anjali

Offers an interesting viewpoint from the “other” side of the Introverts v/s Extroverts camp. Cain, herself a true-blue introvert, puts forth a number of arguments on the nature of being introverted and what it entails for us as individuals, parents, collegues, and contributors to the world.

By taking stock of various scientific studies, she also points out why underestimating introverts can be overwhelmingly off the mark. An interesting read with some fresh viewpoints and scientific studies, it offers a breather in a world of loud, aggressive, obnoxious self-help “Be More Extroverted!” sort of books.

Siddartha is an allegory; a story wrapped around the ultimate premise ‘Happiness for Dummies'. Okay, maybe not so simplistic, but it deals with the attainment and nature of happiness nonetheless.

Premise

Like its eponymous protagonist, the novel breaks down in several milestones or turning points that signal the development of the story and the growth of the character, marking the changes that have been wrought at each stage by happenstance or when the central character experiences, what they generally call, ‘awakening.'

Now, I have generally never been fond of that word; I look upon it with slightly cynical eyes that have been tainted long ago with the endless and ubiquitous New Age slogans and advertising jingles and other such byproducts of a spiritually-hungry-but-commercially-eager-to-cash-on-in-that-hunger culture that is so pervasive. For that reason, any word (especially buzzwords like awakening, purpose, destiny, soul - to name just a few, which must surely count as eternal favourites of those who specialise in Spiritual Quests) - any word bearing resemblance or connection to this New Age school of thought immediately props up red flags in my mind and, in response to that, my mind reciprocates my sentiments with a certain two-syllable word, namely, ‘bullshit'.

However, being as wary of this as I am, I am compelled to acknowledge that Siddhartha does not bear resemblance to those works proffering liberation and claiming to offer answers to your spiritual questions, at least, not in the typical sense. Hesse is not trying to sell you happiness in a How-To-Guide book form wrapped with a ribbon on top. Hesse isn't trying to sell you anything. What he is doing, though, is telling a story that puts this search, this spiritual hunger in an allegory form and examines the ways it comes about and the way it is resolved.

A historical perspective

We must put Siddhartha in its historical context to achieve a full perspective towards understanding this work. Herman Hesse was a German writer who, aside from being a pretty depressive kid and showing signs of serious depression even in childhood, was also the winner of Nobel Prize in literature. Bam. His parents had served as Christian missionaries in India. His exposure to the work of Arthur Schopenhauer, the German philosopher, renewed his interest in Indian culture. Hesse's work is informed with tenets of Buddhist and Hindu philosophy and, in the case of Siddartha, forms the setting of the story itself.

Siddhartha is important because, published in 1922, way before the Beat movement and the hippiedom of the 60s, it was the first major work dealing in Eastern philosophy and thought written in the West. What many of the world now knows or may appreciate as Buddhist/Zen philosophy as a school of thought, Siddhartha put forward first. Hesse influenced the work of Jack Kerouac, and many others of the Beat Generation ahead of its time. It witnessed a resurgence in the counter-culture movements of the sixties.

Underlying themes and meaning

Hesse examines the search for spiritual fulfillment by having his characters embody aspects of personality and living that are unified, at various stages, by the protagonist Siddhartha himself. Govinda, like Siddhartha, is a seeker and then a Samana, or an ascetic who has renounced all wordly possesions. Kamala, the woman who instructs Siddhartha in the art of physical love and later, the mother of his child, embodies hedonism and sensuality. Kamaswami, the merchant, signifies the chief example of the ‘child people', the materialist. The ferryman, Vasudeva, exemplifies quiet understanding and wisdom, just like the Gautama Buddha, the Sublime One.

At various stages of his life, Siddhartha experiences the different aspects of these different personalities himself; he changes and grows as a person by becoming and unbecoming these traits. He is first and foremost, a seeker, who leaves his home to become a Samana, an ascetic giving up the ways of ‘the child people'. He is then the lover, basking in the pleasures of love and sex. Then he is the trader, the materialist, consumed by worldly woes. He is the gambler, giver and taker of riches, losing sight of what he was before. Then he is the suicidal depressive who has reached a breaking point, a crises in life, realised that the journey he traced out until this point left him empty, hollow, broken. Then he is the awakened, the conscious, the curious. He is the child, born-again, who laughs to himself realising that he has been given a blank slate to begin anew.

