Neo-Liberals Can Write Too...

Swedish leftists are appalled that this year's Nobel Prize for Literature went to Peruvian writer Mario Llosa Vargas. Spiked-Online has a nice article about it here. To leftists Vargas just doesn't fit the mold of what a writer should be, which is, first and foremost, a socialist:

People who never voiced any concerns about the politics of other Nobel Prize winners like Wisyawa Szymborska, who wrote poetic celebrations of Lenin and Stalin; Günter Grass, who praised Cuba's dictatorship; Harold Pinter, who supported Slobodan Milosevic; José Saramago, who purged anti-Stalinists from the revolutionary newspaper he edited thought that the Swedish Academy had finally crossed a line. Mario Vargas Llosa's politics apparently should have disqualified him from any prize considerations. He is after all a classical liberal in the tradition of John Locke and Adam Smith.

For those leftists who are keen on diversity such parochialism is hypocritical. And that only leftists write literature worth reading is snobbery, pure and simple. Vargas proves that non-socialists like him can write literature that not only win prestigious prizes like Nobels, but are works of high artistic merits, which is reason enough to read them. These leftists forget that Vargas won the Nobel for his literary contributions, not his politics.

But this is not the only thing that bothers these leftists: for one thing, Vargas was once one of them.

He was a convinced Communist who supported the Cuban revolution. He moved on not because he was no longer able to sympathise with the poor and oppressed, but because he still did when others began to identify more with the revolutionaries than with the people in whose name they made the revolution. He saw that Castro persecuted homosexuals and imprisoned dissenters. While other socialists kept quiet and thought that the dream justified the means, Vargas Llosa began to ask himself the difficult questions about why his ideals looked more like prison camps than socialist utopias when realized.

Like a religious fanatic who cannot fathom someone leaving a faith as perfect as his, leftists wonder why Vargas became such an apostate, supporting rubbish like free markets and free trade.

[via arts & letters daily]

The Art Of Reading: Take It Slow

A very interesting article in the Guardian about the benefits of “slow reading":

So are we getting stupider? Is that what this is about? Sort of. According to The Shallows, a new book by technology sage Nicholas Carr, our hyperactive online habits are damaging the mental faculties we need to process and understand lengthy textual information. Round-the-clock news feeds leave us hyperlinking from one article to the next – without necessarily engaging fully with any of the content; our reading is frequently interrupted by the ping of the latest email; and we are now absorbing short bursts of words on Twitter and Facebook more regularly than longer texts.

Which all means that although, because of the internet, we have become very good at collecting a wide range of factual titbits, we are also gradually forgetting how to sit back, contemplate, and relate all these facts to each other. And so, as Carr writes, "we're losing our ability to strike a balance between those two very different states of mind. Mentally, we're in perpetual locomotion".

People were reading less even before the boon (or curse) of the internet. All the internet has accomplished is to accelerate the process, turning most of us into a gaggle of professional skimmers. Defenders claim more can be read in the same amount of time. In essence, volume is king. Time, valuable as it is, is to be commoditized, its benefits maximized.

I’ve suffered from this malady for a long time. I use to believe that I needed to cram my head with all the knowledge that I could get my hands on in the shortest possible time. I realize now how much time I wasted with such nonsensical thinking. I learned that acquiring knowledge for the sake of acquiring knowledge is pointless.

Knowledge needs purpose. What that purpose is depends on the individual: it could be internal, external, or both. For me it is a bit of both: internally, for self-improvement; and externally, so I can better understand the world. And the only way to do that is to process the knowledge. And this takes time. Skimming bypasses this process all together.

We need people to think, not just consume.

[via arts & letters daily]

Reading Update Cuz I Have Nothing Else

I haven't written anything in awhile so I thought I post a reading update. As is my habit, I'm reading several books at once. This time, however, the volume is much higher and the selection a bit more eclectic:

• The Best American Crime Writing: 2004 Edition
• The Best Technology Writing 2009
• The Death of Achilles
• The Secret World of American Communism
• The Red Flag: A History of Communism
• Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman
• The Best American Science Writing 2009
• e Squared: A Novel
  
• The New Lifetime Reading Plan: The Classical Guide to World Literature, Revised and Expanded
• The Facebook Effect: The Inside Story of the Company That Is Connecting the World
• Spies of the Balkans
• Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook

This should cover me till the end of August; but at the clip I’m currently reading, I might finish much earlier than expected.

