Tag: goodreads

The Real World

Over the past few weeks, every colleague stopping by my desk would take a look at the book next to me and remark that it was such a classic story. I smiled when it happened for the first time. I had known that, of course.

And yet, as more people said the same thing over and over again, I began to get annoyed. I felt like an idiot because I hadn’t read the book for so long. It was 1984, after all.

The book, and not the year — in case you were wondering.

Now, however, I’m done. I’ve finished reading the book and I feel like kicking myself for not reading it sooner. Nevertheless, the book left me astounded, wondering if there was anything in my life that I think is true is indeed true.

It left me with a deep sense of insecurity and self-doubt. I do realise that it’s fiction, but it oozes reality in so many levels.

I’m a minimalist, but I would never apply the same minimal logic to words and human expression. When it comes to speaking and voicing thoughts, the more ways to say it, the better it is. But here’s what scared me: I agree that we should get rid of stuff that mean no meaning anymore. In that sense, when the concept of freedom itself is no more, it makes sense, in certain sense, to eliminate the word altogether — or forget that we even had such a word. But even to think, for a moment, that we don’t need freedom is a messed-up way of life.

And that’s what the book did to me. It messed me up. It messed with my head, and my ability to cope with the reality of the world. It’s possible that our world would become the next Oceania. The Party is, of course, just a bunch of power-hungry people craving to keep the masses out of their way and the working class in their wake. It’s the reality of every nation in the world. There’s just a tiny tipping point between a real party and the Party. Every day, we hear news of people gone missing, of people rebelling, of the rebels who died in battle, of torture and murder, even suppressed free thought. It’s all happening, each day all around us, right in front of us.

And yet, we call 1984 a fiction. It’s not. It’s our lives. Only, we love the Party too much to realise the truth and think for ourselves. In a world that still penalises people of other beliefs, advocates singularity, and abhors variety in even skin tones and vocal chords, it’s only a matter of time before two plus two become five.

The Tale of a Boy at Sea

Yesterday, I read a unique book that chilled me to the bone. It wasn’t the curious case of an unsolvable mystery, it wasn’t a multi-murder crime thriller, and it wasn’t a sweet romantic proposal story. It was the tale of a young boy stranded at sea for ten days.

It’s not Life of Pi, but I wouldn’t blame you if you had thought so. That book is ever more popular after its movie counterpart. However, the book I just read is “The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor,” and the author is Gabriel García Márquez.

the-story-of-a-shipwrecked-sailor-gabriel-garcia-marquez

It surprised me too. I had never heard of Márquez writing such a book. But I was curious. It was a small book, just about 100 pages. And yet as I held the book in my hands contemplating whether to buy it, all my sense of reality told me I should opt for an ebook, instead, because it would take far less physical space. I asked a friend to help me decide, and he warned me that Amazon would have the same book, for a lower price.

And so when I was almost convinced I shouldn’t buy the book, I flipped the book over and read the epilogue. That’s when I realised: this was Márquez’s first book. That piqued my interest. Besides, the cover was gripping, and it even had a review from The Times that called the narrative, “A gripping tale of survival.” And at that moment, I took a chance. I lost all sense of common sense and decided to go for it. After all, I had nothing to lose.

I’m glad I made the decision. I know I shouldn’t have gone by just the cover of the book, but this is one of those times when the gut and the cover got it right. It’s a simple story, in the first person point of view. A boy in a ship leaves for Colombia after being in port for six months. He set out homewards, to his family and soil he could call his own. In the middle of the sea, however, disaster strikes and all of his shipmates go down. He holds on to a raft and survives the sea—amidst sharks, hallucinations, hunger, and thirst—for ten days. He then makes it to land and becomes a national hero.

It’s typical and predictable in all aspects. But the best part of it is that the author narrates all the typicality and the commonness of it in such a matter-of-fact way, that you can’t help but keep turning the pages. You’d want to know what’s coming, even though your sixth sense tells you it’s nothing great for the hero.

The story reeks of emotion. You feel for the hero. When he stretches his neck looking for land, you stretch with him. When he plunges his hand into the sea trying to catch some fish, you gasp knowing that the sharks are waiting around the corner. When he wonders how shoes taste like, you’ll find yourself imagining the taste on your tongue. And as he tries to pry out the soles of his shoes, you wish you could pry it with him.

It’s an ordinary story, but it gives you an extraordinary experience. I now know why Gabriel García Márquez got a Nobel prize for literature.

Understanding  Metamorphosis

I’m not sure what brought it up, but a colleague mentioned Franz Kafka wrote the saddest stories ever. A pathos fan myself, my interest was piqued. My colleague recommended and lent me the ebook version of Metamorphosis, a supposed stunner.

It was a small book, and I managed to tolerate reading it on a screen. I finished it last night and gave it a two-star rating on Goodreads. And then I scrolled through reviews to see what other readers had said thought about the book. I was stunned; a lot of people had given four or five stars, and words like “wonderful,” “amazing,” “deep,” and “emotional” jumped out at me.

I scratched my head. Huh?

Jack

It was as if they had read a different book altogether. I wondered if my copy had been just the preface, and if there was more to the tale than I had read.

I had expected dramatic change, something that would topple the lives of all the characters. I know all that did happen, still, it was too matter-of-fact, like.

It’s not that I didn’t like the story, but I didn’t see what the big deal was. It was well written, sure. It had an uncanny plot, yes. And an unconventional ending. But other than that, I didn’t feel the sadness ebbing from the words, I wasn’t moved to tears, my eyes didn’t burn, my nose didn’t stream, and my neck didn’t hurt from crouching.

It was a good story with a beautiful narrative. It wasn’t gripping or as sad as I had hoped. Nevertheless, the comments on Goodreads unsettles me. I feel almost inhuman not seeing what’s so intriguing about the book.

Have you read Metamorphosis? Pray tell, what did I miss?

Of Poetry

I’ve always enjoyed poetry. But I never understood reason, until now.

Poetry is

It’s true, people write in poems things they can’t speak of, things that are too personal, things that make us vulnerable, that make us cringe at ourselves, laugh at our stupidity, and scorn at our vanity.

Every poem is a bitter reminder of the truth we’d rather not hear. Every rhythm and every rhyming couplet — from “black wires grow on her head,” to “The old Lie: dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” — every piece of poetry is a whiplash to humanity.

And maybe it’s necessary, to take that serum once in a while, to hit ourselves with a dose of poetry and question everything we ever stand by.

Human Weakness

How often do we find ourselves trying hard to convince people of our intentions? Quite often, in my case.

There’s something so weak about human nature that begs to be understood, to be heard, to be trusted, adored, and — in short — to make sense.

And then I saw this on Pinterest. And it made me question everything.

obligation

Makes sense, huh?