So the timing for the holiday read couldn't be more perfect; I have just completed Barack Obama's Dreams from My Father, which has become one of my all time favourite books. It's definitely one which I can easily read again and again! Prior to that, I read The Audacity of Hope - also by Obama. This is more of a political biography, which details Obama's rise through Chicago, and then Illinois, and now challenging for the White House.

I spent about an hour and a half, on Tuesday, looking for a decent book to take on holiday. I am more of a non-fiction reader; the only fiction which I would possibly embrace is something like The Kite Runner - which can easily be narrated as a true story.

I picked up four books in particular, and although I would have ordinarily bought all of them - I wanted to make sure that I actually read through at least one of them before I possibly lost interest. The books that I picked were A Thousand Splendid Suns, No Country for Old Men, The Satanic Verses, and Midnights Children.

Khalid Hosseini seems to be an excellent author. Although he has penned only a couple of books, his style of writing really captures the reader and draws them into the background which he is talking about. A Thousand Splendid Suns has received good reviews, but if it anything similar to the Kite Runner, then I think I will spend my entire holiday just reading!

I have never read Cormac Mccarthy. He seems to be a distinguished writer, and I hope the book is better than the movie. The movie was excellent; I watched the entire movie from the edge of my seat... really... I most probably didn't touch the backrest once. However, I don't think I would read No Country for Old men on holiday because I think the effect would be the same as the first book. It would be too intriguing a read!

Which left me with Salman Rushdie. There was a very very simple reason as to why I couldn't read The Satanic verses on Holiday. I am travelling to Dubai - an "Islamic" state. I dont think I would want to be stopped at the airport with a book which has been blasphemous to the religion of Islam. Which left me with Midnights Children.....

Salman Rushdie is a very difficult author to read. The language in his books is intense. I think reading an author like him would be perfect because there is no way that I could be lost in the book all the time, yet his writing is claimed to be such, that the reader always wants more!

I have started reading Midnights Children, but I seem lost on the first chapter already... perhaps I should start again.

So what are you guys reading at the moment?

Midnight's Children (Vintage Classic)

Meanwhile, I had a quick glance at Little Hut of Leaping Fishes by Chiew-Siah Tei.  It has a promising start - her prose style is captivating - but I can only read one at a time...  I really have to speed up with Midnight's Children!

Little Hut of Leaping Fishes

So I've pretty much been wet for five days straight. And not in the fun way. What with reviewing mounds of outdoor theater here in Boston (As You Like It in the Common gets interrupted by torrential downpour smack in the middle of "All the world's a stage...") and camping and mountain climbing in the Mahoosucs, I suppose it's not surprising. But seriously, New England--give me a fucking break, will you?

Sooner or later I'll end up like the forest-bound French regiment in Calvino's The Baron in the Trees, covered in moss and moisture and looking more plant than human. Or like Moist in Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog: "Is there anything you need dampened... or made soggy?"

Anyway, it's nice to be sitting in my dry apartment, even if all the lightbulbs have been mysteriously dying, and the water pressure in the bathroom seems to ebb with the rains.

Mt. Success, take two was indeed a success, if a dubious one; it was so rainy and foggy up there, we could barely tell we were on a mountaintop. But the plane crash near the summit (from 1954!) was fucking awesome. Here's a shot taken partway up the trail, taken with my camera that's now half-ruined from all the wet:

Just started reading Midnight's Children by Rushdie. So far, reads like an Indian version of 100 Years of Solitude--which is by no means a bad thing. Every nation needs its magical realist epic novelist-laureate, I suppose.

In other news, I am bored with growing out my hair and am resisting the strong urge to chop it all off again. And I would love if dear little fuzzy life would slow down for a sec so I could maybe take a breath. But breathing is a luxury of the aristocracy.

Enchantress of Florence is a book about Qara Koz,the youngest sister of Babar,the grand father of Akbar the great,in whose time the book is set.The book is about men,women,courtesans,wars,beliefs,queens,princes,princesses ,art,architecture,magic,tales etc of the then Europe and Asia.without going too deep into the book(and thus making this review a spoiler) ,i will try to talk about the book as a whole.

"In the beginning there were three friends,Niccolo 'il Machia',Agostino Vespucci and Antonino Argalia.' And Argalia the turk,takes the descendant of Timur the lame as a left over of war.She and her servant mirror(who is a reflection of her) are brought to Florence after he leaves the land of the Turks behind.Here the Enchantress as she comes to be known,changes the lives of the people of Florence with her magic,until one day the duke is killed.The witch hunter are brought in,but she escapes.Fast forward into the 'present' and "a tall yellow-haired young European traveller calling himself 'Mogor dell'Amore',the Mughal of love,arrives at the court of the Great Mughal,the emperor Akbar"(from the book).he claims himself to be a relative of Akbar and he tells the Shahnshah about his mother.the tale carries itself ,with the jewels,the role of women in guarding tales and the lust of men.

The book has a lot of history to it and links the various events across Europe and Asia.In the last part it also touches upon the "mundus novus"(America).The book is quite rich in description of the various thing in that era.It also 'touches' upon 'fucking'(sorry i tried not to use the word,but then when the author uses it so many times,it has to come in the review somewhere) .If you have the patience to read a book,which frankly could be written in fewer words,then this is a nice read.it didn't get boring though and in a few places I was rolling in laughter because of the absurdity in the way which a few things were described( and the author leads you to believe in them too).this is the first time i picked up a Rushdie and i was surprised by it.All in all,if you have the time give it a read.