Reading Update

This is only my second reading update for the year. Back in the day, I use to write this feature monthly, now it is more intermittent. For some reason or another, I’m reading less than I use to, which is kind of strange given the fact that I’m currently unemployed and have more free time then I know what to do with. Perhaps I’m becoming senile with age, or getting more distracted. I don’t know. Nevertheless, the following books I have started and plan to complete by the end of the year:

• House of Cards by William D. Cohan
• The Great Gamble by Gregory Feifer
• The Seekers by Daniel J. Boorstin
• Every Man a Speculator by Steve Fraser
• The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown
• Magical Chorus by Solomon Volkov

That’s a lot on my plate, and only two months to finish it all. Wish me luck.

Review: Marx for Beginners

Rius. Marx for Beginners. New York: Pantheon, 2003. 160pp.

Many people know about Karl Marx and what he stood for, but how many people, including his many admirers and critics, actually understood the man and his revolutionary ideas? In my opinion, not many, including those who unabashedly call themselves “Marxists.’ Not surprisingly, Marx’s ideas are impenetrable by even the most intelligent of people. Very few understand Marx, and even fewer who successfully translated his thinking to the general public: reading and comprehending Marx is simply beyond the ability of mere mortals. Marx’s ideas are a knotty mess of philosophy and economics, written in the turgid, confusing prose that is the hallmark of many intellectuals. So a book like Marx for Beginners is a welcome antidote, as it explains Marx in the simplest way possible—through cartoons.

The book is illustrated and written by Rius, a pseudonym used by famed Mexican cartoonist and left-wing political activist Eduardo del Rio. The book is only 160 pages or so, but Rius encapsulates Marx’s ideas in a tight, unsparing format, not wasting time on ephemeral matters but focusing on main ideas that made Marx an icon of the left. Rius gives us a biography of Marx, his influences, explains the philosophical underpinnings of Marx’s ideas, and Marx’s blueprint how the proletariat (the “working” class) can seize power. Naturally, Marx was no lover of democracy, which, for him, was a bourgeoisie concept.

Though this edition was published in 2003, the book was originally published in 1975. This explains the many references to Chile and snide attacks on the United States. Obviously, the author was bitter about the overthrow of Salvador Allende in Chile and American imperialism in South America in general. Never mind that Allende was planning to turn Chile into another Cuba. But that’s a debate for another day.

Marx for Beginners is not intended to be a comprehensive, or even an exhaustive, look at Marx. That is just not possible. This book is a primer, of sorts, a kind of jumping off point. Because to understand the man there is no going around reading the man's various works. A bit of a warning: reading Marx is only for the heartiest of souls and not for the faint of heart. And I'm not writing this review as a supporter of Marx. Hardly. But you cannot deny the man's influence on history; and to understand the world today you have to understand Marx.

The Lost Symbol Is Finally Here!

Guess what's in my hot little hands?



Digging into it as I write this.

Coming Soon: Up In the Air

Walter Kirn's delightful Up In the Air - about a "downsizing" expert (he fires people for a living) and his quest to be the ultimate frequent flier - is coming to the silver screen, starring George Clooney. Here's the trailer:



I'm so looking forward to this film.

Reading Update

Since I have offered very little, of late, I figure I at least provide a reading update - my only refuge from my chronic writer's block. As is my habit, I am reading five books at the same time. This time I took a picture of the books and posted it below; an idea I stole off another blog.



Apologies for the poor picture quality, I was using a camera phone.

It's an interesting grab-bag of books:

• Every Man A Speculator – a fascinating cultural history of Wall Street. Instead of concentrating on larger than life players like other histories, this book focuses on Wall Street and every day people.


• The Seekers – Daniel J. Boorstin’s three-volume survey of Western civilization and culture ends with a look at those philosophers, artists, writers and other cultural iconoclasts who search for the ideas. In Boorstin’s opinion, it’s not about destination but the journey there. Sounds familiar.


• The Foreign Correspondent – Alan Furst is one of my favorite thriller writers. Like all his novels, this one takes place in pre-World War II Europe. His characters are not Americans or English, but French, Polish, Bulgarian, Dutch, and, in this book, Italian. The book is both vivid and engrossing.


• The Great Gamble – As America’s involvement in Afghanistan continues to grow, they should take the lessons of the past very seriously. This book surveys the Soviet invasion, occupation, and retreat from Afghanistan, a country that has trapped more than one imperial power.