Siddhartha's journey is one of trial and error. He sets of with the one goal of escaping the ‘ego', the vanquishing of the Self to achieve oneness with the universe, the Brahman. Yes, that sounds a bunch of wish-washy terms strung together to sound fancy. Admittedly, they wouldn't look that great on a resume, or seem out of place in daily conversation. ‘What do you want to do with your life?' ‘Oh, you know, just vanquish the Ego and stuff...and become one with the Universe. Can you pass the ice-cream, please?' Yup. However, let's give the Brahmin kid a break.

To that end, he traces out a path that wavers between two extremes - two opposite paths that might lead to one destination that is his goal. The first path, of course, is the one of renouncing of the worldly wealth, the path of the Samanas, the path of hermits, one of patience and fasting and suffering and simple living to overcome material wants and excesses. The second path, which he embarks upon after meeting Kamala, is directly opposite to his former one: instead of giving up pleasures and possessions, it encourages him to pursue them with active desire. When it turns out that this was not working either, Siddhartha runs away from it too and reaches that dreaded dead-end, suicide. This breakdown is the culmination of another lesson, heralding a new beginning, a clean start.

Siddhartha's mistakes are numerous and his teachers many; from his Samanas, the Buddha, Kamala, Kamaswami, the ferryman, and ultimately the river. His loves, much like his paths and means to the journey of fullfilment, know many faces and forms. At one point in the novel, Siddhartha asserts to Kamala: ‘Maybe people like us cannot love,' and yet in time he himself comes to experience the many aspects of love. He knows platonic love, in relation to his best friend Govinda, brotherly love suffused with profound respect to Vasudeva, romantic love to Kamala, and familial, fatherly but unrequited love to his son.

Conclusion

Compared to other books tackling existential angst such as the likes of The Stranger by Albert Camus, or Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Siddhartha is different in that it is uplifting and somberly optimistic in tone. Hesse's prose is languid and well-written, with a tendency to become simple at times, but not simplistic. The central message of the novel is exemplified in the final meeting of Siddhartha and Govinda, fraught with the difficulty of Govinda seeking to glean understanding from the learning of Siddhartha, and Siddhartha asserting its impossibility: Wisdom cannot be taught. Knowledge can be passed on, but wisdom cannot. That Siddhartha spent his entire life trying to learn it himself, and made many mistakes along the way, but fumbling and falling, made it through, underlies this claim.

Different people will interpret novel differently. Some might think it is trite, some might think it changed their life. It didn't change mine. But it gave me some nice things to think about.

The concept of a Martian - a human being by birth, but in essence, a Martian - rehabilitated on Earth is an arresting idea, and a great canvas. In Heinlein's work, this canvas is mainly coloured through lens of social commentary and a new moral philosophy that became a manifesto for the counter cultural movements of the 60s.

Although divided in 5 main parts, the novel can really be said to be composed of halves. The first half is where the narration is the focus, the story keeps moving and there is a real sense of ‘happening.' The second half lags in terms of action but brings out the core concepts and ideas of the novel in full, successively developing from satire, taking on government and civilisation, to the formulation of a new philosophy which underlined the beginning of the Free Love movement that came in later in the decade.

Typically, Heinlein employs the use of two main characters as the main propogator's of his thought and ideas. They are, of course, Jubal Harshaw and Mike himself.

Sex

The core of Heinlein's philosophy lies in sex, and how sex is perceived and ought to be perceived amongst humanity. When Mike, the man from Mars discovers that human beings share something that has no equivalent in the Martian culture, he is fascinated. On Mars, there is no distinction of ‘male' and ‘female' as such. The female equivalents are mere ‘nymphs', who, by any accounts, do not figure into much prominence. However, as Mike discovers, things are different on Earth. Men and women co-exist. The male and the female are distinct, yet harmonise with each other. Sex is the basis for this harmony, the basis for all humanity. Sex is important. Sex is good.

