shivspot

I don't live here anymore

2010-08-09T09:33:00.000+05:30

I've shifted my blog to wordpress. Click here.

My Hobbes gone

2009-08-10T00:40:00.008+05:30

My 6-year-old niece has decamped to Abu Dhabi with my trusted partner and confidant (pictured below, in happier times).

Ode to a turd

2009-08-07T15:40:00.006+05:30

John Updike, my favourite author, wrote about adultery, sex and suburban angst with a whole new perspective. He also wrote a remarkable poem about human excrement.

The Beautiful Bowel Movement

Though most of them aren’t much to write about—
mere squibs and nubs, like half-smoked pale cigars,
the tint and stink recalling Tuesday’s meal,
the texture loose and soon dissolved—this one,
struck off in solitude one afternoon
(that prairie stretch before the late light fails)
with no distinct sensation, sweet or pained,
of special inspiration or release,
was yet a masterpiece: a flawless coil,
unbroken, in the bowl, as if a potter
who worked in this most frail, least grateful clay
had set himself to shape a topaz vase.
O spiral perfection, not seashell nor
stardust, how can I keep you? With this poem.

It was time for a haircut

2009-07-27T18:45:00.005+05:30

We were sitting for a family dinner when my 6-year-old niece pipes up.

"Uncle, can I tell you something?"

"Yes, dear."

"You look like a joker."

On rereading Hemingway

2009-03-26T07:31:00.005+05:30

Simple words.
Short, declarative sentences.
Tough, terse prose.

Holy Union

2009-03-04T10:56:00.004+05:30

Madonna has a new boyfriend. Jesus.

Marisa

2009-02-23T06:48:00.010+05:30

According to Wall Street Journal, actresses who play strippers or hookers stand a better chance of winning an Academy Award.

Here's why:
Historically, there have been fewer edgy roles for women, and the world's oldest profession -- prostitution - offers a natural corollary to another time-tested role, the male criminal. Another reason: Inherently flawed characters, who possess what some might see as mental, moral or physical imperfections, make for more courageous acting performances.

Which makes Marisa Tomei a front runner today.

And I hope she wins.

Not just because she is beautiful, sexy, talented and a radiant presence.

But because it takes a rare courage to strip and deliver a standout performance, in movie after movie.

Will it end today?

2009-02-23T06:30:00.008+05:30

This Slumdog brouhaha is getting on my nerves.
I will have a paralytic seizure if I hear 'Jai Ho' one more time.

2008-09-23T06:27:00.001+05:30

It didn't work for me.

Self-description?

2008-08-18T07:55:00.003+05:30

A passage in J. M. Coetzee's 'Youth'

He has to sit down and write, that is the only way. But he cannot begin writing until the moment is right, and no matter how scrupulously he prepares himself, wiping the table clean, positioning the lamp, ruling a margin down the side of the blank page, sitting with his eyes shut, emptying his mind in readiness – in spite of all this, the words will not come to him. Or rather many words will come, but not the right words, the sentence he will recognize at once, from its weight, from its poise and balance, as the destined one.

He hates these confrontations with the blank page, hates them to the extent of beginning to avoid them. He cannot bear the weight of despair that descends at the end of each fruitless session, the realization that again he has failed. He is well aware that his failure as a writer and his failure as a lover are so closely parallel that they might as well be the same thing. Unless he wills himself to act, nothing will happen, in love or in art. But he does not trust the will. Just as he cannot will himself to write but must wait for the aid of some force from outside, a force that used to be called Muse, so he cannot simply will himself to approach a woman without some intimation that she is his destiny.

Accident

2008-04-28T23:31:00.003+05:30

The best part of my day: Smoking in the autorickshaw taking me to office.
The worst part: Hot cigarette ash hits the driver's eye.

G. K. Chesterton via Shekhar

2008-02-11T12:11:00.000+05:30

Some comments don't deserve to languish as footnotes. They merit a post. Thank you Shekhar.

"Fairy Tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."

Writing is useless

2008-02-09T18:11:00.001+05:30

I didn't write this. Paul Auster did and it appeared in the Guardian a few years ago.

I don't know why I do what I do. If I did know, I probably wouldn't feel the need to do it. All I can say, and I say it with utmost certainty, is that I have felt this need since my earliest adolescence. I'm talking about writing, in particular, writing as a vehicle to tell stories, imaginary stories that have never taken place in what we call the real world. Surely it is an odd way to spend your life - sitting alone in a room with a pen in your hand, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, struggling to put words on pieces of paper in order to give birth to what does not exist - except in your head. Why on earth would anyone want to do such a thing? The only answer I have ever been able to come up with is: because you have to, because you have no choice.

This need to make, to create, to invent is, no doubt, a fundamental human impulse. But to what end? What purpose does art, in particular the art of fiction, serve in what we call the real world? None that I can think of - at least not in any practical sense. A book has never put food in the stomach of a hungry child. A book has never stopped a bullet from entering a murder victim's body. A book has never prevented a bomb from falling on innocent civilians in the midst of war.

Some like to think that a keen appreciation of art can actually make us better people - more just, more moral, more sensitive, more understanding. Perhaps that is true - in certain rare, isolated cases. But let us not forget that Hitler started out in life as an artist. Tyrants and dictators read novels. Killers in prison read novels. And who is to say they don't derive the same enjoyment from books as everyone else?

In other words, art is useless, at least when compared, say, to the work of a plumber, or a doctor, or a railroad engineer. But is uselessness a bad thing? Does a lack of practical purpose mean that books and paintings and string quartets are simply a waste of our time? Many people think so. But I would argue that it is the very uselessness of art that gives it its value and that the making of art is what distinguishes us from all other creatures who inhabit this planet, that it is, essentially, what defines us as human beings.

To do something for the pure pleasure and beauty of doing it. Think of the effort involved, the long hours of practice and discipline required to become an accomplished pianist or dancer. All the suffering and hard work, all the sacrifices in order to achieve something that is utterly and magnificently ... useless.

Fiction, however, exists in a somewhat different realm from the other arts. Its medium is language, and language is something we share with others, that is common to us all. From the moment we learn to talk, we begin to develop a hunger for stories. Those of us who can remember our childhoods will recall how ardently we relished the moment of the bedtime story, when our mother or father would sit down beside us in the semi-dark and read from a book of fairy tales.

