Saturday by Ian McEwan

–Saturday by Ian McEwan–

My rating: **** and 1/2

Of late I have found myself ebbing away from critiquing books and movies. Blame that on the academia hell that medicine is. But off and on, comes a book so breathtakingly fresh–it gives this whole new lease of life to my hobby of reading. Ian McEwan and his latest book, Saturday is precisely that.

Spanning just a single day (yup, its the Saturday that gives the book its name), the novel sees Henry Perowne, a neurosurgeon waking up in the middle of a Feb 2003 night and drifting about near his window overlooking a posh central London street. A comet flashes him by just that very instant but as he’s about to wake up his asleep wife, he hears the loud rumble of the aircraft. What he thought was a comet is in fact a plane coming down in flames. As it happens in such moments, he starts off on a thinking frenzy… contemplating whether he should sign in at his hospital (negates that as the plane’s going towards Heathrow direction–far removed from his own borough), fixates himself on the plane, its state of passengers… with one thought leading to another, Perowne starts introspecting bigtime. On everything. His wife Rosalind, his two kids–the blues rocker Theo and the poet daughter, Daisy; his job, his friends, sick mother, father-in-law, life, present political state of affairs–the impending Iraq war. But of course, all this doesn’t stop the actual Saturday to dawn. And with this new day comes a host of incidents–Perowne shopping for his family reunion, his visit to Lily, his mentally demented mother and on his way to a Saturday squash match, his brush with a ruffian called Baxter. Later that day, the re-intrusion of Baxter in his life brings probably his worst fears alive.

Saturday boasts of probably the most liveliest of first person monologues I have had the chance to read in contemporary literature besides Zoe Heller’s Notes on a Scandal and Neil Cross’s Always the Sun. The characterisation is par excellence. With only one character–Henry–allowed to lay open his psyche in 300 pages, this is one amazing and thoroughly entertaining character study. Right from his constant blabbering to himself and his analysis on almost everything his eyes fall on to his introspection on family, age, politics, literature, children, God, fate–I saw eye to eye on almost every sentence of him. Every word rung a knowing bell, so its no understatement that for me even the tiniest of movements that Henry made, made me hold my breath. I could almost feel his fears, vulnerabilities, triumphs… seldom have I found a connection so astutely made by an author with his reader.

The setting couldn’t get more contemporary and topical than it is–watching Henry reacting to the whole plane incident and the media coverage of the incident the following day is a telling account of how deeply politics and national concern have permeated our everyday lives. Though I do doubt if the general people found the neurosurgical procedures almost as much a delight as I did, it was indeed a pleasant surprise to see an author incorporating these in the most unpretentious way (Robin Cook, please read this). But of course the moments one does get illusioned into believing that this is indeed an autobiography of a surgeon is when we find Henry suddenly and randomly introspecting “scientifically”. Then be it people walking down the street described in a fit down to their neurotransmitters or Henry deducing the neurological disorder of a ruffian who’s about to give him a second punch. Numerous tiny touches like these coupled with those in which Henry checks himself from his thoughts, trying to focus in on the present (dunno how many times that’s happened with me) and yet finding it difficult to hold back a dam of thoughts–you almost feel sitting next to Henry. Hearing him speak about life. Which makes it sometimes a bit too shocking and difficult to read (the whole sequence of Baxter’s re-intrusion and the turn of events thereafter sends chills down the spine–its that real). But since the book culminates at a feel-good, safe juncture (again, entirely plausible in context of the main character), it does make one think about the importance of a family–our natural confidantes, in events of tragedy and humiliation.

I guess just for evoking such a deep interest and empathy from his reader in a seemingly anonymous life of a human being in a remote corner of a metropolis and how his life, his opinions, his expectations from others get their shape from experiences big and small, pleasant and unpleasant, McEwan deserves a pat on the back. It might seem a banal and futile exercise in fiction as I clinically dissect it here, but trust McEwan to rope all that self-analysis, all those perceptions of a single human in the classiest, richest, most enjoyable and possibly the most quotable prose ever. Its like amidst all those larger-than-life thrillers, convenient A to B adventure fiction and hyper-intellectual magic realism and fantasy fiction is this beautiful book that chronicles a life of one of us.

