4 posts tagged “book”

 When I was in sixth class, our English Prose text book contained an excerpt from Jerome K. Jerome's "Three Men in a Boat" where the author describes his Uncle Podger who would bring the entire family and neighbourhood to its knees whenever he undertook any task.  A hilarious account, that was, at that age, marred by the fact that you had to know by-heart certain passages, to answer questions - what an easy route to making the most interesting work of literature, pure agony.  Ever since, I believe I've had a mental block against JKJ (as I did with R.K. Narayan, for his "Blind Dog" was included in the same Prose text book), because I associated him with English exams, and if you have been an unfortunate regular reader of this blog, you'd know my take on exams.  Time took its toll on the fallible human memory, and the author was shelved into the dark recess of grey matter upstairs.

A few months ago, a reader of this blog, Vani, who subsequently became a friend (should I add "despite the blog") suggested adding Jerome K. Jerome to my reading list.  After the intial nausea of exam memories subsided, I decided to indeed give it a try.  And as luck would have it, I found a 2-in-1 omnibus of JKJ on the same discount table that also housed the Lynn Truss Treasury that let me down.

The book contained two works of JKJ - "The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow" and "Three Men in a Boat".  "Three Men in a Boat" is elegantly written, makes you smile, if not guffaw, and makes for good reading while you are waiting outside your child's school, sitting on a rather sharp culvert that is not particularly gentle on your rear.  But what bowled me over were the essays in "The Idle Thoughts...".  The essays are not only humorous, but brutally true and thought provoking, a rare combination.  Here is a paragraph from an essay titled "On Vanity and Vanities" that caught my attention.

As for love, flattery is its very life-blood.  Fill a person with love for themselves, and what runs over will be your share, says a certain witty and truthful Frenchman whose name I can't for the life of me remember. (Confound it ! I never can remember names when I want to).  Tell a girl she is an angel, only more angelic than an angel; that she is a goddess, only more graceful, queenly and heavenly than the average goddess, that she is more fairy-like than Titania, more beautiful than Venus, more enchangint than Parthenope; more adorable, lovely and radiant, in short, than any other woman that ever did live, does live or could live, and you will make a very favorable impression upon her trusting little heart. Sweet innnocent ! She will believe every word you say, it is so easy to deceive a woman - in this way.

No one writes like that anymore.  Just how much more elegant even the swear phrase "Confound it" is, compared to banal, vulgar words used today.  The lines flow uniterrupted, and paint a picture in your mind, of that which is being described. 

But raptures on language aside, I believe what he says is indeed true.  Women are easily deceived by flattery, the only unfortunate development since the days of JKJ being, she is not deceived enough.  The world would be a much better place with more flattery than exists now.  As the Frenchman whose name eluded JKJ said, love for oneself can only overflow into love for others.  And we could definitely do with more of that, can't we?

After the stiff-upperlip-smile of PGW, I chose for the next read, the Lynne Truss Treasury that I had picked up at Landmark for Rs. 90 (< $2), on a sale table, underneath mounds of "How to win friends and influence people", "Linda Goodman Lovesigns" and such other flush-worthy mush. Having been bowled over in the past with "Eats, Shoots and Leaves", the heart bled at the mix Truss had got into, and I took it upon myself to rescue the damsel in distress and give her a new home in our shining new book shelf.

Now, as I labour through the many pages of the first novel (One Lousy Free Packet of Seed) in the collection,  I wonder if its rightful place was right at that table.  Agreed that the author has a command of language and punctuation that is enviable. The story, if there is any in the first place, is hardly of the calibre I had imagined.  Perhaps it is early days yet, and the story would pick up after the third chapter I am constipating at, or perhaps this is an exceptionally bad piece in the collection, to give it a benefit of doubt.  Yet, I am wondering if I should continue to torture myself with this story, or perhaps move on to another in the collection, or her columns perhaps, or perhaps to a completely different book, like Erma Bombeck, to lift the sagging literary spirit - not that Erma has any literary merit to speak of, at least she makes me laugh. This first story in the book reminds me of a trashy pulp fiction I read as an adolescent called "I  still miss my man, but my aim is getting better" by Sarah Shankman.  I am not sure if that is a compliment to Shankman or Truss.

This, as usual, leads me to a tangential topic. Some people associate memories to smells, some to sights; I, to books.  I get a funny feeling in my stomach at the memory of "I still miss..." because I read it at a time that I was laid off my second job within six months during the 1997 recession, with a credit card balance, an expiring visa and no hope in sight and I had constant crabs gnawing the innards as I read the book to drown my sorrows.  Similarly, dude and I had listened to an audio book during my first trimester, and any audio book I hear since, makes me feel nausious and crave for saltines.

Back to where we started.  Should I or shouldn't I proceed with Truss? 
 

Thematingseason

"As the days went by, these unsettled outlooks became more unsettled, those V-shaped depressions even V-er.  It was on a Friday that I clocked in at Deverill Hall.  By the morning of Tuesday I could no longer conceal it from myself that I was losing the old pep and that, unless the clouds changed their act and started dishing out at an early date a consierably more substantial slab of silver lining than they were coming across with at the moment, I should soon be definitely down among the wine and spirits."

I don't claim to be an expert writer, but writer I am by profession, by virtue of which I once gave a lecture to some kids in college about what constitutes science witing and what are the must-dos and  dare-not-dos of science writing.  The above paragraph that starts chapter 10 of The Mating Season by P.G. Wodehouse violates every single "rule" I layed out to the students - never write long sentences, never use too many clauses and phrases in the same sentence, always use active voice, do not use platitudes and adjectives that do not qualify the noun objectively, to name a few. My heart should ideally bleed at the total disdain for my rules.  Yet, every book by PGW I re-read for the teenth time since adolescence makes me love them more.  The easy flow of language, the exaggerated use of unexpectedly apt words, the complex sentences that take a couple of reads to untangle and understand, and the intricate plot that involves knots within knots that are unravelled beautifully - I am yet to read another humour writer who has appealed to me as much as PGW. 

As tempting it may be to believe that PGW is a genius whose writing just happens by chance,  a read of his last, unfinished novel Sunset at Blandings proves otherwise.  It is surprising to know that PGW starts his novels with only a semblence of a half-baked plot, and writes up the bare skeleton of the story, berefit of language sophistication, satire and the tongue-in-cheek that is so characteristic of him. It reads rather like a poor story by a wannabe writer without any talent. I believe that all his novels start this way. And yet, after many many revisions (I read somewhere that each novel goes through 14-20 revisions before it goes to print) the half-baked boring story metamorphoses into the side splitting, one-of-a-kind stories that bring Bertie or Bladndings castle in front of your eye..

I am typing up this post on my husband's micro-mini HCL tablet PC, where my fingers don't fly like they do in my safe and trusted monster of a desktop computer, and I can wager that I would post it without a single re-read.  I have a long way to go to even aspire to write like my hero. 

"The family that eats together.....gets indigestion"

Love you Erma.
Chapter title from "Family. The Ties that Bind...And Gag"
Thanks Kavi.