stories (do they remind me of aspirations I once held?). The rich childhood stories cannot help but remind me of my own, even though mine are relatively tame. My favourite in the collection is the final one, "Rose de Bahama", which manages to be profoundly sad yet inspiring - depending on my mood, one trumps the other, but I'd like to think the inspiring is the overall winner. Indeed, let the Bahama ride again. I only realized that this means there is an obvious connection between my idiosyncratic favourites for song and story of the year. This be the year of empathy, 'twould seem.

Ah, and there was that existential explorer, Patrick White, who was introduced by way of a discussion of The Solid Mandala, which sounded like just the ticket for a pseudo-intellectual like me - dense, impenetrable, and about the natures of man and art. Wary of starting off with a cold shower, I instead went after Voss, the tale of the German explorer who tries to make it across the desert in a great existential quest, where the desert in all its sparse majesty is to reveal the truth about the human condition and Voss' place in the world. It is a very dense novel, but not entirely impenetrable. The power of the writing is inescapable, as it the harshness and horror of the descent into isolation. Or is that the descent into the human heart? It grapples with too many ideas for me to have grasped them all, or even notice them all, but the staggering force of it all was something else. Like I mentioned in my "review", the three stages of the book neatly reflected the stages of my journey in reading it, with the section in the desert being as unforgiving to read as the travel that is detailed. Clearly the most challenging read of the year, but consequently one of the most special ones.

There was more still, but nothing that particularly springs to mind as being strongly memorable or important. I'm aware that I have work to do yet when it comes to reading, because I probably heard more albums than read books - and given how little I listen to these days, that isn't a good sign. Perhaps the coming year needs more of a break from the classical canon, which is beautiful, touching, inspiring and everything, but inescapably consuming and occasionally dense. I'd hate to end up only knowing about the many books that capture my attention, but which I never seem to get the time to read.

Voss

"And what about you, Frank?", he said, or shouted again, so recklessly that one old mare pricked up her drowsing ears.
"Have I not taught you anything?", he asked.
"To expect damnation", said Le Mesurier, without considering long.

I don't consider the above to touch upon the true "meaning" of Patrick White's Voss in any sense, but it is something that I found particularly striking. The novel is far too dense for one reading, spread over two months, to discover its secrets - and so I will not attempt to analyze its deeper meaning or central themes. Certainly, to paraphrase Voss himself, it uses the narrative as an opportunity to provide some insight on the human condition, and as it goes with such novels, there is precious little I can offer that is not a mere quotation, followed by a sigh of pleasure. Suffice to say it is powerfully written, and more than satisfied my expectations.

I guess I really wanted to remark on why I started the book in the first place, which, as is often the case, was due to a pure whim on my part. Well, this was a whim that actually turned into something of an infatuation. There was something about the description of White's work, Voss in particular, that I felt drawn to. Perhaps it was the excitement of seeing how he might use the desert as a device to reveal great existential truths. Or something like that...as it goes with my whims, I am all to eager for some great universal revelation to be presented to me, without much knowledge about truths that have passed by me before, and an almost child-like (winsome?) fascination that does not really seem befitting of the subject matter.

It was a tough read, but I am glad I pulled through. The first third took next to no time, which seems appropriate given that this is pre-expedition. The middle third was a long, arduous journey for me, much like the book. And the last third...well, you get the idea. There were most certainly times when I gave serious thought to putting it down, and admitting defeat; somehow, though, I persevered, and reached easier terrain!

Anyhow, a second read seems inevitable, even if I cannot place the time. It will be revealed to me, I am sure.

It struck me today that it is actually a bit suprising, to me at least, that I don't write more often about the books I read, in stark contrast to music and (occasionally) games. I don't think it creates a particularly accurate reflection of my interests; it seems uncomfortably close to the writers I see on various other blogs where every post is a rave about a song/album/bargain buy. I don't think anything wrong with these blogs, mind you, I just feel like it is somehow misleading for me to fit into that category (for whatever reason, I am mildly interested in the image I project here!).

It is similar to how I rarely feel inclined to write about movies, although here it is probably more to do with the fact that I don't watch enough movies to have any interesting observations to make. But there is nonetheless, I think, a similarity between my silence on books and movies - as best I can make out, the reason is primarily a sense of humility taken to its logical conclusion, namely, a complete lack of faith in my tastes and opinions!