There’s something McEwan does fundamentally right in this book and that is, he writes about a layman, breathes life into him and takes us on a roller-coaster ride with him as he experiences the weakest and strongest moments in a single day, a Saturday. I am touched by how thoughtful and ultimately humane it is.

PS: Can’t wait to read McEwan’s other works. If critics are to be believed, this isn’t even his best. God, what is this guy!

Deception Point by Dan Brown: Book Review

My rating: * and 1/2

This book’s a mess. And quite a big one at that. Just like his much-undeservingly-hyped Da Vinci Code, Deception Point takes a astrophysic-geographical premise and botches it up bigtime. Yes, like before, the author’s USP is his reliance on reader’s ignorance and appetite for thrills. He delivers amazingly on the latter account but the moment you question one “fact” and stop ingesting and believing every bit of tosh the author throws with a calculately asssured tone, everything falls apart–the facts about NASA, the facts about American elections, campaigning, country’s issues. Clearly, Brown’s promise at appearing to present us a well-researched book is, for yet another time, a big farce.

Yes, I do have to admit that the book’s extremely well-written for the first 200-250 pages (that is, when we haven’t had a full glimpse of his laughable premise). Sadly, once the cat’s out of the bag the graph follows that of any C-grade hollywood action flick and the kind of saved-by-whisker escapades we readers are made to gulp (not one, not two but hundreds–one after another) makes you first stop caring about the characters and ultimately, despise the book absolutely. In fact, the last 50 pages are so over-written and so unbelievable, that I had to glimpse at the first and the last line of every para to just finish this godawful book.

I just wish Mr.Brown stops being such a pseudo and uses his decidely well-honed thriller writing skills to better use. He has the potential to write truly fantastic thrillers if only he brings a little plausibility and stops being so over-sensationalist in every book of his. With his dimwit theories and imaginative conspiracies–he has done precious little above brainwashing ignorant readers.

Clear by Nicola Barker

My rating: *

This is one mammoth excuse for a book. The writing is downright atrocious– the writer makes a big pretence of being humorous by injecting side-comments in brackets in every damn line, which after a point of time makes reading absolutely impossible and really gives the impression that Ms Barker simply couldn’t be bothered. And in an attempt to be this central nutcase of a character– one gets to swallow lots of layman slang and swear words.

What really kills the whole book is the absolute lack of direction or motivation in the book. I picked it up thinking it would be a joyride peeking into the lives of thousands of spectators enjoying the David Blaine spectacle… but the observations by the author are so downright routine and so below-mediocre in sentiment, that I felt like tearing this book apart after 2 hours of reading. And don’t even get me started on the nitwitted, boring characters (esp a pseudo-philosopher called Solomon) and the pointless interactions between them–pages on pages are wasted on rudderless conversations. The book’s so outrageously and unnecessarily over-written, one simply doesn’t fathom exactly what is the author’s point?

Its really a shame that cr*p like this actually gets published and some critics actually deem this superficial piece of writing as innovative!

My take– don’t fall for the enticing blurb and cover. This is one of the most uninteresting, pretentious, senseless, shoddily-written books I’ve read EVER. An advice for Ms Barker–you desperately need a break!

Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller

Notes on a Scandal: ***

As a reading experience, Notes on a Scandal can well boast to be one of the better written works in contemporary fiction, but beyond that its little else. Which is a pity because the wit and the sheer intelligence of Heller as an author which keeps you rivetted bigtime for most of the book, suddenly fades in the last few pages.

Its surprising too, for the book’s got everything working in its favour–a superbly etched out, thoroughly believable protagonist; a creative writing style which attempts to view at a “forbidden” teacher-student affair from a fresh angle and a pace which can leave many thrillers panting for breath. And yet, it fizzles out completely towards the climax.