Those of us who are parents will have no trouble conjuring up the rapt attention in the eyes of our children when we read to them. Why this intense desire to listen? Fairy tales are often cruel and violent, featuring beheadings, cannibalism, grotesque transformations and evil enchantments. One would think this material would be too frightening for a young child, but what these stories allow the child to experience is precisely an encounter with his own fears and inner torments in a perfectly safe and protected environment. Such is the magic of stories - they might drag us down to the depths of hell, but in the end they are harmless.

We grow older, but we do not change. We become more sophisticated, but at bottom we continue to resemble our young selves, eager to listen to the next story and the next, and the next. For years, in every country of the Western world, article after article has been published bemoaning the fact that fewer and fewer people are reading books, that we have entered what some have called the 'post-literate age'. That may well be true, but at the same time, this has not diminished the universal craving for stories.

Novels are not the only source, after all. Films and television and even comic books are churning out vast quantities of fictional narratives and the public continues to swallow them up with great passion. That is because human beings need stories. They need them almost as desperately as they need food and however the stories might be presented - whether on a printed page or on a television screen - it would be impossible to imagine life without them.

Still, when it comes to the state of the novel, to the future of the novel, I feel rather optimistic. Numbers don't count where books are concerned, for there is only one reader, each and every time only one reader. That explains the particular power of the novel and why, in my opinion, it will never die as a form. Every novel is an equal collaboration between the writer and the reader and it is the only place in the world where two strangers can meet on terms of absolute intimacy.
I have spent my life in conversations with people I have never seen, with people I will never know and I hope to continue until the day I stop breathing.

It's the only job I've ever wanted.

Dredging up some old stuff

2008-02-04T09:04:00.000+05:30

Years ago, I saw a Kierkegaard-loving, English-spouting vagrant on the streets of Trivandrum. I was transfixed by a thought: with luck, I would probably end up like him.

He was sitting on the road by the side of a wall. His tattered clothes were black with grime and skin scarred with lesions. His matted hair shook as he frenetically wrote on the wall with a piece of charcoal.

Street tramps usually drew pictures of gods from Hindu mythology. Angry gods in bright colors. Or scenes from crucifixion of Christ. Searing pain, despair and redemption.

Soon some local toughs came and chased away the man. He ran gracefully, smiling, without a backward glance. I could see his words now. KISS THE FISH. I KISS ALL THE BUSES.

A few days later I saw him scribbling on a wall near my home. ANIMAL LEATHER - UNPLEASANT, PLASTIC - SOUND. His cryptic messages soon appeared all over the city.

I last saw him at the city centre, running away when a crowd collected to read his scrawl.

WHAT IS YOUR AMBITION, DREAM?
MILK?
LSD?
$?

I stood there for a long time.

High Hopes

2008-01-02T13:27:00.000+05:30

In 2007, I flitted between jobs, pissed away all my money, didn't write a single word for the book I was planning to write, searched in vain for a girlfriend, pissed away all my money (where did it all go?), acquired a potbelly and thought I had a terminal disease.

I hope 2008 will be as exciting as 2007.

A lyrical gift

2007-12-31T16:24:00.000+05:30

On every New Year’s Eve, I would send a poem to my friends. Poems by Mallarme and Bukowski for bold, creative pals. Poems by Maya Angelou, Anna Akhmatova and Adrienne Rich for the few female friends on my mailing list. Poems by Kabir and Blake for the spiritually inclined. Wallace Stevens or Robert Frost (‘The Road not Taken’) for my boss. And for introducing a neophyte to the magic of poetry - ‘This is just to say’ by William Carlos Williams.

The response was tepid. No one replied. No one wrote in to say they were touched. Perhaps, they felt I was being too pretentious. Perhaps, I was. I stopped mailing poems.

But the habit has stuck and I still feverishly scour poetry books on New Year’s Eve (this is good, since I rarely dip into poetry for the rest of the year).

Right now, I am wading through a lot of stuff by Arthur Rimbaud, the boy genius. Here’s a simple one from his amazing oeuvre.

A Sleeper in the Valley

A green hole where a river sings;

Silver tatters tangling in the grass;

Sun shining down from a proud mountain:

A little valley bubbling with light.

A young soldier sleeps, lips apart, head bare,

Neck bathing in cool blue watercress,

Reclined in the grass beneath the clouds,

Pale in his green bed showered with light.

He sleeps with his feet in the gladiolas.

Smiling like a sick child, he naps:

Nature, cradle him in warmth: he's cold.

Sweet scents don't tickle his nose;

He sleeps in the sun, a hand on his motionless chest,

Two red holes on his right side.

Burton is Back

2007-12-21T10:03:00.000+05:30

‘Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street’, the movie version of a hit play by Stephen Sondheim, is going to hit the screens soon and I can’t help but wonder whether Shekhar will jump for joy. It has everything to whet his cinematic appetite: Tim Burton + Johnny Depp + Musical + Victorian Milieu.

I find it interesting for another reason (since I hate musicals) - it seems to be a slasher movie with revenge as its central motif. Blood will be spilt, throats will be slashed and vengeance will be served. Truth be told, I am excited by the promise of such gratuitous violence.

AO Scott gave it a glowing endorsement in the NY Times. The concluding paras of his review:

It may seem strange that I am praising a work of such unremitting savagery. I confess that I’m a little startled myself, but it’s been a long time since a movie gave me nightmares. And the unsettling power of ‘Sweeney Todd’ comes above all from its bracing refusal of any sentimental consolation, from Mr. Burton’s willingness to push the most dreadful implications of Mr. Sondheim’s story to their blackest conclusions.

‘Sweeney Todd’ is a fable about a world from which the possibility of justice has vanished, replaced on one hand by vain and arbitrary power, on the other by a righteous fury that quickly spirals into madness. There may be a suggestion of hopefulness near the end, but you don’t see hope on the screen. What you see is as dark as the grave. What you hear — some of the finest stage music of the past 40 years — is equally infernal, except that you might just as well call it heavenly.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

2007-12-20T04:44:00.000+05:30

In all these years, I had seen only two movies directed by Truffaut.

In ‘Soft Skin’ (La peau douce), the married protagonist has a reckless affair with a young air hostess. In the movie’s stunning climax, his wife takes a gun, corners him at a Parisian cafe and shoots him dead.

In ‘The Woman Next Door’ (La femme da cote), the married protagonist has a reckless affair with his neighbour’s wife. In the movie’s stunning climax, this woman takes out a gun and shoots him in the head.

You will therefore understand my trepidation when I rented out Truffaut’s ‘Confidentially Yours’ (Vivement dimanche) from the video store. I crossed my fingers and hoped for the best.