No book in modern times has matched the uproar sparked by Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses, which earned its author a death sentence. Furor aside, it is a marvelously erudite study of good and evil, a feast of language served up by a writer at the height of his powers, and a rollicking comic fable. The book begins with two Indians, Gibreel Farishta ("for fifteen years the biggest star in the history of the Indian movies") and Saladin Chamcha, a Bombay expatriate returning from his first visit to his homeland in 15 years, plummeting from the sky after the explosion of their jetliner, and proceeds through a series of metamorphoses, dreams and revelations. Rushdie's powers of invention are astonishing in this Whitbread Prize winner.

Download Link:

http://rapidshare.com/files/51166512/The_Satanic_Verses.zip

It's hard to know how to read this letter of yours. Is it carefully constructed to imitate the tone of a curmudgeonly and egocentric fool, which would make it a masterpiece of parody and indicate that you have a sly and self-deprecating sense of humor? Or are you — could you really be — such a petty kind of man, one who would take an attack on his signing rate to be an excuse to start a pissing contest on the letters page of a national UK paper with a bombastic and loud-mouthed writer like Malcolm Gluck? Which is it? I just can't tell!

Here's a link to the "controversy."

And here's the letter in its entirety, as sent to The Guardian newspaper:

It's always a delight to return to London from an arduous two-month book tour of North America to find myself being accused of "illusions" - that is, lying - in your letters columns. The weirdest part of Malcolm Gluck's unpleasant little missive (July 17) is that he begins by saying it's impossible that I could have signed my name 1,000 times in an hour and ends up by revealing that he did it himself. Anyone who has ever attempted to sign a lot of books quickly knows, as Gluck says, that the key is to have the support of bookstore staff experienced in the construction of a smooth "assembly line". He tells us he had the assistance of such staff when he did it, but refuses to believe that I could have.

So let me be clear: I did not initial the books, but signed my full name; I did have the support of experienced staff at Ingrams book distributors in Nashville (and at many other US bookstores), who will confirm that among the fastest present-day signers of books are President Jimmy Carter, the novelist Amy Tan, and myself. I understand that Mr Gluck may be miffed that his own accomplishment has been equalled or bettered. That does not entitle him to accuse another writer of untruthfulness, without a shred of evidence to support the accusation. And, if memory serves, I actually signed the 1,000 books in Nashville in 57 minutes as against his 1,001 in 59, so his record is toast.
Salman Rushdie
London

Povestea este intr-adevar senzationala. 1001 de copii s-au nascut in India in noaptea obtinerii independentei acestei tari. 1001 de copii s-au nascut intre miezul noptii si ora 1. 1001 de copii din miez noapte, toti inzestrati cu puteri supranaturale. Dar povestea ii apartine numai unuia, Saleem Sinai, unul din cei doi copii nascuti exact la miezul noptii.

Trebuie sa recunosc faptul ca Rushdie scrie senzational in anumite momente. Iar descrierile sunt incredibile. Nu-ti trebuie decat putina imaginatie si te si vezi pe strazile din Bombay, vezi batrani mare mesteca tutun, participi la sarbatori in strada, sau dimpotriva, esti in capul revoltelor. Dar poti la fel de bine sa fii intr-o barca, in jungla, in timpul musonului. Sa simti lipitorile cum iti sug sangele, sa simti gustul viermilor si gandacilor mancati la cina, la adapostul unor musamale si frunze.

Rushdie e un mare scriitor. Si un mare visator, ceea ce ma duce, iar, cu gandul la cineva cunoscut. As putea sa va spun povestea lui Saleem, dar atunci cartea nu ar mai avea niciun farmec, nu? Pot sa va spun ca, dincolo de descrierile extrem de detaliate, este si o carte a introspectiilor in proprie minte. Poti sa simti teama celor 4 soldati rataciti in jungla, poti sa simti furia lui Shiva, poti sa faci extrem de multe, nu-ti trebuie decat putina imaginatie.

Ceea ce face aceasta carte geniala e alternanta realitate-fictiune. Ai datele exacte ale unor intamplari istorice, care sunt vazute insa prin ochii unui copil ales, inzestrat cu puteri... magice. Si, desi esti constient ca e pura fictiune, pare atat de credibil. Dar e imposibil ca in noaptea independentei Indiei, intre 00.00-1.00 sa se fi nascut 1001 copii inzestrati cu daruri incredibile. E imposibil nu? In India celor 1.000.000 de zei pare destul de credibil...

Antes versionó a Tom Waits en su disco debut Anywhere I Lay My Head; ahora, Scarlett Johansson se atreve con The Cure y su celebérrimo tema Boys Don’t Cry. La musa de Woody Allen interpretó esta canción para Live Session, un EP que sólo se puede conseguir de momento a través de la tienda iTunes estadounidense.

Grabado en directo, Live Session cuenta con siete temas, entre los que aparecen cinco del álbum debut de Scarlett y otra nueva versión de Waits (Innocent When You Dream). 

Lista de temas de Live Session de Scarlett Johansson:

1. Anywhere I Lay My Head
2. Innocent When You Dream
3. Falling Down
4. I Wish I Was in New Orleans
5. Green Grass
6. Who Are You?
7. Boys Don´t Cry

Y como postre, el vídeo de Falling Down, tema incluido en Anywhere I Lay My Head, uno de los dos cortes que interpreta en su ópera prima junto con David Bowie (la otra es Fanning’ Street). El suertudo que la besa en el cuello es el escritor Salman Rushdie (Los versos satánicos)

Está claro que Scarlett se lo ha montado muy bien para entrar con buen pie en la música, al rodearse, de distintas formas, de nombres ilustres en el mundo de la cultura: Waits, Bowie, The Cure y Rushdie. Un gran efecto llamada el ampararse en los mejores, lo que se une al buen momento por el que pasa la actriz y a su fama, merecida, de sex symbol. ¿Quién dijo que las rubias son tontas?