Sans this decidedly underwhelming conclusion, the rest of the book is genuinely addictive and just as a proof of the author’s proficience–she manages to hook us with the first person narration. Any lesser author, and this would have been one unreadable monologue which I wouldn’t have read beyond the 10th page.

I won’t get overtly indulgent here and start quoting any lines from the book because that would really take away almost all the entertainment value for any prospective readers. All I’d say is that its a subtle study of the psychology of an obsessive individual and charters the graph of her relationships (particularly with one teacher whose “scandal” gives the book its name) with style and speed, and though it doesn’t quite end up as bold or sinister as the blurb or the title might suggest, its candidness does warrant one read.

Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: **** 

As you struggle to hold this decidedly heavy hardback between your fingers, try a different reading position for the nth time, reading every word as Harry and Dumbledore wait for a boat to emerge from murky waters of an accursed cave, you chuckle to yourself the way you enjoy these childlike thrills. The book reminds you of your early teenage years when Goosebumps, Star Wars and other umpteen alien-invasion books when every page held your breath, when you wished you didn’t have to read the next page and yet couldn’t sleep reading it, and the next, and then one more. Undiluted, unadulterated thrill, with zero indulgence and hundred percent action. In a world of verbosity and prolixity, its just this skill of Rowling—her ability to entertain continuously for the six or so hours—that makes every Potter-maniac above 18 years defend the series with “Its not a kids book.” With the Half Blood Prince, Rowling makes a comeback and shows why she deserves every penny of the 24 million pounds she earned on the book’s first day of release.

Chronicling Potter’s sixth year in the magical world and Hogwarts, the book starts off on a very strange note—the British Prime Minister worrying over improbable, untimely catastrophes in his country till the Ministry of Magic Apparates and informs that it’s the magic world interfering with the real world—A chilling premise which is left like that as the spotlight moves to Harry, who is being fetched by Dumbledore from his Privet Drive to convince a new teacher, Slughorn to commence teaching again at Hogwarts. Of course, the atmosphere is darker than ever at the Wizarding School what with children getting randomly cursed by touching necklaces, drinking potions and Draco Malfoy disappearing for most of the term time into the Unknowable Room. Harry’s got lessons with Dumbledore, and to keep him even more occupied are Ron-Hermoine cock fights, his new captaincy of Gryffindor’s Quidditch Team, his dilemma over his fresh crush on Ron’s sister Ginny and an unknown male calling himself the “Half-Blood Prince” whose scribbles and notes on an old Potions book have escalated Harry’s knowledge of jinxes, hexes and curses like never before. Exactly who is he? Is Malfoy really upto something big or is it Harry imagining? Will Voldemort strike this year? Read the book to find out

Arguably, what makes the Half Blood Prince the most momentous and important book in the whole series is the amount of talk that takes place between Dumbledore and Harry in the numerous lessons that Harry has with the Headmaster. Everytime Dumbledore empties a memory into his Pensieve and everytime both him and Harry jump headlong into this memory sink, we get a breathtaking account of the book’s main antagonist, Voldemort’s past and the book’s graph soars to an all-time high. Right from his innate magical skills, his ancestory, his naming, the troubled times of his parents and most of all his time as a student of (hold your breath) Dumbledore are to be read to be believed. Layer by layer, as Rowling’s crisp writing and gripping narrative peels off the hitherto well-shielded Voldemort’s past, the whole series gets a newfound depth and understanding.