This is where Heinlein goes a step further for his time; his attitude towards sex in belief and practice were radically different from existing social norms for his time. To Heinlein, and consequently Mike, sex is not a commodity, to be hoarded and practised in the privacy of two individuals behind closed doors. Instead, sex is shared goodness, to be given and taken and exchanged at large. Where Mike comes from, jealousy as a concept does not exist. This lack of jealousy, lack of possessiveness manifest themselves in his attitude towards sex. Because jealousy doesn't exist, polygamy is no problem.

Jubal explains Mike philosophy in contrast with religious indictments. The Bible declares: Though shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife. But this, as Jubal wryly observes, is a natural impossibility. As long as men continue to live, they continue to be subject to their desires, whether physical or otherwise. Mike and his philosophy are exactly opposite. What the Church is saying is don't eye your neighbour's wife, full stop. What Mike is saying is: You want to covet my wife? Take her! And have some good rocking sex while you're at it.

For Mike, sex isn't off-hands and restricted between two people. Love and sex, intertwined as they are, deserve to be shared among people, their goodness shared across all people in the Nest.
Far from something to be ashamed of or to be guilty about, sex was a goodness, to be cherished and enjoyed and shared.

Of course, this is almost a line-by-line blue print of the hippie movement that came in later during the 60s. This book was published much before it happened, and was there just at the right time when it did. The Free Love movement of the 1960s underscores Mike's philosophy.

Heinlein's thesis of religion

While everyone was busy having orgies, it did not escape Heinlein to incorporate commentary on religion as well. This he does through the portrayal of the religious order, the Fosterites, who are of the Christian denomination but differ widely in essentials. While Christians unnecessarily torment themselves with original sin, Fosterites embrace it, accept it, and get ready to put it behind themselves. The ultimate aim of life according to Fosterites is to be happy.

Heinlein criticises Christianity's doublespeak. Christianity and Islam are quick to mete out judgement to their followers, to dictate moral, social, political and sexual rules and judgments to their followers. Yet, at the same time, their scriptures are full of inconsistencies and sexual deviance. A case in point in Lot's offering of his two virgin daughters to a mob banging on his door. Lot trades his young daughters so as to have ‘the mob stop banging on the door.' This is the God who complies with such an act, who rewards this morality while simultaneously frowning upon a million other things. Such a God is a hypocrite.

Fosterism then, as a religion seeks to eliminate this bias, to do away once and for all with the doublespeak and hypocrisy of religion. However, their unabashed glorying in happiness and hedonistic pleasure is initially disquieting to Jubal and Jill.

Conclusion

I can see why Stranger in a Strange land became such a landmark novel when it was published. It must have provoked and outraged and shocked people of its time - it still does today, in certain places and among certain people. However, any hope of life on Mars, our direct neighbour, let alone a civilisation as highly advanced as the one portrayed in the novel, in light of successive Martian expeditions over the decades is rendered unrealistic at best.

There are also some major flaws with the book, most particularly Heinlein's portrayal of women. Women are either shown as passive and ‘go-along-with-what-he's-saying-and-doing', like Miriam, Dorcas and Anne, or manipulative and controlling, like Mrs. Douglas and Patty and, to some extent, Jill. My main gripe with Heinlein was Jill saying, ‘Nine out of ten times, when a woman gets raped, it's her own fault.'

However, all these things considered, the redeeming hallmarks of Stranger are its social commentary and its original ideas about religion and civilisation, which, in the post-60s, post-hippiedom world might strike us as tired and tested, but which were strikingly original and timely for the time it was published in. If you can put aside the 50s-60s attitudinal drawbacks behind, this is a quintessential science fiction read.

Bertrand Russel's mental rigour and eloquence is abundant throughout this book as he writes about things people have taken for granted for centuries, and casts them in an entirely new light.

Whatever your expectations for this book, it will outstrip them. No, that's an understatement. It will take those expectations, multiply them with a factor of 10 or so, take you through 60s England, through the land of schoolboy mischief and lies and heartbreak, show you kindness and compassion along the way, go off on tangents about music and madness and philosophy,and leave you with mad props and respect and love for one Mr. Fry.