Anyone who has spent time in the developing world will know that one of Bombay's claims to fame is the enormous film industry that churns out hundreds of musical fantasies each year. The other, of course, is native son Salman Rushdie--less prolific, perhaps than Bollywood, but in his own way just as fantastical. Though Rushdie's novels lack the requisite six musical numbers that punctuate every Bombay talkie, they often share basic plot points with their cinematic counterparts. Take, for example, his 1980 Booker Prize-winning Midnight's Children: two children born at the stroke of midnight on August 15, 1947--the moment at which India became an independent nation--are switched in the hospital. The infant scion of a wealthy Muslim family is sent to be raised in a Hindu tenement, while the legitimate heir to such squalor ends up establishing squatters' rights to his unlucky hospital mate's luxurious bassinet. Switched babies are standard fare for a Hindi film, and one can't help but feel that Rushdie's world-view--and certainly his sense of the fantastical--has been shaped by the films of his childhood. But whereas the movies, while entertaining, are markedly mediocre, Midnight's Children is a masterpiece, brilliant written, wildly unpredictable, hilarious and heartbreaking in equal measure.

Rushdie's narrator, Saleem Sinai, is the Hindu child raised by wealthy Muslims. Near the beginning of the novel, he informs us that he is falling apart--literally:

I mean quite simply that I have begun to crack all over like an old jug--that my poor body, singular, unlovely, buffeted by too much history, subjected to drainage above and drainage below, mutilated by doors, brained by spittoons, has started coming apart at the seams. In short, I am literally disintegrating, slowly for the moment, although there are signs of an acceleration.

In light of this unfortunate physical degeneration, Saleem has decided to write his life story, and, incidentally, that of India's, before he crumbles into "(approximately) six hundred and thirty million particles of anonymous, and necessarily oblivious, dust." It seems that within one hour of midnight on India's independence day, 1,001 children were born. All of those children were endowed with special powers: some can travel through time, for example; one can change gender. Saleem's gift is telepathy, and it is via this power that he discovers the truth of his birth: that he is, in fact, the product of the illicit coupling of an Indian mother and an English father, and has usurped another's place. His gift also reveals the identities of all the other children and the fact that it is in his power to gather them for a "midnight parliament" to save the nation. To do so, however, would lay him open to that other child, christened Shiva, who has grown up to be a brutish killer. Saleem's dilemma plays out against the backdrop of the first years of independence: the partition of India and Pakistan, the ascendancy of "The Widow" Indira Gandhi, war, and, eventually, the imposition of martial law.

We've seen this mix of magical thinking and political reality before in the works of Günter Grass and Gabriel García Márquez. What sets Rushdie apart is his mad prose pyrotechnics, the exuberant acrobatics of rhyme and alliteration, pun, wordplay, proper and "Babu" English chasing each other across the page in a dizzying, exhilarating cataract of words. Rushdie can be laugh-out-loud funny, but make no mistake--this is an angry book, and its author's outrage lends his language wings. Midnight's Children is Salman Rushdie's irate, affectionate love song to his native land--not so different from a Bombay talkie, after all.

Download Link:

http://rapidshare.com/files/130293325/tmidnights_child.zip

We live in a culture that routinely eroticizes and glamorizes its consumer technology, notably the motorcar. We also live in the Age of Fame, in which the intensity of our gaze upon celebrity turns the famous into commodities, too, a transformation that has often proved powerful enough to destroy them. (Step Across This Line: Collected Non-Fiction:1992-2002, p. 109).

And a little later:

The camera is not, finally, a suitor in its own right. True it seeks to possess the Beauty, to capture her on film, for economic gain. But that's a euphemism. The brutal truth is that the camera is acting on our behalf. If the camera acts voyeuristically, it is because our relationship with the Beauty has always been voyeuristic. If blood is on the hands of the photographers and the photo agencies and the news media's photo editors, it is also on ours. What newspaper do you read? When you saw the pictures of Dodi and Diana cavorting together, did you say, that's none of my business, and turn the page? We are the lethal voyeurs. (Step Across This Line: Collected Non-Fiction: 1992-2002, p. 111).

And so it goes. Rushdie wrote these words a decade ago, but they could have been written yesterday (except we could substitute names like "Britney" or - God forbid - "Brangelina" instead). The point remains the same, that in the world of global capitalism there is a strong tendency to reduce people to commodities, mere tools to be used in the all-consuming game of attaining power. This is glaringly evident in our relentless - and sometimes merciless - fixation on the private lives of the rich and famous, where events in their lives are played out before us like a serial novel. This is all part of the "entertainment industry" where untold sums of money are spent (and made) by turning a human life into a carnival sideshow. It all comes together through a perfect storm of technology (cameras, internet, mass printing etc), a "free" market that runs purely on supply and demand, and, very likely, the boredom and loneliness we experience in a high-tech, consumer culture that offers endless options but no moral guidance. We apparently have a great deal of freedom, but no one to tell us how to avoid losing that freedom to slavery.