I didn't have to wait till the end.

A man is shot dead in the opening scene. The protagonist’s wife was having an affair with the dead guy.

Some More

2007-12-20T02:35:00.000+05:30

My eyes are almost popping out. I am groggy in the mornings. My computer hardware is making an awful racket. But I am not giving up. There are movies and movies to be seen before I go to sleep.

The Sting
Eyes of Laura Mars
Absence of Malice
Eros
Sicko
After the Wedding
Rio Das Mortes
Razor’s Edge

Confidentially yours

Home Theatre

2007-12-14T20:10:00.000+05:30

I feel uncomfortable going to film festivals these days. Not for the obvious reasons though. No, the films being screened haven’t plumbed new depths in tackiness. And no, my passion for the medium hasn’t fizzled out. On any given day, I would have rushed out in my lungi and tattered chappals to catch the latest Almodovar retrospective.

Well, not any more.

Because it’s getting too crowded for comfort. Because way too many people are thronging the theatres. Because I feel woozy and claustrophobic in a jam-packed hall, where everyone sits cheek by jowl.

Watching a film is a very intimate experience, like having sex, reading a book or taking a crap. You need privacy, spatial comfort and the right ambience to make it enjoyable. How can you decipher the complex motifs in Lars Von Trier’s latest offering when somebody is breathing on your neck? Or make sense of a Robert Bresson movie when the guy sitting next to you has his knee fused to your thigh? Every time you fidget, you must perform a delicate ballet with your limbs. It’s too distracting.

So lately, I settle for the next best thing. DVDs.

Yesterday, I picked up a dozen films from my local video store for binge viewing (I am back in favour there after returning the DVD of ‘Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi’, after precisely one year). The list is eclectic, nothing high-brow, well, except for the Bergman, and it’s mostly stuff that I have seen ages ago.

El Mariachi
All the President’s Men
Cries and Whispers
The Last King of Scotland
Bittermoon
Mons Tresor
Dharavi
Khosla ka Ghosla
A Few Dollars More
Nacho Libre
Knocked Up
Ran

Ensconced in a cosy chair, I stretch my legs, light a cigarette, sip from a flask of black coffee and settle for a night of uninterrupted cine-fest. It doesn’t get better than this.

Love song, bollywood style

2007-12-13T04:30:00.000+05:30

I was trawling through youtube for some ‘time-pass’ entertainment when I came across a salacious b-grade bollywood song sequence. The bump and grind routine was raunchy enough but the English subtitles proved to be more interesting. Here’s the unabridged version:

Hold me. Touch me. Be mine.
I want to be with you. Yeah!
Put your embrace in my embrace.
Put them. Put them.
Break it. Break it.
This body!
It is burning. It is burning.
A spark burns somewhere.
Come on. Come on.
Extinguish this yearning.
Kiss it. Kiss it.
Kiss my lips with yours.
Let it be. Let it be, this unison!
The yearnings of the heart have started increasing.
My body has started subtle dances.
The intoxication of heart has started deepening.
Let it happen if some mistakes are occurring.

Gift

2007-12-06T05:46:00.000+05:30

A little voice disturbs my reverie.
“Did you bring anything for me?”
“No.”
A reproachful silence.
“Sorry. I was busy. I forgot.”
“Will you buy something now?”
“How about a Cadbury?”
“I don’t want chocolate.”
“Then?”
“Toy.”
“What toy?”
“A cow on wheels.”
“A cow?”
“Yes.”
“I will try.”
“Today?”
“Next week.”
“Why?”
“It’s not easy to get a cow.”
“If you don’t get a cow, buy a giraffe.”
“Of course.”

Later, my 5 year old niece tells her grandmother, “Sunil uncle is not a nice person. He didn’t even bring me a gift from Chennai.”

Sunil is losing sleep

2007-10-18T20:37:00.000+05:30

Meenakshi, your comment was a nice wake up call.

Sunil has indeed gone somewhere.
Sunil is now in Chennai, the city of bad sewers and really bad lodges.
Sunil can't sleep at night because he misses his parents and friends. Yes, even though he is 30 years old.
Sunil can't sleep because his bed is infested with bugs and other creatures of the night.
So Sunil comforts himself with some new books and old port wine.
Yet, Sunil is lonely. Tired. And a bit melodramatic (which is why he is writing like this).

Look at him, savouring one last moment of triumph in Trivandrum. Searching for the meaning of life in a can of Pepsi.

Silly Sunil.

12 hours ago

2007-10-07T12:36:00.000+05:30

Saturday night at office. It's nearly midnight and we are a wee bit sozzled. The guy sticking out his tongue at the camera is Smithesh.

I laugh a lot these days. Not because I am happy. But just to keep myself sane.

5 Favourite Sounds

2007-10-01T16:21:00.000+05:30

1. The rustle of a woman’s dress. Especially a saree.

2. The soothing gurgle of a small stream.

3. The yowl of a strong wind.

4. The rumble of a goods train at 3 am at night (I live close to a railway station).

5. I can’t tell you. You will think I am a pervert.

"Sunil? Oh, he is such a nice person."

2007-09-26T00:07:00.000+05:30

Is there a cure for being nice?
I am sick of being nice.
The next time somebody calls me a nice person, I will wring their neck.
I want to go back and live my life all over again.
I want to flirt shamelessly.
Beginning, preferably, when I am in the 5th standard.
I will rain my rascally charm on all the girls in my school.
Seduce those hot aunties who haunted my childhood.
I will either be a laughing stock or a Casanova.
But I won’t straddle the middle ground.
I won’t settle for being nice.
I will pilfer my favourite books from the library.
I will collar the next auto driver who overcharges me.
I will say no to people, just for the vicarious pleasure of saying it.
I will mercilessly disparage those who disagree with me.
I will forever live in sin, bless me lord.
I will be an asshole personified.
But I will never ever be a ‘nice person’.
Give me 'bad guy', any day.

Some Old Guinness Stuff

2007-09-25T16:59:00.000+05:30

More power to women. Who drink. Moderately.

I flunked my Engineering Graphics exam 6 times in a row. I might have passed it in flying colours, if my Professor had explained terms like plan and elevation with help of the poster below.

Reading

2007-09-18T17:07:00.000+05:30

I loved the cover by Paul Hogarth.

Food for Thought

2007-09-17T12:56:00.000+05:30

My hyperactive, 5 year old niece has an interesting routine these days.