For that is the heart of it, of this book and of the writing and all that contained therein: Stephen Fry. Incredibly funny, witty, kind, compassionate, brutally honest and very, very clever.

This is deceptively titled as an autobiography, for it is much, much more than that. Yes, it is a book chronicling the first 20 years of Stephen's life, no doubt - but it is also a book that goes much beyond the life of one schoolboy and into the wild territory of intellectual passions and real world cruelties. Stephen is prone to going off on tangents now and then on anything that tickles his fancy, in the best way possible.


He has more than a way with words, one of the chief reasons why reading this book is such an enjoyable experience. It is a delight to watch Stephen go about anecdotes and essays, conversations and explanations as he weaves his web of verbal dexterity, balances on a trapeze of mental kickbacks and does tricks with words.

Hail Stephen Fry.

I love it when a book leaves me unsure about how to classify it. This book meshes history, religion, politics, and a dash of science fiction. No damn cat, and no damn cradle!

I think that the sense of absurdism is exactly what makes this novel so good (and deeply profound in its own way). If Vonnegut had gone about this book in a way that favoured the serious, heavy approach over the witty, seemingly effortless and light, satirical approach, we would have had another boring old story full of rights and wrongs and and nothing new to offer. It is, instead, irreverent and with liberal helpings of irony and stony, low-key humour. I think that's the greatest thing about Vonnegut: he never takes himself too seriously. And he trusts his readers enough to read into his story without spelling everything out for them.

Of course, I would be a doing this book a disservice by not mentioning Bokononism. It certainly struck me as interesting. I enjoyed the Calypsos, in particular: ‘Tiger got to hunt, bird got to fly; Man got to sit and wonder, ‘Why, why, why?' Tiger got to sleep, bird got to land; Man got to tell himself he understand.' Regarding the philosophy of Bokononism itself, I thought the concept of Fomas - harmless untruths - was a brilliant touch.

In terms of plot, I think the book forgets itself at times and takes liberties on the narrative front. This is partly what makes it much more effective, in my opinion, because that way you're in for several surprises throughout the book. There are things you absolutely do not see coming. We start off with Jonah, and when I first started reading the book I expected it to be about him. But what I found was that the book was more about everything and everyone else - the Hoennikkers and the Castles and Monzanas and Crosbys and Mintons, San Lorenzo, religion, the End of the World - than about Jonah himself. I realised I don't know Jonah at all, except that he loved Mona. And that he was a writer.

The most interesting moments are in the second half of the book, in particular those relating to McCabe and Lionel Boyd Johnson, ‘Papa' Monzano's religion (and that of everybody else in San Lorenzo), and of course, the worms-and-tornadoes-bit - which I absolutely did NOT see coming. At the oubliette part, I was mystified for a moment...Wait, how did we get to this from that?

The End of the World is a topic interesting enough on its own; and, depending on how its handled, a laughably bad or an immensely brilliant basis of the story. This book falls in the latter category: the wonderful thing about Cat's Cradle is that, though the book starts off with the writer documenting the End of the World, it is towards the end that you see the real End coming. And even then, it's not what you would expect.

If you can get over the initial sense of slight incredulity, this book will truly stand out as the brilliant read it is. If you don't take this book too seriously, you will at once get more out of it, and what's more, you will find it profound too. Its deceptively light, not-too-serious tone underlies its real depth and meaning.

[I have a new website where I review awesome books & more! http://unlearner.com]

I wanted to like Ender's Game. I really did. It's a wonder that even after more than halfway into the book, I still clung on to the foolishly optimistic notion that the book would somehow redeem itself. That it would end up justifying the tedious, repetitive, drearily dull chapters I trundled through over the course of several days (which is unusual, since I'm generally a fast reader).

It pains me to say it, as a hardcore fangirl of science fiction, that one of sci-fi's most beloved and highly regarded novels did not do it for me. Actually, that is understating it. While I'm at it, I'll just duck and blurt it out: I loathed Ender's Game.