We talk a great deal about freedom in our culture, by which we mean something to the effect that we alone choose our fate; we alone decide what to make of our lives, and we do so arbitrarily with nothing but the bottomless abyss of desire between us and the object(s) we wish to possess. In other words, we conceive of freedom as the ability to do whatever we want, whenever we want, with no external constraints on us. Of course, such a view of freedom fits very nicely into a consumer culture; it is, in fact, the "iPod" view of freedom: We think we're acting as individuals by programming our iPod with our individual musical taste and customized options, but we are often blind to the fact that we, like everyone else, have to first purchase the iPod before we can customize it to our individual preferences. Our uniqueness exists in a larger context of homogenized consumerism. We're unique, just like everyone else. It's hard to avoid the grim conclusion that if our lives only amount to the chaotic forces of passion and desire bubbling under the surface, then we are merely animals, albeit advanced ones (perhaps the resurgence of atheism in our time can be partly explained by the loss of transcendence in favor of the endless immanence of consumer culture).

Hundreds of years ago Saint Augustine spoke articulately to this dilemma. Human freedom, he argued, was not the ability to do whatever we please - which only amounts to another form of slavery - but rather the freedom to break free from our sin and live lives of obedience to God. A will that is free is (in his words) "a will by which we seek to live a good and upright life and to attain unto perfect wisdom." The Catechism of the Catholic Church puts it this way:

Endowed with a spiritual soul, with intellect and with free will, the human person is from his very conception ordered to God and destined for eternal beatitude. (1711)

Of course, that doesn't sound nearly as sexy as an iPod ad, nor would it transfer well to the pages of People magazine, but maybe - just maybe - the Christian faith has profoundly important and liberating things to say to us. Could it be that all of us (Britney included!) are made to be more than mere cogs in the machine of advanced capitalism and consumer culture? Let it be so.

I felt inclined to agree with my dad’s verdict. The sole Rushdie book I had read was Haroun and the Sea of Stories, a title assigned in my high school English class by a cracked-out baby boomer that all the student loved until they had him for a class. The book felt so much like an acid trip that my friends and I were sure the author had dreamt it, woken up, and scribbled the whole mess down. How in the world, we wondered, did he pass the thing off as a legitimate novel (albeit children’s lit)? There was a tap in a child’s sink from which tears of stories dropped, conversations took place on magic carpet rides, and central characters included a pair of rhyming fish. Rushdie himself, it seemed obvious, had hoped to become a rapper (with character monikers like The Ocean of Notions and the Sha of Blah), but must have given up and decided to pinch off a living as a writer. Needless to say, the book was an inappropriate choice for seventeen-year-olds, and I readily developed a (admittedly unfair) low opinion of Rushdie and his work. I knew he must be good– no, not just ‘good,' probably great– but after slogging through the depths of his shroomed-out Sea of Stories I had no interest in giving him another shot.

Rushdie was met with a packed house. The Harvard book store sold out the church, and then allowed even more worshipers to take up standing room at the back. An overzealous senior employee from the book store introduced him, remarking on the Midnight’s Children Booker win in 1988, and its subsequent crowning this year as the “Booker of Bookers.” The audience shared a nice giggle at the sheer volume of this man’s award collection. However, the poor girl then embarrassed herself by reflecting, “It appears that Mr. Rushdie might provide some of his own competition with the book he is here to discuss tonight, The Enchantress of Florence.” Had she somehow avoided reading the scores of abysmal reviews? She selectively quoted a raving review from The Financial Times– apparently the most quotable source she could find, since the book got panned in the NYTimes Book Review (twice) as well as in New York Magazine. Then she wrapped up by listing his other books, and had the balls to share with us that Haroun and the Sea of Stories is her “personal favorite.” Go figure. After plugging the book store and its upcoming events a few more times, she stepped down proudly and our portly, wizened old owl, Sir Salman himself, took the podium.

Rushdie began by telling us about the new novel, which is a fantastical story about– what else?– the magic of storytelling and the moving love affair of some royal princess and prince (or whatever). He explained that the passage he would be reading us is about the “lost princess and her beloved, an Italian mercenary who is working as a general of the Ottoman army.” Like I said, whatever.

“Much of the weirder stuff in this book is true, and the kind of ordinary stuff is the stuff that I’ve made up,” he said. Big laughs for that one. He busted out another snazzy one-liner when he told us, “I discovered to my intense delight that the Ottomans were, amongst other things, fighting a war against Dracula. I mean actual Dracula himself, Vlad the Impaler. And the moment I realized that I could have Dracula in my novel, you know, without cheating, I thought that I’d gone to Heaven, really.” This, too, raised the roof. Rushdie himself cracked up. He concluded, quite pleased with himself, “So the book is full of all this absolutely improbable stuff that is in fact in the historical record. And all the probably stuff is the stuff that I wrote.” Yeah, we get it. Finally, before beginning, he squeezed in one more zinger: “I have this weird moment where I have to, ah, to see you I have to wear one pair of glasses, but to see the book, I have to wear a different pair of glasses [dons the new spectacles], so now you’ve all disappeared, but, oh look, here’s a book. Let… me… read to you from it.” Ha! He chuckled along with his fans. A real gut-buster.

I won’t re-type the passage he read here. I’ll spare you, but let’s just say that there were massive highs and crushing lows. The intensely detailed descriptions of minutia– flower varieties that the soldier liked, ornate decorations on a magical mirror– were yawn-worthy. However, the passage had its moments of great wonder and entertainment as well. A description involving a tattoo of a tulip that the princely figure had on the shaft of his penis (I know, right?) prompted my friend to nudge me and whisper that Rushdie might be sharing an autobiographical detail. I wouldn't be surprised; a penis tattoo might explain how this 62-year-old intellectual had managed to lure the ridiculously gorgeous, 37-year-old model/cook Padma Lakshmi into his bedchamber.