She tears the front pages of Hindu and Times of India into small bits. Puts it into a small brass pot (a living room showpiece that looks like a sauce pan).

She uses a pencil as a ladle and stirs the mixture. Makes the sound of steam whistles to indicate that cooking is in progress.

Finally, she brings it to me and says, “Chicken Curry.”

To humour her, I pretend to eat the morning news.

She is happy.

If you’re going to try

2007-09-13T17:35:00.000+05:30

Bukowski was a committed alcoholic. He was also dead serious about his writing. He wrote at night, with booze in one hand, smokes in the other, classical music on the radio, typing away to escape from what he termed the horror show called life.

Watch 'Factotum'. It ends with this nice little epitaph from him.

If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don’t even start.

This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs, and maybe your own mind.

It could mean not eating for three or four days.

It could mean freezing on a park bench.

It could mean jail.

It could mean derision.

It could mean mockery. Isolation.

Isolation is the gift. All the others are tests of your endurance.

Of how much you really want to do it.

And you’ll do it, despite rejection in the worst odds. And it’ll be better than anything else you can imagine.

If you’re going to try, go all the way.

There’s no other feeling like that.

You will be alone with the gods and the nights will flame with fire.

You’ll ride life straight to perfect laughter.

It’s the only good fight there is.

Smell

2007-09-07T22:24:00.000+05:30

Quaffed some whisky yesterday. The label said 8 PM but my gut told me it was adulterated.

When I get up in the morning the sour smell of the whisky is still on me.

My breath reeks of whisky.

I am belching whisky fumes.

Even my piss stinks of bad whisky.

I must stick to my preferred poison. My neat, fragrance-free, tipple of choice: Vodka.

Eat Drink Man Woman

2007-08-28T02:09:00.001+05:30

I was searching for clips from Ang Lee's new movie 'Lust, Caution', when I came across this opening sequence from one of his earlier works. This is the most delicious opener I have ever seen. Forget the fish and chicken, even the frogs look appetising.

I will leave you with a reference from Wikipedia. "The title (of the movie) is an old expression elaborating two main desires in human nature - to eat and drink and to have sex".

PS: I don't think women will agree.

I am back

2007-08-22T16:45:00.000+05:30

I feel relatively good in the morning.
I shave and bathe after three days.
Washing away the grime and bad vibes.
Smiling again.
The cough monster is still lolling in my throat.
But I forget about him.
Because I've got plans.
First office.
Then to Chaitram for the Payasam mela.
To gulp down every variety of that hot, heavenly stuff.
Of course, I will scald my tongue.
And it will spike my blood sugar and make me drowsy.
But what the heck.
I live for sweet moments like this.

Fever

2007-08-19T18:04:00.000+05:30

I have a raging fever on Saturday.
My body temperature shoots up.
I feel delirious.
Coughing spasms rack my body.
When I spit into the basin, the sputum is speckled with something red.
Is it blood?
Shit.
The atheist in me takes flight.
God, I pray, let this not be a tumour; or cancer; or anything terminal.
I will do anything.
I will give up smoking.
No more cigarettes for me.
Isn’t that a great sacrifice?
Will you spare me now?
God, are you fucking listening?

All time favourite Hindi Song 2

2007-08-15T23:19:00.001+05:30

This is not a song. This is an acid trip. This is what you dream when you get stoned. Revolving porcupine balls. Neon light tunnels. Golden skin suit. I don’t know from which 80’s disco hit Bappi Lahiri ripped this tune, but it sounds good.

Interestingly, the film (in-between the songs) evokes a completely different response. I first watched Namak Halal when I was 8 years old. I still haven’t recovered from that tragic experience.

All time favourite Hindi Song 1

2007-08-15T23:18:00.001+05:30

I love this Asha Bhonsale, Bappi Lahiri song.

There’s Parveen Babi looking like a million bucks in that shiny, tight black number. Playing the cool and enigmatic seductress. Check out her Clinic Plus Sunsilk hair. See the way she literally glides across the floor? She can’t dance at all, but who cares?

Then there’s the suspense. Will Shashi Kapoor fall through the trapdoor? (And save us the embarrassment of watching him dance) Will Amitabh save him? What about Parveen’s mummy who is being held hostage? What will those pantyhose villains do next? Will Ranjit die of emphysema? (Poor fellow is chain-smoking in all songs).

Tension. Tension.

Girls

2007-08-13T16:19:00.000+05:30

For my return journey from Chengannur, I buy a ticket for Kerala Express. Dash to a nearby bar and imbibe just enough vodka to make me sober. Catch the train with just minutes to spare.

Surprise. It’s full of girls.

One sits opposite to me. Young, dark, petite, in a pinkish salwar. She is perspiring slightly, making her burnished skin glow. After a while, she puts her feet on my seat, close to my leg. When the train quivers, her toes rub the fabric of my pants.

Good.

Another college girl is sitting by my side. She talks a lot, with her friend. About software mostly. Peppers her conversation with English words. Whisks her hair from side to side. I can smell her sweat, her perfume, and that indefinable, stimulating odour that women have.

I sit quietly. I close my eyes and dream.

Surreal Nair Rituals

2007-08-13T14:37:00.000+05:30

They take the charred bones from the cremation ground.

Wash it with water first.

Wash it with milk.

Wash it with tender coconut water.

Wash it with rosewater.

Finally, put it in an urn with a lighted wick. Top it with flowers. Pray.

Such loving care. The dead are truly lucky.

The Autumn of a Matriarch

2007-08-13T13:07:00.000+05:30

My grandmother died last week.

She was over 92 years old, so I guess time took its toll.

But the real killer was indifference. From the people she loved. Me included.

Aging gracefully is a myth. The moment your existence becomes a terminal burden to your family, the recriminations will start. Day by day they will strip away your dignity, till you huddle in the some dark corner of the house, wasted to bare bones, waiting for death.

When you reach this stage, you can be stoic. Swallow everything - insults, pity, contempt.

Or you could slash your throat.

That's when you wonder. What do you need more - the courage to die or the determination to live?

Four reasons to like or dislike JKR

2007-08-09T17:48:00.000+05:30

A small Q by Q rejoinder to those who say that I am green with envy. Of course not. I am red with irritation.

Popularity

Q. The whole world is reading JK Rowling. Why don’t you? Who the fuck do you think you are?

Someone who doesn't march to the beat of the mob. Someone with the power to make choices. Someone wary about everyone and everything that’s unreasonably popular: Titanic, Hrithik Roshan, Harold Robbins, Shilpa Shetty, Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, Indian Idol. Am I a cynic? Yes, if it helps me steer clear of the media overkill and discover things and people who really make a difference. And I don’t give a damn if the world doesn’t love them. Clear?