• The House of Cards – A riveting account of the collapse of Bear, Stearns, who disappeared from Wall Street literally overnight. Bear, Stearns, like all stuffy Wall Street firms, suffered from hubris, when they arrogantly believed they would survive the sub-prime mortgage implosion.

I figure this will keep me busy until end of summer.

Review: An Area of Darkness

V.S. Naipaul. An Area of Darkness: A Discovery of India. New York: Vintage, 2002. 290pp.

V.S. Naipaul is at same a good writer and a bad one. His book, An Area of Darkness: A Discovery of India, Naipaul’s travelogue about his first trip to India during the early 1960’s. His travel writing is superb, but as often the case, he has the tendency to ramble, especially when he decides to take the reader into his brilliant brain and observe his thought process at close quarters. It makes for difficult reading, at times, but it is well worth it by the end.

Like many members of the Indian Diaspora, his image of India was shaped by the perception he had while a child growing up in Trinidad. Naipaul’s grandfather immigrated to Trinidad as an indentured laborer. Naipaul’s memories of India were shaped by his grandfather’s memories. So when he finally arrived in India to see what the fuss was about. And like many Indians who return “home,” he was thoroughly disappointed by what he saw: the poverty, the corruption, the decays, a civilization that was listless and fading into irrelevance. He tries to make sense of it all, often asking the question why?

Though Naipaul makes many points, two in particular stand out.

In one of the chapters, Naipaul recounts his experience with a Sikh gentleman while on a train journey to South India. To Naipaul this Sikh gentleman (like many people Naipaul talks about in his book, they often go nameless) is striking, both for his features and his temperament. This Sikh gentleman, though educated and worldly (and, not to mention, a bit of an English twit), is also a racist and a bigot, and doesn’t mind telling Naipaul, whom he mistakes for a kindred spirit. This Sikh gentleman hates South Indians. He thinks they are the reason why India has wretchedly failed after achieving its independence. He calls them “blackies” and other assorted names too offensive to name here. The Sikh, you see, is of Aryan stock, hence a martial race, a people born to thrive if it weren’t for the weak Dravidian race of South India. Naipaul is not really shocked by what he hears because he knows India is ribboned with race, ethnic, caste, religious, economic animosities that permeates every strata of society. The Sikh gentleman was a mere example of it.

Secondly, Naipaul asks why Indians are so passive. He comes to this conclusion when China and India are fighting a border skirmish. Naipaul is in Kolkata (then Calcutta and according to Naipaul, the most English of Indian cities), keenly observing the city’s mood. Already there is talk among resident s of a likely occupation of the city by the Chinese, and how to deal with their new leaders; never mind the fact that the Chinese were nowhere close to the city – in fact, they were hundreds of miles away. And this attitude persists even while trainloads of Indian soldiers make their way to the border.. Preparations for defense were half-hearted, at best, the army too ill-equipped and ill-trained to mount a credible defense, the lack of seriousness from the people to the government. The ethos of peace and nonviolence was too deep to overcome. To Naipaul it is no wonder why India is such a conquered nation.

Reading Naipaul one wonders if the man simply hates India? Many Indian critics have made this charge. At first reading, Naipaul does seem to display some sort of a mean streak. At closer reading, however, this mean streak emerges more as disappointment than visceral hatred. After all, Naipaul, a Trinidadian and a British citizen, is still an Indian, albeit an unwilling on.

I can relate to Naipaul’s experience to some extent. I immigrated to the United States in 1976 when I was three; I returned for my first visit to India (and Bangladesh) in 1982 at the age of nine. Though Naipaul had the luxury of returning as an adult and make sense of it all; I, even as a child, could tell what a huge disappointment India was to me.

I returned to the city of my birth, Kolkata. The first thing I noticed was the stench. The ride into the city was not equally reassuring. The heat, the impenetrable crowds, the ramshackle buildings, walls desecrated with political slogans, but it was all the widespread poverty on display that really shocked me. I’ve seen pan handlers in the United States, but in India I was accosted by beggars at every turn. They somehow sensed that I was from overseas and ripe for the picking. Experiencing load shedding, where there is no electricity for hours on end, was a revelation. How can you run out electricity? I was perplexed beyond comprehension And only able to watch one government-owned channel for three hours a night was a visible reminder of what communism must have been like for those poor souls trapped behind the Iron Curtain (yes, I was quite politically aware for a nine-year-old).