To an extent, it is of course well-founded, but it does make me wonder where I get the gall to write about other topics, given that I am objectively about the same level when it comes to exposure to them. Where does the embarassment to write about my thoughts on a book arise from? I find it interesting that I would not hestiate to say that I find, for example, Astral Weeks a difficult album to listen to, but I feel positively foolish admitting that I find The Sound And The Fury a difficult book to read*. Perhaps it has to do with the culture of those attracted to the different mediums? I guess in my head, I still have the antiquated (?) view of the posh literary scholar being the type of person most likely to read similar material (never mind that this is laughably inaccurate when it comes to me!), and I fear his/her...smug dismissal!?!

Such a picture is formed by chance glimpses of people like the one I saw today, with long hair and exotic clothes, well-thumbed copy of The Brothers Karamazov in hand. I initially get excited when this happens, and feel like striking up a conversation and remarking on how much I enjoyed the book. But at the same time, I fear it will lead them to realize how unrefined I am, and how unusual my recollection of a book can be. I shudder at being asked something like "Powerful stuff in that 'Grand Inquisitor' chapter, eh?", and having to fumble through a response that belies my reading of the book due to its lack of, firstly, sophistication, but also, genuine insight. Herein is another similarity to how I judge movies, because in both cases I seem to walk away with some sense of the overall picture of the piece, but it is not all that uncommon for me to fumble on the basics. This does not seem to have any relationship with the quality I perceive in the book, which is frustrating as it means that even with books I like, and ones I deeply admire, I am often unable to engage in meaningful discussions about them. The Brothers Karamazov is one good example of this, but one of the most embarassing ones is the venerable Hitchiker's Guide To The Galaxy, which I shudder to confess that I have read, as it is often followed by questions of the form "Remember the bit where ...? Hilarious!". I draw a blank, and forge laughter, trying desperately to change the subject!**

So essentially, it seems that while I have no trouble admitting to myself (or to you just now, gentle reader) my troubles with certain books, would I care to admit as much to the one who is truly learned? Never! :)

* I think I have forgotten what it is like to struggle with a book, so lax have I been with reading over the last few years. Back in the day, I would fearlessly stride through all manner of books hopelessly over my league, struggling to grasp even the basic idea of what was being said, but somehow not losing faith and insteading marching on. It is fun, to a point, to struggle again!

** Of course, there is the possibility that this is symptomatic of my complete inability to truly appreciate literature and film...but while I am normally quite happy to settle with such a blithe, self-deprecating answer, I do not think it is true in this case. While there are instances where this would be true, I still feel that even when I do find something incredibly affecting, with time my grasp on the specifics tends to weaken.

The premise of The Wrong Boy is simple enough - the narrative is a series of letters to Morrissey, by a fan looking to explain himself and his situation. And yet, when I started reading the book, for some reason it seemed so brilliant. Perhaps it was the line "Anyhow, I thought I'd pen a few lines to someone who'd understand". I actually felt distinctly upset, as though here was the only idea that I could've possibly used, and here it was, already taken! Even though I was advised to the contrary, I went in expecting it would be very much littered with references and musings on the music, but I should've listened to the initial warning. It was still largely enjoyable*, even if it might require a suspension of disbelief in a couple of places.

When I think about it, though, it's funny that I should feel as though I can relate. I'm not the hugest Smiths fan around, and although I do find Morrissey resonant, if pressed I don't know if I have an overwhelming reason to. I put it down to the power of some of the songs on Hatful Of Hollow! I mean, I've only ever heard a couple of Smiths albums, and maybe a couple of Morrissey songs. I do know, however, that some of the songs are amazingly great, and it does feel like there's a like-minded soul out there. Sometimes. In doses, he's brilliant, but when extended, I won't say I dislike him, but I feel the magic wears off. There are times when I've listened to his solo stuff on the radio ("I Have Forgiven Jesus" I think it was) and cringed on the inside, as though he has gone too far and compromised his wit, merely wallowing in the mire, so to speak. With that in mind, I guess it's a testament to the songs that do mean something to me that I should feel like a fan.

And after reading the book, I'm half-glad I'm not a fan. As in, not one to the extent that the narrator is. I suspect I don't embrace the music as much, which is entirely to my liking. Much like the Doors, actually. I think I appreciate these things without taking them too seriously. I believe Morrison once said "I contend an abiding sense of irony over all I do", and that sounds about right.

Incidentally, I feel compelled to say that my favourite part of the book was the simple line on the piece of paper in the narrator's wallet. That, to me, is one of Morrissey's finest moments.

* I certainly did not enjoy the segments where the narrator encounters people talking about their musical taste. I know it's fiction and all, but the elitism troubled me unduly. And drove home the fact that it's easy to dismiss the writing talents of Mr. Paul Simon, sadly, by writing off S&G as soft music of no consequence. It might've been part of the reason Simon decided to go solo!