Wealth

Q. JK Rowling is richer than the Queen. That makes her an incredible person and a great writer. How come you are not singing her praises?

I don’t know how to frame a coherent reply to this.
Ever heard of Carlos Slim? Li Ka-Shing? Karl Albrecht? Ingvar Kamprad? They are richer than JKR and Queen combined and don't get their mugs flashed in newspapers everyday. You don’t need to be a writer, to make tons of money. You just need that uncommon common sense.

Output

Q. Look at the number of huge books she has churned out!

Never read Agatha Christie? Enid Blyton?

Writing Skills

Q. What imagination! The plot twists! How beautifully she writes!

I prefer Philip Pullman. I rest my case.

Puberty

2007-08-04T01:21:00.000+05:30

First, she tells me to unbutton my shirt.

Take it off, she says.

She looks at my naked torso intently.

Her eyes glance over my wild thatch of chest hair, forlorn nipples, protruding ribs.

She gets up and comes near.

Cups my chin in her hand and twists my face for a better view.

Then she run her fingers through the rough hair on my head, probing for something.

Her fingers play a cool concerto on my skin.

Satisfied, she prescribes a dosage of antibiotics, Clindamycin gel and Vitamin E capsules.

I am 15 years old. I have discovered acne and dermatologists.

Farewell Auteur

2007-07-31T02:21:00.000+05:30

I return home, close to midnight.

I log on to Guardian online.

On the home page, there is a picture from the Seventh Seal; Grim Reaper is standing on the rocks. There is a caption: Ingmar Bergman, 1918-2007.

I stare at the picture. Then my synapses fire and it hits me. Bergman is dead. The auteur of gloom is no more.

I remember the only time I watched a Bergman movie. When my heart took a leap at the haunting ‘dance of death’. And afterwards, even as my knees shook, I understood that Seventh Seal was not a parable of dark pessimism. It was about hope. About losing faith and finding it again. About stumbling on the meaning of life.

So I guess, the joke was on Death. He didn’t win. Not even today.

Bullshit by Bing

2007-07-23T18:05:00.000+05:30

Came across an ‘inspiring’ book in library yesterday.

‘100 bullshit jobs and how to get them’ by Stanley Bing.

Felt reassured to find that advertising still tops the list of bullshit jobs.

Followed by other fulfilling vocations like Ayurvedic Healer, Motivational Speaker, Critic, Book Editor, Investment Banker, among others.

PS: Though the content is all bullshit, Bing wraps it up with a catchy book title (a previous one was called ‘Sun Tzu was a Sissy’). He would have made it big in advertising. Pity.

The hits just keep on coming

2007-07-23T17:28:00.000+05:30

Life hit a new low this weekend.

First that Harry Potter thing. Another skin-crawling spectacle of hype and hysteria. The ‘universally ecstatic’ reviews. Kids and grown-up idiots scrambling towards bookstores. People who don’t even read a newspaper, devouring the 759 pages in one day. And claiming to be terrified, devastated and overjoyed after finishing the book. It's as if everyone is in the throes of a collective orgasm.

It riles me, because I tried to read those tomes and found that they strained my patience and common sense. How can anyone find the energy to read this babel of spells and witchcraft? Why not profitably employ that stamina to read 'War and Peace', 'Ulysses', 'Finnegan's Wake' or some equally mind-numbing classic?

Second, to add insult to injury, some goddamn Brit university conferred an honorary doctorate on Shilpa Shetty. For her glorious contribution towards promoting cultural diversity.

Somebody give me a long, thick rope.

Another day for me in paradise

2007-06-27T23:42:00.000+05:30

Yesterday was interesting.

Reached Kochi by bus at the witching hour. Watched awful Tamil movie songs on the hotel TV for the rest of the night.

Made an hour long presentation in the morning. Put on my best smile and slurred my way through the PowerPoint. Wound up, shook hands and exited.

Went straight to a joint near the office. It’s high noon. Had a big serving of chicken biriyani first. Then downed three vodka & soda in quick succession. When the alcohol hit the stomach, it actually sizzled.

Hit the road again. Came across a colleague. Went to another joint with him. Knocked back two pegs. Light as a butterfly but still standing on two feet.

Got on Janshatabdi in the evening. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t read. It was like sitting inside a blender. A vibrator. For some strange reason dead mosquitoes were falling on our heads.

Got off the train at Trivandrum. Walked straight to Kirthi. Guzzled three more vodka & Pepsi’s. Fit.

Slunk into home without attracting attention. Browsed internet till sleep finally overwhelmed the mind. Had a great sense of well-being before I passed out. ZZZZZ...

Payback

2007-06-20T02:09:00.000+05:30

I was re-reading Maximum City and came across a para that was very perceptive.

It’s an exact and precise hell, the life of an unemployed young man in India. For eighteen years you have been brought up as a son; you have been given the best of what your family can afford. In the household, you eat first, then your father, then your mother, then your sister. If there is only so much money in the household, your father will do with half his cigarettes, your mother won’t buy her new sari, and your sister will stay at home, but you will be sent to school. So when you reach the age of eighteen, you have your worshipful family’s expectations behind you. You dare not turn around. You have been witness to all the petty humiliations they have suffered to get you to this place. You now need to deliver. Your sister is married, your mother is sick, and your father will retire next year. You carry a heavy burden of guilt for having heedlessly taken the best of everything. So when you go out with your matriculation certificate or your BA and find there are no jobs – you look for other ways of making money.

You will look for other ways of assuring your family that their investment wasn’t lost. You can take beatings, you can take rejection, but you can’t face your family if you don’t do your duty as a son. Go out in the morning and come back at night, or go out at night and come back in the daytime if you have to, but take care of the family. You owe it to them; it is your dharma.

First Day First Show

2007-06-12T21:03:00.000+05:30

Sreekumar was peddling tickets for ‘Sivaji’ and for a moment I was tempted. I wanted to break out of this stupor, and perhaps diving into the first day-first show melee could have done the trick. Doing something stupid just for the heck of it is supposed to improve creativite impulses.

Sadly, wiser counsel prevailed and I didn’t take up the offer. I am too lazy to sit through the ear-bursting, eye-popping, nerve-racking Rajni Routine for 3 hours. If I was 11 years old, I would have loved every bit of it.

