I read. Gradually I feel my taste has become more refined. Or perhaps I feel it should be so. Under the influence of the rising demands of my elevated taste or its pressing supposition, I have started reading the works of art which are percieved to be read exclusively by the people of superior taste.
I read a few great works of prose by some of the icons of literature. It includes Dr Zhivago by Pasternak, Hundred years of solitude by Marquez, The stranger by Camus to name a few. I shared a common feeling while reading each of these books- I found each of them overestimated. I finished the last page and closed the book with a sigh of relief.
The next feeling was more remarkable. It started with Dr Zhivago. Somehow I felt that I was not able to forget that snow covered landscape that the author has painted before my mind. This was amazing because I had dismissed the book with the verdict - 'overestimated'. I read the lines again which I had underlined when I went home. I was thoroughly enthralled by it this time. The genius of Pasternak was revealing itself to my mind which is, I admit, difficult to be permeated by if not impervious to the novel ideas. I was slightly ashamed of my ineptness but more than that I was happy to discover it, though late. One of my friends used to call me tubelight. She was right.
This incident of late realization was not an exceptional case, a deviation. And for my good. Marquez made little sense to me and I rated his next book 'Love at the times of cholera' better. But my lack of understanding couldnt enjoy its stay in my mind for long and a sudden realization evicted it forever. The image of Pietro Crespi and the butterflies following him occupied my dreams and reveries. I felt the way I looked at the world changed with time. It's he who developed my sense of imagery and more than that- the faculty of olfaction. Now I smell songs, smell words... I can smell each page of Arundhati Roy's The God of small things or Rut aa gayi re (1947 Earth) because I had met Marquez in the way.
The stranger was covered in a train journey. But it look me a long to uncover it. Why this fuss all about was my unsaid response. Later on when the picture Camus created refused to escape my mind, I understood what makes things great. Unlike 1984 which gave me goosebumps every minute I read and faded sooner than later, the stranger was anything but love at the first sight. But he was not in hurry either. He took the little space I contemptuously gave in my little mind and slowly started growing making even my mind grow with him. It was extraordinary!!
Good books dont end with their pages. They start with their last pages rather. They grow within us. They sustain us. This is what i have realized and written on the last good book I have finished (if this is a right word)- Narcissus and Goldmund.
The relation between a good mind and a good book is like a friendship of two good human beings. As a subhashit(Sanskrit-word of wisdom) says - the friendship of petty people is like the shadow of first half which reduces as the day progresses whereas the friendship of noble people is like the shadow of seconds half which grows larger with time.
Dont you feel the same? With books, with music, with people?
I was relieved to find myself loving the last great piece of literature I read- Old man and the sea by Ernest Hemingway. He must be a great man to have written such a beautiful book. It is far far better than any bestseller self-help book you will see in the market. And here I am talking about only one feature of this great work - its ability to inspire. I think it is, at least in parts, one of the best explanation of the widely misunderstood shloka as I undderstand it- Karmanyevadhikaraste ma faleshu kadachana...
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