The passage also included a footrace that was won by the male hero thanks to the stock 'bad guy' character yielding to “a bout of the foulest farting anyone had ever smelled.” As Rushdie continued to describe the farting with stone seriousness, chuckles filled the room and functioned, also, as a collective sigh of relief at the opportunity to wake up, slap ourselves into attention again, and laugh. Otherwise, the reading in no way made me want to buy the novel itself.

It was the question and answer period that brought some real entertainment. When asked to compare writing novels to a “9-5 job,” Rushdie said he has never been a writer who can get up early in the morning and work. “Martin Amis does that, Martin Amis gets up real early, he finishes his work by twelve noon, and spends the rest of the day playing tennis and drinking and smoking.” This name-dropping tickled everyone pink, and prompted Rushdie to ease into a hilarious, lighthearted jab at poets, “I can’t write in restaurants, you know, I have to be at my desk. I can’t go sit at a café or under a tree. Poets do that. You know, poetry? You know, where the words don’t go all the way across the line? And the lines don’t go all the way to the bottom of the page? And you have sixty pages and you call it a book.” Ouch. Everyone was rolling at this point, which egged on our would-be comedian enough to add: “So, I guess you could do that at restaurants.” More laughs. “Sorry, poets.”

One audience member/supplicant asked the Booker Guru what he’s reading for pleasure right now. He began his reply by imitating the Italian accent of Umberto Eco (his good friend) who apparently said, “If it’s like my writing, I hate it. If it’s not like my writing, I hate it.” More snickers for the impersonation, with the biggest laughs coming from Rushdie himself again.

His first mention was of Junot Diaz. Somehow, as soon as he was asked about his own reading interests, I just knew he would say Junot Diaz. He called Oscar Wao a “wonderful book,” but said that other than this, he likes to revisit older lit, and doesn’t really “read to keep up anymore.” He qualified this: “Well, naturally I still have to read what my friends write, or they get cross…”

Then, to everyone’s delight, said, “I just re-read Gatsby. I hadn’t read Gatsby since I was 21, and I just couldn’t believe how good it was. I mean, I knew it was good. But just what I had forgotten was how extraordinary it is, sentence by sentence brilliance. It was just absolutely electrifying to read it again. Really, there isn’t a bad paragraph.” Audience members nodded their heads vigorously, like ‘Yes, yes. Oh, so true. He’s right!’ It was funny.

Next he added that he also re-read On the Road recently, and he “was terrified to read it again because I assumed it was going to turn out to be garbage. But, very interestingly, it did not.” He couldn’t stop there. “Other Kerouac, I think, is very close to the garbage can.” Wow. Finally, he mentioned 100 Years of Solitude and called it the greatest novel of the last hundred years. Wow. It wouldn’t have been my choice.

The final question came from a timid young female student who asked him if he had any advice for aspiring writers. He became pretty animated. He said the best writers that he knows all began careers in their twenties and were immediately successful. All had a certain drive. “If you don’t have that real thing burning in you that makes it possible to spend twelve years trying to learn to do something without any guarantee that you’ll ever learn how to do it, um, then, it’s a problem.” Everyone laughed here, though I couldn’t quite see why. I felt this comment was quite serious. He continued: “The great writers have always known why they wanted to be a writer. They’ve always known what was burning inside them that had to get said. So, if you don’t have that fire, don’t write.” There was a stunned silence. “I’m sorry, it’s brutal, but it’s a real truth. There are, you know, enough books in the world. None of us in this room could ever read all the great books that there already are to read. If you’re going to add to that mountain, it better feel necessary to you. It better feel like a book that you can’t avoid writing. And then it has a chance of adding something interesting to the mountain.” Bravo. Honestly, this was just enormous. Well said, and more precious than any of the inflated nonsense he read from his book.

Talking about people he knew becoming writers/the process, etc., prompted him to suddenly tell what I thought was a great story about Zadie Smith: “I am slightly responsible for the career of Zadie Smith, I have to say. I met Zadie at my friend’s house, and by the end of the evening, it was clear that she was so brilliant, and she was like 20, or 19, something pornographic! [huge laughs] And I was so impressed by her that I said what I never say, I said, ‘If you ever have anything that you want me to read, let me see it.’ And what is interesting is she didn’t then go home and print out two hundred pages and send them round. She waited a year. A year later, she sent me a hundred pages of an early draft of White Teeth, and it was just absurdly good. I thought ‘God, you’re now, twenty and a half years old?! I mean, I should either kill you or help you.’ And it was close! [big yuks] But, in the end I helped her get a literary agent. And if I hadn’t, she would have found one in thirty seconds, because the work was so obviously extraordinary. And ten seconds after that, the agent got her the zillion dollar advance, because it was so obvious. I mean, it was obvious. So, I guess that’s what I’m saying, you know. The real writer, you can feel that blazing thing inside of them.”

Then, to the delight of some but the horror of the girl, he added “So my view is that if you need the advice, don’t write the book.” Everyone laughed/gasped and he said helplessly, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! It’s tough, but I think it’s true.” With this, the audience erupted into applause as the poor girl slunk back to her seat.

So I can’t deny that Rushdie was at the top of his game when answering questions. His witty remarks about the writing process had the audience in stitches, and managed to make us all forget, briefly, the sweltering, uncomfortable summer humidity of the packed cathedral.