Though my opinion of India has improved over the years I still find India to be a disappointment. And like Naipaul, I believe that India has yet to achieve its potential.

What To Read For Trip To Las Vegas

I have decided to take Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson to read on my long plane ride to Las Vegas this Wednesday. I thought it to be a spirited choice. Anybody else have any suggestions? I'm also taking a couple of books about gambling, plus a collection of columns by writer Nick Hornby as well.

UPDATE: On second thought, I have decided against taking Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas with me, instead I will focus on the two gambling books and finishing up Body of Lies, which is simply superb.

Review: Who Do The Hell Is Pansy O'Hara?

Who the Hell Is Pansy O'Hara?: The Fascinating Stories Behind 50 of the World's Best-Loved Books is filled with interesting factoids about some of the most beloved books - both fiction and nonfiction - in the English language. The list is eclectic and, mercifully, limited only to 50 books. It's a canon, of sorts, I suppose. Everybody seems to be writing these kinds of books: about music, movies and, of course, books. This mania to create lists is mostly a male pathos, but women seems to be joining them in droves. Those familiar with literature will find this book a bore, but there are some interesting tidbits that have been underreported.

For example, did you know that the Guiness Book of World Records started out as a promotional item given out by the Guiness Brewery Company to pubs all over Britain to settle arguments on what and/or who is the fastest, tallest, mostest, and every other piece of trivia that are asked in a drunken stupor? It became so popular it was later reprinted and sold to the public. As of today, it is only second-best selling book in the world, behind the Bible.

And what's the deal with the title? Well, according to this news item, Pansy O'Hara was a precursor to Scarlet O'Hara, the heroine of Margaret Mitchell's Gone With the Wind.

J.D Salinger: Fomer Short Story Writer

Did you know that J.D. Salinger, before he wrote The Catcher in the Rye, was a prolific short story writer for a number of prominent magazines? And that these stories stories have yet to be collected in a book form? With the writer being such a recluse, it's no real surprise

Random Quote #4

I think I posted this on another blog long ago, which no longer exists, but it describes many second-generation, hyphenated Indians like myself:

India is for me a difficult country. It isn't my home and cannot be my home; and yet I cannot reject it or be indifferent to it; I cannot travel only for the sights. I am at once too close and too far.

--V.S. Naipaul, from his book India: A Wounded Civilization.

Naipaul's Impressions Of India

Currently reading V.S. Naipaul’s An Area of Darkness: A Discovery of India, a travelogue of the author’s first trip to India. Even though I have only read the prelude and first chapter, it is a book that is strongly resonating with me: trying to connect with a country that, for a long time, existed only in my imagination.

For any traveler, first impressions are important. In the prelude, Naipaul reounts his maddening ordeal trying to reclaim two bottles of spirits that were confiscated by custom officers on his arrival in Bombay. Naipaul was sent on a wild goose chase through the serpentine Indian bureaucracy: having to obtain this permit and that permit, to talk to this fellow or to that fellow, never getting a straight answer. And he never reclaimed his bottles. Naturally, for Naipaul, it left a bad impression.

As a young child and teenager, I remember the trips I took to India with my family vividly, if not always fondly. Our arrival coincided with my first impressions of India: the stifling humidity, the ramshackle terminal building, surly immigration officers, greedy custom officers; the usual malaise and apathy that afflict third-world, socialist dysfunctions like India. The custom officers, especially, took perverse pleasure in torturing fellow Indians, fleecing them for bribes, threatening them if they did not pay them.

This whole experience tainted my later observations of India, and I think it tainted Naipaul as well.

Slew Of Books On Sub-Prime Mortgages

As is my habit, I browse Amazon.com for the latest in books, DVDs, and music. Books about the sub-prime meltdown are already starting to come out.



Nothing sells books like misery.

V.S. Naipaul: A Literary Monster Part 2

More evidence of V.S. Naipaul's unalloyed monstrosity on display:

Naturally, as Naipaul grew older, the bad behaviour grew to crescendos. But there is often a lordliness about it which some, such as I, may find redeems it. Two examples, one minor and one major: the minor – when he was first introduced to Auberon Waugh and was asked, “May I call you Vidia?”. His reply, worthy of Evelyn Waugh himself was: “No, as we’ve just met, I would rather you called me Mr Naipaul”; the second, which would win a prize for bad behaviour, but is also hugely comic, was his inability to inform Margaret, his mistress of long standing, that he had decided to remarry when Pat died of cancer. He sent his tall, mysterious literary agent, “Gillon Aitken to sort out the mess, taking the concept of agency to new lengths”.

