Origin of life, Style of writing, A throbbing city, A book to beware of

Hi!

 

These days, every time I sit down to write a new post on books that I have read, I learn anew the plight of columnists. They have to churn out articles on novel themes unceasingly, week after week. I take heart in the knowledge that for me this is a self-inflicted injury, in an attempt to sate the desire for written word. While, for many columnists it is perhaps a means of livelihood. But the moment I browse through the collection of my book reviews, I am charged with vigour. I experience once again the joys these books provided when I read them first. Ideas sprout spontaneously and the only task of carving these thoughts in words remains. This is arduous but fulfilling too, particularly if in the end I find that my words to some extent reflect the picture I had in mind.

 

 It’s an enviable skill to be able to say in unambiguous and simple words what one wants to say. For long I harboured an ill-conception that a skilful writer can effortlessly produce a prose that reads easy and smooth. As I read greater quantity and wider genre of books, I developed an eye for this kind of writing. Language of these books added a charm that went beyond the newness of the subject matter. I learned about the painstaking process of writing through biographical writings of authors I admire. Even after writing many books and practicing this art for years, writers labour on it regularly each day of their lives in an effort to transform their ideas in words. Though I had learnt to appreciate good prose instinctively through my obsessive reading, I was unaware of the concepts of good writing. Many years back I chanced upon Eric Partridge’s Usage and Abusage. This book introduced me to the nuances of language. But it’s written as a dictionary. It is immensely interesting, informing, and useful, but feels like a reference book. I recently came across few style-books which promise to combine fun with knowledge. This came as a blessing for a diehard reading buff like me who is ignorant of the technicalities of language. Dreyer’s English: An UtterlyCorrect Guide to Clarity and Style is one such fabulous book. It’s a jolly good read and each page is loaded with tips that an ignoramus like me needs in tons. Contrary to common opinion, writing has increased in today’s digital world. None can escape e-mails, messenger, what’s app and hundreds such necessities of daily life. Benjamin Dreyer, the author, is Copy Chief at Random House. I am sure book will add something more than fun to every reader’s life. 

 Astrophysics explained the origin of elements- generated in the core of massive stars like our sun - that go in to making of a living organism. Darwin explained how simple life acquires incremental complexity in eons and gives birth to million different life-forms. But what is it that breathes life into an inert collection of inorganic atoms? How did the lump of dead, lifeless matter acquire the vital spirit of life? Can there be more thrilling quest than this? These seemingly insuperable questions forced thinkers in past, to turn to a supernatural creator as an explanation for the phenomenon of life. A.G. Cairn-Smith’s Seven Clues tothe Origin of Life: A Scientific Detective Story takes these queries head-on, and gives a plausible, though still a speculative, solution. Book is written exceedingly well. Prose shines with its extreme brevity achieved not at the altar of clarity. Book is a must read for all science/philosophy/serious non-fiction buffs. 

 A common refrain of my countrymen is that British came to India to loot us: and nothing is nearer the truth. Disconcerting is the fact that we want to believe that they should have had nobler intentions. British came to India as traders. To profit is trader’s creed. Appalling is the depth of immoral greed  these tradesmen succumbed to. East India Company was a private enterprise, perhaps the first multinational trading corporate of the world. Many British MPs, peers and even the monarchy had vast shares in it. It was not owned by the British government and till early nineteenth centory , English parliament had no say in its running. Rather, parliamentarians connived with Company officials or looked the other way, whenever there was any move in parliament to check the wayward functioning of the Company. British became reluctant rulers of India when a decrepit Mughal empire couldn’t protect their growing business interests. But once they gained power, they saw the immense wealth that rule over India would lay at their feet. William Dalrymple’s Anarchy: The East India Company, Corporate Violence, And the Pillage of An Empire is the rags to riches story of a small trading firm born on a small island Nation that in a century grew to control a major chunk of global trade. It’s a riveting tale narrated in Dalrymple’s inimitable historiography.

 Every city, every town and perhaps every village- I say perhaps because I have not lived in one- is a living creature. It has its own personality which is indelibly imprinted on its every inhabitant. I have lived in many towns and some cities. Life in military is regimented and all cantonments whether in south, east, west or north feel alike. One tastes the flavour of local culture sporadically during visits to the city or in daily interactions with civilians who ease your workaday life. This is a selective exposure. I experienced the vibrant culture of a city that throbs in every activity of daily living only when I quit service. Most of us go through our humdrum existence without appreciating the existence of this hugely alive creature that is our city. Some extra-prescient individuals like Orhan Pamuk immortalise the personality of their cities and a book like Istanbul-Memories and the City results. This is an ingenious book where Orhan Pamuk intermingles his personal memoir with the biography of his city, i.e., Istanbul. It is an inventive way of narrating a memoir. 

 I read about the book in a couple of columns by journalists I like for the content and prose of their writings. I read about it in book-review section of Sunday newspapers: columns that I hate to miss. All were gushing about Udayan Mukherjee’s skills as a story writer. All thought that the book was a grand opening work of a new author. But Wait: not a word of criticism? no failings in plot? isn’t language a bit immature, cliched? Of course, I did not wait. Such absolute praise should have alerted me. Is it possible to achieve perfection in your first book? There have been exceptions and, I had blind faith in the reviewers’ opinion.  The book I talk about is Udayan Mukherjee’s debut novel Dark Circles. To say the book disappointed me would be to say Rahul Gandhi occasionally talks through his hat. Reading it was an unmitigated torture. Book is irredeemably mediocre. I had a hunch that reviewers occasionally do not read a book thoroughly before reviewing it, but just flip through the pages cursorily. This feeling is now a belief. As to why I include it in the post? Two reasons. The loftier one: I want to caution you lest you accidentally fall prey to the lure of this book which has an attractive cover design, some fascinating blurbs, and is a slim little hardback. And the mean, perhaps truer, reason: I am a little bored writing only about books that I had rated three star and more. Incidentally, I rated this book one, the only book in my list that has this distinction.