The human of fiction You cannot separate literature from human condition. Skilful writers give words to the story that we call life. I cannot recall one great work of fiction that is divorced from life. Rather, the more elaborate the association, richer is the story. Spy fiction, a genre of literature, has espionage as its major context, around which is woven the plot. It came of age in early twentieth century – an era of major conflicts among foremost world-powers. Espionage, the machinations of state-craft in international relations, appears distant from the run-of-the-mill vicissitudes that make the life of a common man. Ian Fleming, who had worked in the British Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, was the most celebrated writer of this genre. James Bond, Fleming’s prodigiously popular protagonist, is farther from a real person, than Paneer Manchurian is from a Chinese dish. Fleming’s novels are as much about the life of their characters as mythology is about history. Realistic ...

Desire to live long has agitated human heart for ever. Our myths are built around the immortality of gods in heaven and the transience of life on earth. In their longing for an unending life our ancestors adorned their gods with preposterous life spans. A day in Brahma’s life, Kalpa, comprised 4.32 billion earth-years. This was followed by a night of similar length, Pralaya. Humans are the only animals aware of their mortality. By being aware I mean, we, unlike any other animal, can vividly imagine a future where we would not be around. To preserve life is an instinct of every living organism. But none can imagine the scenario of their own demise. Prospection, an ability to look into the future world, is a unique human attribute. The prospect of death, magnificently illustrated by our foresight, is inconceivably disturbing. Longing to live for ever is born of this fear. Death is negation of living. It is the irrevocable end of everything that a life represented – a companion, a spo...

Cultures across the world find innocence an endearing aspect of personality. This is innocence in its meaning of ‘freedom from guile or cunning,’ a synonym for simplicity. But Innocence is also a euphemism for foolish naivety.   Graham Greene says in his 1956 novel The Quiet American  that in life one needs to be as much wary of innocence as of duplicity. I read the book more than two decades ago. I found in the character of the protagonist, a most skillful portrait of innocence ever drawn in literature. Over the years, details of the plot vanished from memory, but the poignance, the humour, and the tragedy of Alden Pyle remained and rose occasionally, whenever I came across similar themes in my readings. I read the book again, a few days back. My opinion that this is one of Greene’s finest was reaffirmed. Greene was war-correspondent of The Times , based in Vietnam in 1951-1954. He drew extensively on his experiences to lend verisimilitude to his story. The 1956 novel, ...

Words lie inert on the pages of a book. Process of reading breathes life into them – and the inanimate squiggle of ink on paper wakes up with vigour. Sensibilities and idiosyncrasies of a reader endow the same book with various lives in the minds of different readers. I am often astounded to discover that books which moved me to peaks of ecstasy or depths of gloom, have fallen off the conscience of other readers like water off a duck’s back. Way of looking at the world is shaped by our nature. No two natures are alike. Hence, a book cannot evoke mirror worlds in different minds. Reading a book is an experience like all else in life. Except that it is intensely personal, often involves heightened emotions and feelings, and changes the reader a little, although, only occasionally, and perhaps transiently. Philosophers and physicists do not accord time a prime role in a material world, but the world unfolds in our consciousness on a melody set by time. We experience life in its in...

Reading is a solitary pursuit. It thrives in seclusion. For decades, books have filled my solitude with boundless joys as I sought both - books and solitude - with a perseverance an addict reserves for his fix. Ironically, this lonely indulgence also seeks like-minded people to share the pleasures of the written word, to hear contrary opinions, to be told subtle interpretations that escaped one, and to learn about the books one has not come across. Alas, such company is difficult to come by. This utter deprivation is often suffocating. Literature festivals have become popular in India for some years now. A decade ago, one heard only of the Jaipur Literature Festival, and that too sporadically. Now, there is one in almost every state. Come winter and there is a buzz among book-lovers, which I witness on the media, as one city after another announces its show. These gatherings seemed the right recipe to stimulate, nurture, and sate my craving for the book-talk that I sought in vain, ar...