I read (in translation, I am afraid), a book called The House of Kanooru. Its by Kuvempu, who is an acclaimed Kannada author who featured in our school text books extensively. Girish Karnad wrote the foreword, and I think there is a movie called Kanooru Heggadithi Subbamma or some such, by Karnad. I loved the book. It took me back to my growing up days (its set a little while prior to the 70s, which was when I was born, incidentally, but..). It speaks of this community of landowners, and how they changed and evolved. There were parts which were repetitive and sort of not chronologically sequenced, I thought, but overall the translation seemed to have worked well. Not that I can ever know, being incapable of reading a novel through in Kannada (believe me, I have tried many times).
Yes, Anita Nair. I like her writing, generally. Lessons in Forgetting, this one was called. A nice read for middle aged aunties like myself, if I may say so. What did I get out of it? Well, we rock. We middle aged aunties can be, all at the same time, independent, sexy, excellent parents, daughters, and lovers. Good stuff. I know, that sounds totally like a negative criticism of the book, perhaps it is, I don't know. You know I don't do book reviews. I just say some of the things I think about when I read a book. So, that.
Somehow it has been a fortnight of not liking anything I read, too much. Kafka on the shore. Murakami is definitely a favourite. I would buy up all his books in one fell swoop if I did not think they are too expensive - I mean for the paperback versions in that tiny, ant-like print on that gray paper. There are good moments in the book, for sure. But, overall, a bit too much about cats, for my liking. Perhaps its aimed at cat lovers. I don't know.
Somehow, yesterday at Landmark, despite the fantabulously insane sale thats going on, I was quite restrained. I don't know, perhaps its the irritation with the sheer number of things that are lying around the house. Small things. Things with no specific location for storage. I did not feel like adding several books to that pile (books are anyhow the worst of the lot, most especially the monkey's). But, luckily, the husband chose to have himself an orgy. Which included a good number of things that I would read. Do you know that we both have separate book shelves? He has his books, I have mine. I totally avoid all his, and for the most part, its vice versa as well. For e.g., he does not do LOTR (Oh! The blasphemy!), thinks Rushdie is an idiot, hates Naipaul for his comments about India, etc. We intersect somewhat at Amitav Ghosh, he likes him. We have a bunch of titles that work fine with the both of us (English, August comes to mind), but mostly we are complementary sets. Oh! The best example is that he likes Tintin better, and I, Asterix, any day! So anyway, it was nice of him to pick up a bunch of 'My' books. While I did the same for the child (and hid everything away, for a rainy day).
(And, for some strange reason I cannot fathom, I am drinking a Diet Coke now. My teeth are going to hate me for this, but I occasionally drink a sprite, a coke, a 7-up, of late. The fact that I can do this without breaking into hiccups is a big achievement, really).