I have watched only one movie on the first day-first show. ‘All About Woman’ is exactly what you think it is about. In my defence I must say that I was young, impressionable and probably, overloaded with hormones. Which, perhaps, explains this drastic decline in cinematic taste – from Bergman to English dubbed Hindi soft porn. (I read that Paul Schrader also spent time watching porn flicks. But then, he went ahead and wrote ‘Taxi Driver’, while I did zilch.) I ‘learned’ more about a woman’s body but not her mind, which turned out to be the real thing. Damn.

Anyway, to cut a lamba story chotta, I lost my specs, one chappal and two shirt buttons during the stampede towards the counter. Afterwards, I took an oath never to repeat the experience. Ever.

Happiness

2007-06-08T23:56:00.000+05:30

I don’t usually hunt around for quotes. But today, I came across one that was interesting. I don’t remember the exact words, but it roughly says, ‘Happiness is about finding something to love, something to do and something to hope for’. Hmmmm…

Crossing another millstone

2007-06-07T01:13:00.000+05:30

I turned 30 this April.

It’s a scary experience, especially for me. You are not young anymore and you have nothing to show for your years. It’s just the time to wonder - how did I screw-up my life with such perfection?

I look in the mirror and I see a fat, dark man with a funny mustache and no prospects. And to think of all the resolutions I made over the years!

At 21, I was renting and watching 4 movies everyday from Collection Videos, making a mess of my eyes and studies. I wanted to be Stanley Kubrick, if not Scorsese.

At 23, I ditched movies to enter the world of literature. I dreamed of being a best-selling, Booker prize-winning novelist. Like Arundhati Roy meets JK Rowling. Hoo-Hah!

At 25, I thought: forget it, who wants to be the literary toast of the season? Why settle for ephemeral fame like Roy/Rowling, when I could become a cult writer. You know somebody like Saint Exupery or Roald Dahl. Basic English, child-like sketches and a big fan following. Yeah, I could do that!

At 27, I thought, shit, I would settle for being at least a Ruskin Bond. God please, I beg you.

At 30, I still haven’t written a line.

It’s the law of diminishing expectations all the way. I look forward to a bleak future with great trepidation.

There is something about Toni Collette

2007-01-13T06:03:00.000+05:30

I first saw her in Muriel’s Wedding. And I was hooked. Everything I saw later just added to the allure. Sixth Sense. The Japanese Story. In her Shoes.

She has large teeth, a big bottom and thick legs. More full hipped than petite. In a way, she is the antithesis of a typical Hollywood beauty, a woman who is not the sum of her parts. Because when she smiles, she is the sexiest woman alive. And there is an amazing element of honesty in her performances that has you rooting for her.

I wish I could get a copy of Little Miss Sunshine.

David vs Goliath?

2006-12-30T19:51:00.000+05:30

A really cringeworthy campaign. But I couldn't stop laughing.

Image: From agencyfaqs

2006-12-30T19:40:00.000+05:30

It says, perhaps, everything that needs to be said about advertising.

Location Production Footage: The Last Temptation of Christ

2006-12-30T19:33:00.001+05:30

The film was released in 1988 and probably the bulky video camera had just appeared on the scene. But even that doesn't explain why a great director like Scorsese seems so clumsy with the camera and sets up some cringingly juvenile shots.

The actual film is a class apart. The movies I love most are movies about redemption and 'The Last Temptation Of Christ' is the acme of this genre. More on that soon.

Oddballs and Geniuses

2006-12-07T20:04:00.000+05:30

Joe Queenan, the wonderfully opinionated cultural critic, is writing the 'A to Z of Classical Music' in the Guardian. I wouldn't resist the temptation to filch some interesting bits and paste it here. I was more interested in the life stories than in the nuances of composition. So here's the part about Mozart and Debussy. Those interested in Mahler, Glenn Gould, Faure and others should log on to the music section of Guardian. Nothing you haven't heard before, but presented to you with gratuitous dollops of merciless opinions.

See David Oistrakh perform the Clair de Lune. I may be musically illiterate and tone deaf but I can't help feeling moved.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKd0VII-l3A&NR

Mozart

Arguably bringing more sheer beauty into the world than anyone who ever lived, Mozart was rewarded by the fates with a preposterously unhappy life. His childhood was sabotaged by his musician father, who pimped him out as a juvenile circus act; his aristocratic employers showered their wealth and praise on butchers and charlatans; he married badly; he was constantly in debt; he had bum kidneys. He was short, his hands were stubby, and, oh yes, his face was marred by smallpox. He died at age 35, and no one knows where he is buried. Anyone who believes that life is fair should try being born in Afghanistan or study the life of Mozart or just go straight to hell.

D is for ... Debussy, Claude

The ugliest man to ever write beautiful music, Debussy was an anti-social misanthrope who even the French found unpleasant. Arrogant, shunning human company, emotionally scarred by being short, fat and afflicted by an irregularly surfaced forehead, and regularly pitching camp with women given to recreational suicide attempts, Debussy was the last composer to write music that was both fiercely cerebral and unabashedly emotional (Ravel, though a charmer, was basically a bargain-basement Debussy). After Debussy, classical music would continue to be thought-provoking, but it would never again be sublime.

Debussy is the first truly modern composer, the first to repudiate the concept of music as literature, to focus purely on the emotions triggered by specific sounds. He hated Beethoven, loathed Mozart, ridiculed Brahms and thought Wagner was weighing down western civilization. He liked Satie, who posed no threat.Ironically, Debussy's anger, personal unhappiness and penchant for hooking up with women likely to shoot themselves if not watched carefully cannot be found in his music, which is uncompromisingly beautiful; no composer's work was ever more disconnected from his personality than Debussy's.

Officially, Debussy is referred to as an Impressionist because he lived at the same time as Monet, Pissaro and Sisley, but the term is a misnomer, like calling the Clash proletarians; Impressionist painting, it too a reaction against the obsessive story-telling qualities of the art that precedes it, prides itself on having almost no intellectual content, while Debussy's music, sometimes lush, sometimes melancholy, sometimes playful, is immensely cerebral. Debussy is more like Cézanne, the father of modern art, who painted canvases purged of all sentiment (no parasols, no rippling flags, no Sunday picnics, and definitely no puppies) that nevertheless managed to be radiant and inspiring.