Deep breaths. Let that sink in. Let the hate flow through you. Good, strike me down...I am unarmed.

Okay. Now let's get to it.

Was it because the expectations I had in my mind were unreasonably high and thus were responsible for ruining the book for me? No way. I make no bones about the fact that Ender's Game, regardless of the respect and popularity it commands in sci-fi circles, is an inherently bad novel.

Why, though, you might ask. Why such vitriol for the book? Here you are, then.

1) Bad plotting: It didn't take me long to realise that after I was past Ender's arrival at the Battle School, every - literally every chapter thereon until his return to Earth - was more or less the same thing. Battle games, beating the shit out of kids, battle games, switching back and forth to Armies, battle games. It was so repetitive that I was exhausted at the end of every.single.chapter. Page after page after page of six year old, seven year old, eight year old Ender and his buddies zooming about in ships trying to freeze one another's socks off. Wheeee!

2) Lack of characterisation: There are no personalities. There are no motivations. You never learn anything about the characters except that they are the good guys or the bad guys. Ender is brilliant at everything. He NEVER loses. Not once. Bernard, Stilson and Co. are the bad guys. They're evil baddies cause dey r jealuz of ender's brilliance omg!!! That's it. No background, no depth, no internal conflicts. No motivation. Words cannot express how two-dimensional and woefully lacking in personality the characters are.

3) Demosthenes and Locke. What the heck was that all about? I appreciate Card's prescience about the ‘Nets' and blogging before it was around, but come on, this is pushing it a bit too far. How, I beg you, how are we supposed to take the idea that a pair of kids end up taking the world by posting in online forums and blogging?

As if we people of the internet didn't have enough delusions of grandeur already. ;)

4) Now, this really gets my goat:I had to wait for the last 20 pages to get information that was of any worth to the story at all. I'm talking about Mazer's Rackham explaning the buggger's communications system to Ender. As for the ‘twist ending': I honestly, and I mean, honestly did not find that riveting. It was predictable and, worse, did not justify all that I had to read to make my way to the end.

5)Also: It was hard to feel for Ender. I say this as a high-school nerd in my own day, as the reviled and hated and made-fun-of socially awkward kid who wanted to be good at whatever they did. But that doesn't make me any more sympathetic to Ender. Honestly, I fail to see what's so great about Ender anyway. I am so infuriated at Card for this. Apart from Ender's claim to intelligence (which is never completely explained, by the way) there is nothing, NOTHING, that is worth justifying him as the protagonist of one of scifi's supposedly best books ever. Yes, he loves his sister Valentine. Yes, he doesn't want to hurt people. Yes, he goes ahead and does it anyway. Again and again. (Ending up murdering two school boys in the process. Uhm, major wtf there.)

I am rarely so caustic about the books I read, but this time I feel I am justified in doing so. I had such hopes for this book. Not impossibly high or anything. At the very least, I had expected to like it, you know? I remember, as I worked my way past chapters 4,5,7,10,14...I expected it to get better. I expected myself to be mistaken at the initial dissatisfaction, then incredulity, then mild annoyance and then a string of sad sighs and resignation to dislike. Alas, I wasn't mistaken. I felt betrayed. I thought this book was right up there with those ‘kindred ones', you know? The sort of books you can come back to again and again. Instead, what I got was a bad plotline, progressively unrealistic plot developments, and a cast of flat, lifeless, unpleasant characters to boot. Ender's Game, how I wish I had loved you. Why did you forsake me thus.

This isn't all the other calculus books out there. In fact, this is a very old book (early 20th century) and it's surprising how accessible it is (I would say, more than today's books). The writer is witty and sympathetic at all times (the first chapter is called ‘To Deliver You From Preliminary Terrors').

I wonder if there lived anyone before and after Carl who could write about science with such poetry. This book is a statement for humanity, the Universe and everyone in it.

Really well-written, extremely clever and at times bitingly funny and sarcastic. This book has pretty strong arguments and looks at the theistic world view through the practical, the historical and the scripture bases. Well drawn out arguments and rebuttals make this one of the defining statements for atheism.

