Category: books

I don’t know if it would be unwise of me to consider this book underrated based merely on the fact that I know only two other people who have read it. I’ve a suspicion that the arts community at my university is a bit of a Carter-not-reading pocket, just like it is a Pratchett-reading pocket, which makes me sad because Carter is one of the best female authors I have read. She’s perhaps the only female author I’m genuinely fond of, someone who can write chaos and humour and sadness at the same time.

Wise Children was the first Carter novel I read, a couple of years ago from a tattered BCL copy (which I nevertheless failed to locate at the next BCL Book Bazaar). It is written in the backdrop of burlesque and early Hollywood and a lot of old-world glamour and a lot of Shakespeare. There are a lot of excellent music references. Since no one has made a film out of the book yet, I collected all the music individually and compiled them into a fictitious album, which has been one of the most happy-making albums I’ve owned till date.

A book that is sad and moving and deeply beautiful. Rife with guilt and anguish, but more memorably, never have I read an author who writes music so effectively into text.

If I was given another choice I’d have included Norwegian Wood in this post (and now I have). It bothers me somewhat that both of these are novels of memory, loss and isolation, and that both of them anchor back to the time at college. I have one year left of college. I wonder if my selections are trying to say something I do not (yet) acknowledge.

All I can say about The Master and Margarita is that it’s an absolute, unbelievable, pants-charming-off delight; and once again my words fall greatly short of describing the brilliance of a book to anyone who hasn’t read it.

First read in a lonely hotel room in Bangalore years ago while I struggled to clear my head of confusion and undeserved transferred guilt, this novel is a bit of a carnival featuring lovers, writers, historical figures, the Devil, a giant black cat, Jesus Christ, Pontius Pilate and layers, layers, layers, layers. It’s funny and clever and ruthless and heartbreaking. It’s a riot. It manages to suck me right in even on my worst days and fill me up to here with wonder and awe. If there was no other book in the world and only this, you wouldn’t find me complaining one bit.

It is quite unfair to ask me to pick my favourite Discworld book. I’ve read them for too long and under too many moods, I’ve grown up with them and returned to certain books one or two years later to discover entirely different points of joy. The world of the series is too large and diverse. There are too many characters and too many trajectories, and I have my favourites among all of them. I don’t know how to choose one over the others, so I’ll make up this post with the two books that I’ve gone back most often to read. These would be:

Both are Ankh-Morpork books and by listing them I feel I’m doing injustice to the Ramtops witches, to Death, and even to Rincewind and the wizards of the Unseen University. Too many excellent characters and stories are being left out. If you haven’t read Discworld, this post and the last will do no justice to it at all.
On the other hand, if you have, let this be my opportunity to entreat you to wear lilac two days from now in honour of Truth, Justice, Reasonably Priced Love and (not to forget) A Hard-Boiled Egg.

There was a time when the only attraction of going to the library was to borrow a new Discworld book. (School texts and other ‘necessary’ books were only the veneer.) This could be an entirely Discworld meme instead and I would’ve had no difficulty in filling it up at all.

What can I write about this series? I’ve often started and then backed away from trying to analyze it; I’ve tried to write fanfic and been hit by serious inferiority complex; and anyway, more or less all the intelligent people I know have read most of the books. I’m tempted to fill this post with pictures, since I love Paul Kidby‘s illustrations almost as much as I love the books themselves. (But if I begin with pictures, this post will never end.) Never have I suffered from a worse ‘literary anxiety’ than Pratchett’s Alzheimer’s. Never have I so constantly prayed that anyone should write one more book before he gives up for good. (The ‘one more book’ wish keeps being extended, of course. The next book — called Snuff — is to be published in October and I can hardly keep myself calm! A Vimes story! The cover is already out!) The day there will be no more Discworld to look forward to will be the day I’ll be truly, completely sad. Like all great anticipated tragedies, I try not to think about it or believe it will actually come.