Debussy's body of work is smaller than that of many other composers, but almost all of it is of the very first order. Only Chopin and Schumann surpass him as a composer for the piano; La Mer is arguably the most successful tone poem of them all; and Pelléas and Mélisande is an opera that is literally like no other, the anti-Carmen, in that it forced the singers to stop hamming it up and actually try singing for a change. Just as Matisse's work is about color, Debussy's work is about sound. With one or two exceptions, Debussy makes all living composers sound pitiful, particularly the academic mafiosi that regularly win Pulitzer prizes in America. Someone once said that the saddest thing about Debussy's music was that it initially seemed like a glorious sunrise when in fact it was a bittersweet sunset. This is correct; when Debussy died, classical music began to die with him.

Credit: Joe Queenan/Guardian

The Write Way?

2006-11-27T03:35:00.000+05:30

This is an impassioned piece by Edmund Morris that came in The New York Times last year and is reproduced unabridged. It’s about the lost art of penmanship and how creativity can become depersonalized in this age of computers. Interestingly, I didn’t read this from the paper but on the online edition of nytimes. Paradoxical, but there you have it.

Beethoven's Paper Trail

MY first reaction to the announcement last week that a major Beethoven manuscript had been discovered in a Pennsylvania seminary was an aching desire to see it. (The ache will not be gratified until the work goes on exhibit at Sotheby's on Nov. 16.) To see it. How often we use that phrase in a tactile sense - as when, for example, we ask a jeweler to unlock his cabinet and bring out a Rolex so we can feel its cold, thrilling weight on our wrist. Eye contact is enough, though, when we cannot gratify our animal desire to caress whatever is unattainable, inimitable or worshipful.

Beethoven's manuscripts are revelatory, because he was an intensely physical person who fought his music onto the page, splattering ink, breaking nibs, even ripping the paper in the process. Not for him the serene penmanship of J. S. Bach, whose undulant figurations sway like ship masts over calm seas, or the hasty perfection of Mozart, or the quasi-mathematical constructs of Webern. Their writing is the product of minds already made up.

Beethoven was so full of ideas that to fire them out - to see which were precious metal and which mere dross - was a process in which he needed to involve his eyes and his hands (not to mention his heels drumming out rhythms, and his voice howling and groaning: landlords were forever giving him notice). Long before he went deaf, he was perhaps the most prodigious sketcher in musical history, unable to walk around a room or, I regret to say, sit down on a toilet without doodling hieroglyphics on every reachable surface. Even when perambulating around Vienna at a hyperactive clip, he was always stopping to scribble something in a notebook that seemed to be an inseparable part of his left hand.

One such scribble was the "lightning flash" theme that begins the second movement of the Ninth Symphony. It struck Beethoven one night as he was emerging from a bright interior into darkness. To page through his sketchbook of the period, and see it suddenly appear amid clouds of murky musical thought, is to feel the electricity of genius.

The newly discovered manuscript - an 80-page piano version of his famous "Grosse Fuge" for string quartet, Op. 133 - dates from 1826, the last full year of Beethoven's life. It is reported to be typically three-dimensional, with erasures worn into holes, and a large patch of rewritten music spackled onto one page with sealing wax. Since the "Grosse Fuge" is the single most pugnacious movement in Beethoven - 15 minutes of furious contrapuntal combat, adored by Stravinsky - what we will be seeing at Sotheby's promises to be as much an artifact as an autograph.

Somebody who still works like Beethoven is the French artist Bernard Dufour. His drawing hand substitutes on camera for that of the actor Michel Piccoli in Jacques Rivette's masterly film "La Belle Noiseuse," about a painter struggling to execute his final masterpiece. One notices, as the hand reaches out to select a pen and jab it into the ink bottle, the violence of its movements, impatient yet tentative, as if wondering in which direction to discharge its energy. The sketchpad lies white, waiting to be savaged by the looming nib.

Then down the sharp thing comes, at a deliberately obtuse angle, so that the first line is not so much drawn but dug out of the paper. Nor is there as much ink running as you would expect; the artist seems to be daring his inspiration to dry up. More swoops and gougings, then suddenly a deliberate splash of ink, which the heel of the hand smudges across some cross-hatching ... and lo, the curve of a naked woman's thigh materializes out of the whiteness, and art begins to happen.

It is moving to watch, because we can feel Mr. Dufour's love of struggle, his sheer joy in being bespattered, stained and even resisted (when a sketch obstinately refuses to cohere) by the materials at hand. Such relish is of course characteristic of workers in the plastic arts. But with the decline of painting and drawing in recent years, in favor of hands-off processes like video recording, performance art and installations farmed out to contractors, even artists are putting less and less of themselves into their work - with the result that what there is of it, is cold. I had to spend a few weeks earlier this year looking down from my window at Christo's orange hangings in Central Park, and got back from them nothing but a sense of manufactured lifelessness.

I worry that further withdrawal of the body will increasingly depersonalize creativity in our computerized age. It is already a given that many young architects can't draw, relying on circuitry to do their imaging for them. Nor can many of them model, never having built things with their hands as children, and felt the pliancy and fragility of structures, the interrelationship of empty space and solid mass. Recently my wife and I bought a country house designed by just such an architect. It looked great until we discovered that the main floor sagged in the middle because it lacked the kind of central support that a child, 40 years ago, would have sensed was necessary in the foundation.

Writing does not, of course, rate high on the tactile scale of things. But a screen of glass impregnated with pixels now gleams in front of practically every young person who wishes to commit words to - I was going to say paper, but will avoid the anachronism. Today's words, dit-ditted downward, flash off somewhere at the speed of light and assemble themselves in electronic limbo. Seen through the glass darkly, they look seductively perfect, every character proportional, every paragraph in alignment. Why mess around with them? In any case, if their orthography is not quite correct, a default "word processor" (ghastly phrase) will alter them to its liking.

A couple of years ago I had a disillusioning residency with students at the University of Chicago who wished, or thought they wished, to master the art of narrative nonfiction. Cyberspatial innocent that I am, I was at first puzzled by the weird uniformity of their written "style," if that's the word for prose equally composed of I.M.-speak and catchphrases downloaded by the megabyte. At last, like the girl in "Stage Door Canteen," I caught on. But what was even weirder was the way these not-unintelligent seniors looked at me as I lectured them on Tolstoy's frenzied chicken-scratches all over proofs of "War and Peace," Capote's yellow-paper drafts of "In Cold Blood" and Nabokov's exquisite watercolor diagrams, illustrative of metric schemes in poetry yet at the same time touchingly reminiscent of butterfly wings. What freaked me out was the students' collective gaze, not uninterested, but uninvolved. They weren't listening so much as watching. To them, I was just the latest in a lifetime's succession of images, another talking head.