Not in the least because Richard Dawkins, that man knows his shit. It's great to watch him blaze through theist arguments and rip them apart. You know with what? THAT'S RIGHT, WITH SCIENCE. Awwyeah.

John Keats, my darling, my tragic hero, caught in the throes of madness and genius, my love of poetry in person.

His letters are as beautiful and affecting as his poems; he works with words as one would with a musical instrument. His prose is delicious, affecting, intoxicating.


You uttered a half complaint once that I only lov'd your Beauty. Have I nothing else then to love in you but that? Do not I see a heart naturally furnish'd with wings imprison itself with me? No ill prospect has been able to turn your thoughts a moment from me. This perhaps should be as much a subject of sorrow as joy—but I will not talk of that. Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you: how much more deeply then must I feel for you knowing you love me. My Mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it. I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment—upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses. The anxiety shown about our Loves in your last note is an immense pleasure to me: however you must not suffer such speculations to molest you any more: nor will I any more believe you can have the least pique against me.

An excellent collection of essays, letters and other writings about atheism collected by none other than Hitch.

The book is dedicated to Primo Levi:

Dedicated to the memory of Primo Levi (1919–1987) who had the moral fortitude to refuse false consolation even while enduring the “selection”process in Auschwitz:“Silence slowly prevails and then, from my bunk on the top row, I see and hear old Kuhn praying aloud, with his beret on his head, swaying backwards and forwards violently. Kuhn is thanking God because he has not been chosen.Kuhn is out of his senses. Does he not see Beppo the Greek in the bunk next to him, Beppo who is twenty years old and is going to the gas-chamber the day after tomorrow and knows it and lies there looking fixedly at the light without saying anything and without even thinking anymore? Can Kuhn fail to realize that next time it will be his turn? Does Kuhn not understand that what has happened today is an abomination,which no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again?If I was God, I would spit at Kuhn's prayer.”

- Primo Levi, If This Is A Man

Dune. What can I even say about this book except that it's one of the best books I've ever read.

This is a book layered heavily with politics, economics, geology, philosophy, religion and mythology. The term ‘science fiction' alone doesn't do justice to it.

Frank Herbert's writing is splendid as well. I especially enjoyed the internal dialogue technique that he employs to often. It makes me feel like I'm in the head of the characters, hearing their thoughts and experiencing the situation firsthand.

This book is full of great sequences and scenes and characters. How can you not love characters like Thufir Hawat, Jessica, Gurney Halleck, The Duke Leto Atriedes, Stilgar, and even the Baron Harkonnen?

The story is dotted with references and allusions to religion, embedded with philosophical queries and an excellent study in politics and ecology.

I love Dune.

Funny, irreverent, and totally absurd, this book takes the most taken-for-granted and commonplace assumptions about the Universe and twists them, knocking everything on its heard and spinning a nonsensical tale of immense sense.

dear God is this novel a chore. The book is basically just one thing over and over and over again throughout. Poetry reading, getting drunk, fucking. Rinse and repeat.

A novel in epistolary form, this book chronicles the exchange of emails between two Norwegian, now-married individuals who were once adventurous students and ex-lovers. Years run their course and change the lives of these two people, until by chance or fate (that is one of the questions the book tackles) - they meet again. Was their meeting pure chance, or the will of destiny? This and other questions relating to life, the beginning of the Universe, existence, climate change, the existence of God, love, loss, and death are all examined, and talked about at length through the exchange of emails.

A thoughtful read, like most of other Gaarder's work, will make you get out the pencil every now and then because there are some beautiful ideas and expressions you will want to remember.

Sometimes I wonder if Chuck writes purely to shock and not to tell the story, and if that whole shock thing is getting a bit too old for him.

Gets off to a slow start, but once you've left The Shire, you've left the book, the immediate place you are in, all earthly dimensions, and any plans of what you were about to do before you picked up this book. It's pure story telling, and at its best.

I mean, come on...it's freakin LOTR, man.