I wrote about V.S. Naipaul here. The article condones Naipaul because a writer's life is a hard one. May be so, but this does not mean he has the right to treat people cruelly as he has. I will continue to read him even though I despise him as a human being.

need a one-day vacation for me

I haven't watched a DVD - from beginning to end - in so long. Too busy at work, helping the wife around the house, weekend events with friends and family (birthdays, graduations, etc.), and other things that take too much of my time.

I need a day just to myself so I can do what I want to do: watch a DVD, read without being interrupted, write a substantial blog post or two, even an article of publishable quality, or even play some video games.

For me a day off would be the perfect gift.

Random Quote #3

The opening paragraph from one my favorite novels of all time, Around The World in Eighty Days by Jules Verne:

Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron--at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.

Review: Best American Crime Reporting 2007

Thomas Cook, Linda Fairstein, and Otto Penzler, eds. The Best American Crime Reporting 2007. New York: Harper Perennial, 2007. 384pp.

This year's anthology returns to its roots with articles about bread-and-butter crimes, mostly murder. The editors have done a fine job of selecting the best of the best, and this year's picks do not disappoint. All are well-written pieces of journalism about crime, its victims and the criminals themselves. These articles ask what we all ask when we hear or read about any criminal act-- why? Most murders, it seems, are either crimes of passion or opportunity. Some crimes, like the story about a serial stealer of used books (who doesn't sell them but keeps them for his own collection), are psychological in nature. But what rings true about all these articles is that they lay bare a part of human nature most of us never see or will experience. This is what makes these stories so compelling.

The 2007 edition of this excellent series is different on one note. The series title has been changed from Best American Crime Writing to Best American Crime Reporting. It seems the previous title caused some confusion as to whether the anthology is fiction or non-fiction, this new title should make it clear that it's the latter.

Review: Strangers On A Train

Patricia Highsmith. Strangers On A Train. New York: W. W. Norton, 2001. 256pp.

Patricia Highsmith has written a taut psychological thriller examining a person's capacity to murder; and the confluence of events that drive people to commit it. It is also a novel about fate: how a single event can irrevocably change the course of a person's life.

Guy Haines, a floundering architect, meets with Charles Bruno, a professional loafer, on a train. They talk. They drink. They commiserate. Guy is on his way to Texas to demand a divorce from his adulterous wife Miriam. Charles is taking a holiday from his father, whom he despises for being both a skinflint and a lousy husband. Charles, a charming psychopath concocts, a scheme to get rid of their "problems": Charles would kill Guy's wife, while Guy would kill Charles' father. The perfect murders. No one would know. Nothing to connect them. Guy dismisses the idea as crazy and decides right then and there to keep his distance from Charles and his murderous machinations.

But Charles won't leave Guy alone. He likes Guy. He wants Guy. And the only thing standing between him and Guy, Charles strongly believes, is Miriam. So he murders her in cold-blood. Charles then hounds Guy to do his part: cajoling him, blackmailing him, threatening to ruin his career, which was on the rise. Guy should have dismissed Charles' threats for what they were, threats, but Guy is racked by guilt: guilt for Miriam's death; and guilt for not fulfilling his part of the bargain.

Twisted? Yes. But this is what Highsmith excels at: her portraiture of the human psyche. Highsmith spends inordinate amount of time examining what her characters are thinking. For much of the novel, the reader will literally reside in Guy's head, as he battles not only guilt, but the dual nature of man: that inside all of us are two contradictory forces-- one good, the other bad. Charles had a telling but chilling quote that is the overarching theme of the book:

Any kind of person can murder. Purely circumstances and not a thing to do with temperament! People get so far-- and it takes just the least little thing to push them over the brink.

Charles is right, of course, but we must not forget that Charles is a psychopath: he feels no remorse, no guilt, nothing. Guy, on the other hand, guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders; often wishing to unburden himself by admitting everything, damn the consequences.

Yet Highsmith reminds us that this is not just some literary meditation on the pathos of guilt-ridden men, but a thriller of high-quality; and like any good thriller writer, Highsmith keeps us guessing till the end.