Even otherwise, the way the book keeps developing the already-established characters, especially Potter himself, is amazing. The slow but definite growth that Harry shows with his uninhibited spouting Voldemort’s name, uttering curses, understanding his relationship with Ron and Hermoine and most of all, an understanding of himself as the prime hero is a welcome relief from the peckish and confused teenager he’s been for the last 2-3 books. Meanwhile, the author knows that the only way Ron can be different is by being dumb and the only way Hermoine can still be distinguished from a barrage of similar aged females like Luna Lovegood, Ginny, Lavender Brown, Katie Bell, Parvati Patil is how much time she spends in the library and how quickly she raises her hand everytime a question is asked in a lesson. Predictable though it might be, the camaraderie between the lead triplet still retains its ingenuity and spontaneity that’s been synonymous with it in the past. Joining the feel-good brigade are the Weasley brothers and surprisingly Hagrid, whose “summat” and “yer” and “ter” and concern for Magical Creatures is nowhere as boring as his obnoxious tale in the last book.

With every new installation comes the expectation of new characters and newer magic and though this talk-heavy book gives us precious little in terms of both, whatever little that makes it to the pages lingers long after you have read the last line—namely the Felix Felicis (luck-enhancing) potion, Horcruxes (the darkest of all curses) and the numerous other ones which Harry has fun trying thanks to the scribbles of the Half Blood Prince. For a change, there’s blood too—the curses slash skin deep, the maledicted doorways require even the most able of wizards to slit through their wrists and let the blood spurt to open them and a fair amount of peril too with not-so-subtle references to soul-splitting, exorcism, dead bodies wringing to life, women being physically abused and Rowling’s penchant to make the series darker is alone enough to give it an above 12 certificate.

Of course there are some hiccoughs too in the narrative and the most audible one is that the series has aged. And however much Rowling hides it in the thrills and chills, there are sections where you really wish to be over soon. Like Harry’s stay at the Dursleys, or his customary visit to the Burrow, or him boarding the Hogwarts Express and having a duel or an argument with Draco—it gives a strong feeling of having been-there-seen-that and it irritates you even more when you are aching to complete the book within a day and these “regular” chapters keep popping up and dividing your attention span. Though Quidditch matches have been reasonably truncated now to brief 3-4 page affairs with fairly entertaining commentaries, the book does hit a low every time Professor Slughorn throws a party for his favourites or everytime Neville Longbottom gets a charm wrong.

From the plot’s point of view, the assassination of one of the most lovable characters of the book is rather implausible considering his ace intelligence and ultra fine tuned perception. Also, the consequent climactic duel proves that the “good” namely the Hogwarts’ Professors and the Ministry are so woefully weak that a mere group of Death eaters leave them all tattered, battered and decidedly defeated. Its only now that one wonders whether the “increased” security, the school’s highly charmed outer shield, the Secrecy Sensors and most of all, the exceptionally well trained and learned Professors are anything more than useless twaddle.

Of course one tends to overlook the flaws when the book’s so written. Free of the unnecessary fat that so plagued the Order of the Phoenix, the writing is sharp, incisive, very British (for proof count the craps and innits and summats) and thoroughly enjoyable. From jinxing to teenage crushes, from Potter Apparating to Potter mourning, from the confines of Harry’s room at Dursleys to the vastness of the accursed caves and towers—the words, the expressions and the descriptions seldom miss their effect. There’s less effort gone into creating an atmosphere, and understandably so—being sixth in the series the book’s teeming with the outlandish-comic magical terminology its so easily inherited from its five predecessors which Rowling doesn’t have time to explain, and besides this reason, the fact that there are some crucial points which link to The Chamber of Secrets and Goblet of Fire, make sure you have read both of them before coming anywhere near this one.

With this rather dark and dispiriting, not ultimately gratifying (being the penultimate) yet excellent sixth book, Rowling makes sure that her bizarre “created” world of wizards loses none of its believability and to an extent, originality. The book shouts for a sequel—so much so that it makes you wonder why she didn’t just stick 300 more pages to it and finish it for once. Hence, the need of the hour is a quick release of the series finale lest she wants us, Pottermaniacs, to still love and feel for the Scarhead as we have been doing for years.

To all those still sitting there, gaping at the screen wondering what I have been talking about-just get your lazy ass up and read the series NOW!