It's informative (YAY science) but also really well written. Just one of those books that changes your way of looking at the world. Magnificent in scope, perfect in execution. VERY highly recommended.

You ever feel like some books were written especially for you? No, not in the egoist, ‘Aren't-I-Special!' kinda way.

No, it's something else.

As if the author had spun a delightful tale, coloured with all the right jokes, quips and things that make you go ‘Me too!' in the exact right places, filled it with precious, precious characters you wish were real, then added the finishing touches in the form of some great quotes and dialogue, and then lovingly wrapped it in a book form with a ribbon on top and sent it, the little perfect book, wrapped in a khaki brown paper package at your doorstep.

That's what I mean.

This book is the wonderful, lush green land of Avonlea, the school classes, the childhood adventures, the dreams, the hopes, the fears. Anne is a kindred spirit. I have rarely felt such endearing sympathy and fondness for a character as I have with Anne; she is simply wonderful.

Bleak, depressing, and ultimately tragic, this book can be quite the difficult read. The concept of the Tragic Hero is brought out perfectly. Very sad, though.

This was so horrendously bad that I had forgotten all about having read this book. I guess my brain was trying to subconsciously suppress the memory of it. However, my brain, being the way it is, just as well randomly popped this book up at me on a Monday evening, because that is the sort of thing my brain likes to do.

NOTHING about the book you might initially read, see or hear about would remotely suggest the level of bad-ness this book entails. I read this on a recommendation of a friend's, and since then I have been more than wary with recommendations, especially in instances where they involve vapid prose detailing badly written sex scenes as gimmicks.

As for the ‘historical fiction' angle, forget about it. You'd be better off with ‘Let's Learn Numbers!' or ‘My First Book of Alphabet' to get better enlightenment instead.

This is one of those books that are so intense that reading them consumes you. By the time you are done with this book, you will put it down feeling some part of you was taken away and some of the book put back in.

First of all, it is beautifully written. Khaled Hosseini's writing is pure and - although I hate the cliche - it feels like it comes straight from the heart. It's so unpretentious and kind.

Secondly, the characters. The way they develop throughout the book, they take a life of their own. You find yourself becoming anxious at various points in the book, almost holding the breath back in until you're sure the characters are all right. That's powerful story telling right there.

What I also liked about reading this book is that it gave me new insight into the Afghanistan culture. This is my second Khaled Hosseini book, so I had something already to start off with, but it was interesting to get another perspective nevertheless. I've always enjoyed learning about other cultures all that I can, so that is an added bonus.

This is also one of the books to have made me cry. And when that happens, you know you're reading a good book.

My love for this book is endless.

There are in a lifetime only so many books you can read, and out of those fewer are still that make your head their home, that affect you in more ways than one, and that stay with you long after the last page has been turned.

This is one of those books.

This was my first Charlotte Bronte book (who is now one of my favourite authors, and whose work I have since eagerly perused like a kid at a candy store years ago.)

Jane as a character is unbelievable: she just barely manages to contain herself between the covers of the book, at times she threatens to leap out of the paper. That is how splendidly written this book is.

You've heard all too often about a young, lost, upper-middle class 20-something in love with Bombay: the ‘city that never sleeps', a cliche outdone only with old favourite, ‘the spirit of Mumbai.' However, that is not what this book is really about. It's about - well, I'm not really sure what it's about. It clearly revolves around the murder of a famous model shot in a bar, inspired by the real life story of Jessica Lal, who was shot down in a Mumbai bar years ago. But what purpose that sub-plot serves, is beyond me. By the time I finished the book, I wondered why the author had included that whole bit in, as it clearly didn't go anywhere.

There are lots of scenes that seem there to serve as pure shock value more than anything else; done once, it's okay, but as the book progresses on, it quickly gets annoying. This book has its moments with satire, but only in terms of smart-ass cynical quips and one-liners from the characters.

Maybe one star seems too harsh. But if I had to be honest with myself, I really cannot pretend that I didn't dislike this book. After I turned the last page, it left a bitter taste in my mouth, prompted by a sentiment of WTFness and anger that I had spent 500 rupees for this tosh. Darn it.