To be precise, he was entertaining, this Shalimar the Literary Clown. A real one-man show. I was impressed, in the end, though not by his writing (which should have been the draw). Really, though. This rolly-polly, fatwa-surviving, bushy-bearded, near-sighted teddy bear of a man was actually quite charming, though his effort to be so was obvious. And although I have no new interest in his work, he’s obviously very brilliant. And far more interestingly, he’s funny and fascinating.

It was no surprise, then, to read when I got home that the man is trying to become a movie star. I just discovered this article from New York Magazine:

Just how hard is Salman Rushdie trying to break into showbiz? First, we had Helen Hunt telling us about casting Rushdie as her obstetrician in her new movie, Then She Found Me. Now we’ve got Rushdie showing up, somewhat inexplicably, in Scarlett Johansson’s new music video.

If this guy shows up on the big screen, hey, I’ll shell out my nine dollars. I’ll probably buy a fucking popcorn, too. Let’s see it.

I was a little dismayed last week when Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children won another big prize. I have always thought it to be a rather overated work of literature, although I accept that many Booker lovers like it. My main objection, when I think about it, is that it is effectively a derivative work of Günter Grass's The Tin Drum. I mean this in terms of style, structure, charactisation and plot.

I believe that Rushdie is indebted to Grass for the following reasons:

1/. Magic Realism: Both novels are said to be examples of Magic Realism. Previous to Grass, critics used the term 'magic realism' to describe paintings of the Neue Sachlichkeit. Grass's novel invented a whole new genre of literary Magic Realism and so obviously Rushdie owes a debt to him for that.

2/. Structure: Rushdie is further indebted to Grass in the way that he 'borrow's the main structural device: using the private lives of both protagonists to reflect public events. To be fair, Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude also owes something to Grass in this respect.

3/. Oskar is born the day the Nazis come to power. Saleem is born on the moment of Indian independence.

4/. Both are unreliable narrators.

5/. Both are demonic children: Oskar claims he can break glass with his voice. Saleem uses telepathy. Oskar is a dwarf (or little person) - Saleem has nasal difficulties.

6/. Both believe that the man their mother is having an affair with is
really his father. Oskar believes that Jan Bronski (a Pole) is his father. Saleem believes that Nadir Khan (muslim) is his father. Significant because Oskar is German and Saleem is Hindu.

7/. In many ways The Tin Drum retells the days of Grass's childhood in Danzig. In many ways Midnight's Children retells the days of Rushdie's childhood growing up in Mumbai.

You know, it's kinda funny, but somehow, when I look back at life, I cannot imagine the things I have done. Stupid, sweet, unselfish, seductive ... pretty much any adjective you can find in the dictionary. And then, recounting them, a smile always comes on my lips, for various reasons of course. Like my blog, started off for a stupid reason, but today it gets reborn, for a purpose. I love three things the most in my life: My computer (and everything attached to it; internet, video etc.), music and movies and reading and writing. I know i am using two things in one space, but then this is my blog :) Also, the above things are the things that are important to me in the leisurely aspect of my life.

So off lately what have I been upto? The job interview with Grail Research went fantastically well, landing me the much coveted job. Business analyst. sounds nice! Delhi was fun, apart from the fact that I had to realize my pals had moved on from the way I knew them to become more professional in a very bitchy,aggressive sort of way. Well, what the hell!

Tried reading the Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie on the way back on the Shatabdi. The book is very florid, amazingly well written with a plethora of words I have never heard before; easily 2-3 words per page that would make you want to refer the dictionary. But the way Rushdie writes, WOW! He seems to pass off as a poetic writer. His sense of expression is just flawless. But the book is not the types that would appeal to everyone, including me. I read the book devotedly for the first 150-180 pages, and after that in bits and pieces till the end. The story is interesting, but the style is too detailed for my liking. On the other hand, I started reading another book. The sea of poppies, by amitav ghosh. A very well written book, in the sense that it gives a very graphic description of the story, and is very well written in simple understandable english. it's not like I cannot decipher meaning or cannot read or understand well :) Just that if I begin reading a 550 page novel, I would like to start it from the like. I normally do not put books down without finishing them once I start, but then again, times have changed. I do not see putting this book down anytime soon. Have just read 50 pages though so a long way to go.

Hmmm.... Music. I experimented with downloading songs by Farhan Akhtar (the director), from his altest offering, Rock On! And what a pleasant experience it was. AMAZING STUFF! Good rock music, with good vocals (surprisingly) by Farhan. I have always like his voice, would have loved to have a voice like that, but man can the man sing! Socha Hai, Rock On, Picchle Saat Dinon, Tum To Ho, Ye Tumhari Meri Baatein, Phir Dekhiye ... And these are songs I would recommend highly. Makes up more than 80% of the album. There's this song, Kahiin to from Jaane Tu... Ya Jaane Na... I love that song, AR Rahman is a musical genius. Been listening to Singh Is Kinng (Snopp Doggy Dogg... Woohoo!) and others as well. But as the movie goes, Rock On! is the clear choice for me for the next few days.... And i am rocking!

I have been working on my designs as well. Feel this is a good place to upload stuff as well. If anyone checks this blog, please do let me know how the stuff is. here's one of them....
[caption id="attachment_9" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Typography Illustration"][/caption]

Also saw lock stock and two smoking barrels yesterday. Amazing funny movie. Tried to get hold of more of the movies by the same gy, turned out to be Guy Ritchie (Madonn's husband... must be mad on her :) hehehehe ) and turns out the guy has very good ratings on most movies on IMDb (My favourite place for movie ratings)

British movies are awesome! well atleast some of them. Another one I would highly recommend is The Bank Job.

