Is this book an exhibition of so many human emotions, a labyrinth of emotions? Perhaps yes, perhaps no. This book, for me, turned out to be just one emotion stretched over so many pages in such a tinkling tone and esoteric poetic prose, with a unique narrative thump that I could not put it down. That one emotion was ‘trauma’.
I must tell you that I was reading a Murakami book alongside that was going too well in pace, when I received this book, and it was an interesting thing to check that after reading a few pages of this book, would I turn back to Murakami to complete that first or not? But I did not. And this book, from the time I started, was almost unputdownable. Not that I was liking the story, which was in fact not to my taste, but the tone, the pace, and the poetic clink that its prose generated after every sentence. Levitating in the monologue (it was almost that sort of) of an unknown narrator who decided to remain hidden till the end was sublime.
This is the story of a woman who is a photographer and biracial and who fights with the emotions of miscarriage and motherhood. Witnessing the violence endured by Black in US, she does not want to bring her black child into this world,
You think you’re the only one who is afraid? I’m afraid for our black child too.”
The book is small and can be quickly read. It has a multitude of themes. There is a question asked at the end of this book. Do you think the novel’s length heightens its impact? My answer is yes. Had it been a bit longer than this, it would have washed away the impact it created in such a short body of work. I was perfectly fine with the length. Its compactness made it more conceivable, allowing the reader to widen the throttle of his own imaginative faculty. The abrupt end of the novel, leaving some questions unanswered, left this book more noteworthy, at least for me, because something should remain hung on the head of a reader so that he carries it home and remains wreathed in the smoke of the work he just read.
“Voices raise. A scuffle. A shout rings out, shattered glass, and a bang. The herd of bodies thickens and shifts in an agitated wave as police storm the streets. A grey cloud of gas explodes into the air. Everyone runs. Screams. A high-pitched scraping of vocal cords and eardrums, deep-bellied animal cries. I let go and lose you, stop and stand in the middle of the sidewalk, clicking, clicking, clicking and camera, A stampede.”
The book may not be for all, but this book worked well for me, and I am recommending it to all who love a poetic language, with symbolism that connotes anxiety, uncertainty, fear, motherhood, and parenting on the human side, and racism, violence, and social security on the outside.
I thank NetGalley and Publishers for providing me with a copy.
Yesterday I closed my accounts; it was the last working day of the year. I calculated profit and loss, and also whatever I paid to the heavens and hells throughout the year, I found that I was at complete loss, materialistically. ‘Keep mind over matter’ advised my family. But…’matter’ too matters much, doesn’t it?
In the month of January, at the beginning of this year, I suddenly ventured into a new thing for my survival. A call came from one of my friends; he told me something; it stirred my mind; I took the decision; and from the very next day, I was doing something new. The hope emerged into my not-so-sinful heart that the new thing would change the way, and it created a lot of exciting moments. I noticed that all the year I was engaged in this, it created a lot of frenzy; it gave me a kick, sometimes a buzz, sometimes a thrill. Hope and despair, both one by one, first rose and then fell. Almost every single day, I witnessed a newfound ardour for my activity. Had you seen the vehemence of my riposte to the results I was getting on a daily basis, you would have called me a distraught fellow. Will I keep doing this the next year? I am not sure, but it was a great, engaging experience. Though the year-end performance was a dismal one on personal front, it still enriched my overall experience. Never ask me what I was doing.
And Books? What about them?
After a gap of almost 8 months, I somehow got back to the books in the month of May, and The first book that I read was Atonement by McEwan. Then, “Life of Pi”, I had hard copy of both books, so my reading journey began on paper, not on screen. Then I got into the contemporary novels, picked them up from the choice award list, and read 4-5 new authors. Interestingly, I noticed all the contemporary books that I picked up were from female authors, like Jodi Picoult, Sally Rooney and more.
I removed the lid from my poetry basket then and put there the names like, Allen Ginsberg, Seamus Heaney and Ocean Vuong. After putting them in the basket, I tightened the screw on the lid, which was never there.
Stephen King turned out to be the most read author for me as I read three of his books this year.
Jean-Paul Sartre, in his Nausea kept my life ‘existent’ in the name of existentialism for a few weeks. Denis Johnson‘s out-of-the way prose made a mark for me , I read his two titles.
The filthiest book, content-wise, that I read was the Crash, though I appreciated the craft of the author. Gilead, hooked me from the very beginning and made me emotional.
Two stunning books that I read in mid way were Death in Venice and The Train Was on Time. Both these books generated freakish feelings in me. Amazing books.
I read two bulky books this year Anna Karenina and The Stand, and both were fulfilling experiences.
The most surprising book of the year for me was Pilgrim by Timothy Findley. This was such a classic work. It was a hard copy lying on my shelf for more than six years, and I never knew its prose and craft were so amazing.
I read a bunch of poetry books, Allen Ginsberg jingled my heart. Death of a Naturalist was the most ‘natural’ poetry book I read, and Ocean Vuong perhaps delivered to me the most impressing poetry from the young poets. I thoroughly enjoyed Wole Soyinka and Noël Coward plays this year.
I read more than half a dozen short stories from the classic authors too. Some of them for the first time. I also revisited, Ray Bradbury,George Orwell and Oscar Wilde again this year.
Though my reading momentum stopped near the end of September, after keeping my rhythm and regularity for 5 months in books, I still feel satisfied and accomplished. Towards the end, classics like Anna Karenina and Passing and Pilgrim made my slog overs rewarding.
In books, the year was a 5-star for me, and though I read for a period of 5 months only, I was in good form, I guess. There were some amazing female authors I came across this year, and when I counted them, the tally went to more than 12 women novelists, all of whom I read for the first time. Though most authors from the list I read for the first time, if I reckon up, out of 62 titles across all genres, I read 39 authors for the first time this year( 18 novelists, 6 short story writers, 2 dramatists, 5 essayists, and all 8 new poets). Geography-wise, I also did well, as my readings revolved around the cultures.
So it was an amazing year, in books. The only regret is that I could not find enough time to write my thoughts on most of my book reads, which I’ll try to do next year.
So, friends, With this small recap of my book journey this year, I wish you all a lovely, healthy, and happy new year 2024 !
I’ll end up recalling Rumi.
“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” ― Rumi
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