I doubt I'll see any of them when I go to look at the "Grosse Fuge" manuscript next month. Why should they bother? They can already "access" it on the Internet. But without seeing the real thing, with actual light falling on its scuffs and blotches, will they ever feel the desperate energy of a dying Beethoven, imprisoned in the cavern of his own disability?

Credit: Edmund Morris/NYT

The Nightie Nightmare

2006-11-27T03:02:00.000+05:30

It has the sturdiness of sackcloth, the durability to outlast repeated washings and a deserved reputation as the ultimate male repellent. Ladies of Kerala, we are talking about your favorite dress: the ubiquitous nightie. Not to be confused with the skimpy negligee or any itsy bitsy item with lace and frills, the nightie is commonly defined as a simple housecoat, usually oversized and in single colors. A staple of the middle class, this forbidding apparel (as the name itself makes amply clear) is meant for nighttime dressing. But such narrow sartorial definitions have never put off the nifty keralite woman. So the nightie is worn round the clock, day in and day out. With such devastating results, that it gives a whole new meaning to the word eyesore.

Why is it so popular? It is the perfect dress to slip on (literally!) for the long hours of backbreaking housework that most women have to endure. The inevitable stains, sweat and grime are easily assimilated. Men hung up as they are on matters like beauty and high fashion never mull over such practical details.

The nightie has even traversed the generational gap and class distinctions. An eighty-year-old grandmother is as likely to wear a nightie as a ten-year-old girl. Women, who labor in the sun and do grueling manual jobs to make a living, often go to work in a nightie. Just as their middle class counterparts, ensconced in their comfortable homes, go through the daily grind of housework in this popular battledress.

So who should have the final word on nightie? Those who argue that high fashion should be sacrificed at the altar of comfort and utility? Or should we listen to those who plead for esthetic dressing, for attire that is sensible and sensuous?

What say ladies?

Last Place on Earth

2005-03-19T16:33:00.001+05:30

I usually do all my reading lying down on my bed at night. I never read sitting at my study desk. It brings back bad memories of cramming for my exams.

Bedside reading does have potential after-effects. You might end up on the fast road to cataract. You might develop an incurable variant of the slipped disc (Posture!). You might even fall asleep. Remember, you were warned.

On the plus side, it’s a great way to test a book. Is the book engrossing enough for you to stay awake? Is it as they say in publishing, a gripping read? In the waiting room, yes. But in bed, while the tempting sleep lies in wait? That’s the real litmus test for a book.

On sleepless nights you will discover ‘Mrs. Dalloway’ or ‘Ulysses’ to be highly effective cures for your insomnia. I found ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ had the potency of a tranquilizer (metaphorically speaking, of course). Three pages of Marquez and I am already snoring.

But then, you might end up with a book that perks you up like a flask of coffee. It happened to me with Roland Huntford’s “The Last place on Earth”.

This is a big book and a pretty old one at that. There are charts, tables, maps, black and white photos, and glossaries. On the cover, there are portraits of two men, one dour with intense piercing eyes, the other suave and handsome. The po-faced man is Roald Amundsen; the sensitive looking guy is Robert Falcon Scott.

On December 15, 1911, at 3 o’ clock in the afternoon, Amundsen, Hassel, Wisting, Hanssen and Bjaaland planted the Norwegian flag at the Geographic South Pole. There is a scratchy old photo of the moment. Four men with weather-beaten faces clad in thick eskimo suits stand near the fluttering flag. At the corner of the picture is a sledge dog, basking in the sun and in this moment of glory.

They had gone where no man had gone before. With the languor of a picnic trip, they would make it back to the ship and into the history books. One month later, Scott and his team would reach the same spot. Their deeply flawed expedition would then perish in the icy expanse of Antarctica.

The basic premise of this book is about the race for ‘the last place on earth’, the unexplored continent of Antarctica and the crowing jewel at its center, the South Pole. On a deeper level, it’s about leadership, teamwork, courage and the yearning to explore. It’s also about professional jealousy, ignorance, spite and thwarted ambition of men. As the blurb says “ Amundsen’s ambition was to reach the South Pole; Scott’s above all, was for fame and heroic achievement. This book shows, in the most vivid and unforgettable way, at what cost, to themselves and others, each was granted his desire.”

Amundsen was unsentimental. His team used Eskimo dogs for transport and food. The Brits were squeamish about this. They didn’t believe in dog transport and they didn’t like eating dogs. That was just for starters. From the depleted content of their rations to their obsolete navigation and strategy, from their overweening belief in motor transport to their condescension for the Eskimo lifestyle, everything went to pieces from the day one.

What’s the point of this book you may wonder? Amundsen won, so he is the hero, right?

Wrong. From the day the frozen bodies of the British polar party were found in a collapsed tent, they eased out Amundsen from the stage. The diaries written by Scott would salvage his reputation as a martyr, a heroic figure struggling against the odds of nature. Here was somebody the British people could look up to, somebody who was a part of their legends now. Amundsen was the interloper, the villain of the piece, the cunning Norwegian who had stolen the prize from the brave Englishman. He was banished to obscurity.

Huntford takes up the cudgels on behalf of Amundsen. Amundsen is revealed as a genuine leader, a man who loved his men enough to bring them back alive. He never disregarded traditional wisdom. He wasn’t out to conquer nature, he knew better than that. He was a taciturn man, a man of few words, a shoot straight guy who never buckled under pressure. He wouldn’t write to save his life, and perhaps that was the reason for his downfall. He was a man of action, not a writer who could spin a web of words to obfuscate and bedazzle.

Antartica may now be a drab piece of real estate. But when Amundsen began his journey, his every step was as pioneering as that of the first moonwalker. The places still have the resonance of mystery and adventure: Ross Ice Barrier, Mc Murdo Sound, Bay of Whales, Trans Antartic Mountains, Mount Erebus and Terror…

For Amundsen, there was no escape from Scott’s death. A sense of guilt for having won the race weighed heavily on his conscience. A few years later, on a rescue mission to the North Pole, Amundsen dissappeared. His body was never found. Like the old norse warriors of the yore, Amundsen sailed away into the oblivion, fearless and alone.

My synopsis hardly does justice to this great book. It’s a rare piece of meticulous research, reportage and storytelling.

Read it. You will never regret losing your sleep.