Gets a bit slow at times, but worth a watch, definitely.

Well that's it for now. Think i'll hit the sack for right now. Have never ever in my life experienced the 'early to bed, early to rise' thingey in life. Somehow, end up being too busy. Have to start prep for GRE and CAT tomorrow seriously (something being put off for more than 2 months). Actually college starts tomorrow, finally a place to study everything other than college studies :)

So lemme make three resolutions that I HAVE TO complete by november end
1) Lose 15-20 Kgs weight (manageable if I stay away from food. Been done before by me, unfortunately bloating up again)
2) Prepare amazingly well for CAT and GRE and get excellent scores, make my parents proud
3) Get into a top notch (A,A+ category B School) OR a good master's course abroad

If nothing works, I can always go to Grail now :)

RAMYA KRISHNAMURTHY writes from Bangalore: I don’t know Usha K.R.. I have never met Usha K.R.. I didn’t go to St. Xavier’s college in Calcutta with Usha K.R.. I do not work at the Indian Institute of Management in Bangalore with Usha K.R.. I have not read a single book by Usha K.R..

But, by god, am I glad that A Girl and A River by Usha K.R. has won the Vodafone-Crossword Award 2007 for best book of the year in the English language fiction category!?

There are a bunch of reasons why I could be glad that the prize went to Usha K.R..

For starters, I gather it is a book about the protagonist’s search for her roots, in pre-independence times, in Karnataka. For another, she apparently weaves in Kannada words like chapdi kal and tutus of mosaranna. And many reviewers think there are shades of R.K. Narayan and Raja Rao in the writing of Usha K.R..

If it's good for them, it's good for me.

Heck, no, I am not glad that Usha K.R. won the award for those lofty, literary reasons, it's for something more simple: I am glad because she won it in spite of her name being Usha K.R..

Think about it.

How often do you see an Indian writer with initials make it big in recent times, and a South Indian at that?

All our English authors have short, sexy, staccato names with a clear first name and a clear last name as if they were brand-ambassaors for credit card ads---Salman Rushdie or Suketu Mehta, Arundhati Roy or Amitav Ghosh, Kiran Nagarkar or Girish Karnad.

But namma Usha K.R. is different.

She is one of us, a South Indian with a name and a set of initials which probably denote her father's first name and the ancestral place of birth. And who probably hits a nice little writer's block when she has to fill up forms which have those daunting blanks for first name, last name, surname and middle name like the rest of us.

To be sure, we have had South Indian English writers with initials who have made it big before, R.K. Narayan and K. Raja Rao for sure, but also O.V. Vijayan and U.R. Anantha Murthy, M.N. Srinivas and H.Y. Sharada Prasad. And a few who did not write: M.S. Subbulaxmi and D.K. Pattammal, B.K.S. Iyengar and V.K.R.V. Rao, G.R Viswanath and B.S. Chandrashekhar.

But it all seems so long ago before the revenge of short names. Now, it all seems as if a set of initials in your name is a bad idea, a hurdle placed by your parents in the path to success/ recognition.

Our best industrialists (Mukesh Ambani, Sunil Mittal), sociologists (Ashis Nandy, Ram Guha), TV anchors (Pronnoy Roy, Barkha Dutt), cricketers (Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid), actors (Aishwarya Rai or Madhuri Dixit), models (Diana Hayden, Gul Panag) all seem cut from the same double-barrel name-generator.

When Mahendra Singh Dhoni says Yem. Yes. Dhoni in that Pepsi ad, it almost seems like a slur. And all those who cannot say Vangipurappu Venkata Sai call Laxman Very Very Special.

It may not mean much to Usha K.R. or to the judges (whose names, tellingly but not surprisingly, were Mukul Kesavan, Manjula Padmanabhan and Kai Friese) or to the fans of Indian Writing in English. 

But one small literary step for Usha K.R. is a giant mental leap for South Indians weighed down by the length and contortions of their names. She has won a top award in spite of the initials (praise be to the judges)---and she wears a cute little bindi to boot.

That, and those gorgeous cheek bones. 

(Ramya Krishnamurthy was Ramya K.S. before tying the knot)

Photograph: courtesy K. Bhagya Prakash/ The Hindu

Versetele satanice reprezinta o carte de joc. Totul are un dublu-opus. Fiecare personaj, fiecare intamplare, fiecare viziune si fiecare moarte isi gaseste la un moment dat dublul complementar. Totul incepe cu cei doi actori: Gibreel Farishta si Saladin Chamcha. Unul inger al lui Dumnezeu, indian pana in maduva oaselor, plin de succes si schizofrenic, altul parsiv ca un demon, renegandu-si indianismul, mereu la marginea ratarii si transformat exterior intr-un Shaitan scarbos. Universurile celor doi prind sa se intrepatrunda, sa se intoarca, sa se rasuceasca, mereu in opozitie si mereu atrase unul de celalalt, intr-un dans nebunesc in care te vezi atras fara putinta de scapare.

Nu este nici pe departe o carte care sa loveasca mortal in credinta musulmana. Este, pe de alta parte, o carte religioasa. Singurul lucru pe Rushdie care il loveste sistematic, cateodata razand, cateodata plin de furie este fanatismul. Restul se poate aranja. Conceptie orientala demna de perne moi si narghilele, dar cat se poate de moderna.

Faptul ca Saladin, cel cu coarne si copite despicate, sfarseste primind iertarea parinteasca, acceptarea conditiei sale de indian si o sansa la o viata noua, in timp ce Gibreel, arhanghelul lui Dumnezeu, sfarseste pacatuind suprem prin sinucidere, dupa ce a ucis-o pe femeia pe care o iubea din cel mai omenesc pacat dintre toate, gelozia, te face sa te intrebi, ancestral si metafizic: cine-i cine pana la urma.

Este o carte pe care atunci cand o voi reciti sunt sigur ca voi avea exact acelasi sentiment ca atunci cand descopar lucruri noi in pozele vechi din albumele familiei pe care le-am vazut deja de atatea ori.

If you are asking yourself "whoops, what implications does this have for my soul and I", then I'm afraid you are ASKING THE WRONG GUY. >:I

Today's featured game of spectacular antiquity: Nightmare Creatures!

Most people have never even heard of Nightmare Creatures, which I suppose is just as well... the average person probably doesn't have the stomach for it. YOU WERE WARNED.

Nightmare Creatures was released in 1997 for the Playstation and PC (and later a few other systems), and with truly astonishing speed it plunged into... mediocrity, I guess! It kind of failed to make a huge impression on anybody at all, which is strange because it had a lot of the key qualities necessary for a successful game: rudimentary graphics, a variety of horrible monsters, TWO gender dysmorphically different protagonists, and a huge selection of weapons! (gaming expectations were a lot more relaxed in 1997 you see)

In the game, you played as either Ignatius or Nadia, and you had to stop the mad and/or insane schemes of Adam Crowley, the details of which I can't actually recall with much clarity, but I do remember for years mistaking him for the actual historical figure, which I'm sure was the designer's intentions ALL ALONG.

There were new monsters introduced in every level, and huge boss monsters, and a werewolf, and at the end Crowley turned into a gargoyle and tried to throw you off a church, and it was all very very exciting! And then it faded into obscurity. :/ 

Oh well. It borrowed a lot of the horror elements from Resident Evil and the tomb raiding adventure gameplay (among other things) from Tomb Raider. But seriously, it was great.

Hacking zombies apart in Victorian London did NOT lose its appeal quickly, and I remember enjoying the trek through Nightmare Creatures a lot more than the similar nightmare related gameplay of either Resident Evil or Tomb Raider - I think it was due to the advanced decapitation engine present in the game. It was truly... AHEAD... of its time! :O 

QUESTION! WAS that pun the true reason I chose to look back on Nightmare Creatures?!

Sssh! That's between me and Aleister Crowley! ;)

Today's links:

 Gaming world set alight by man who vaguely resembles Solid Snake! He is a national icon.

Passage: an award winning free game I highly recommend. It's very arthouse, so you should let that put you off!

Gamespy: Top Ten Gaming Bargains (from 2004! But most of them are still kind of relevant)

Salman Rushdie is STILL ALIVE. And the guy wins an award, too! Those are BOTH fine accomplishments!

I've spent this post talking about Nightmare Creatures, but it's the photo of Rushdie on that piece of news reporting that chills me to the bone... it's the finest day of his life and they can't even provide a non bug eyed picture of him? I guess it's still an incredible honour... if you can call that living. :(

And in a final piece of news, apparently

Experts Discover Major Flaw In the Internet

Thank you, experts. You've saved our Internets. |:(

El relato de una saga familiar que arranca con la proclamación de la independencia de la India se impuso a otros nombres con mayúsculas de la literatura anglosajona, como Nadine Gordimer (El conservador, 1974) y J. M. Coetzee (Desgracia, 1999), los dos surafricanos poseedores del Nobel de Literatura. Junto a ellos, los libros del australiano Peter Carey (Oscar y Lucinda, 1988) y de los ingleses J. G. Farrell (El sitio de Krishnapur, 1973) y Pat Barker (El camino fantasma, 1995) completaban la lista preseleccionada por un panel de expertos para ser sometida al albedrío del público. La mayoría de los 8.000 votos recibidos -que fueron canalizados a través de la red y de mensajes SMS desde el 12 de mayo hasta el pasado lunes - acabó decantándose por Rushdie (36%), tal como se anunciaba ayer en el Festival de Literatura de Londres.

El Man Booker Prize for Fiction, más conocido como Premio Booker, quiso festejar de este modo su cuadragésimo aniversario, tras una singladura que ha reconocido desde 1969 a un total de 41 novelas (en dos ocasiones se produjo empate). Con la victoria de Rushdie, la historia se repite, porque Hijos de la medianoche ya fue declarado el mejor de todos los Booker hace 15 años, cuando el galardón cumplía su cuarto de siglo.

Considerado uno de los mejores trabajos del autor angloindio (Mumbai, 1947), la elegante prosa y dosis de realismo mágico que impregnan los avatares de una generación marcada por la partición de la India no conformaban la opción favorita de la crítica. Los más se decantaban por la poderosa voz literaria de Coetzee, aunque la dureza de Desgracia, su reflejo de las lesiones sociales y psicológicas en la Suráfrica del apartheid, era considerada una propuesta difícil para el gran público. También el fallecido J. G. Farrell, con su satírico retrato de los colonizadores británicos en la India del siglo XIX, era reseñado como un merecido aunque improbable ganador. Mayores expectativas presentaban dos autores tan populares como Pat Baker -gracias a su trilogía enmarcada en la I Guerra Mundial- o Peter Carey y su novela Oscar y Lucinda. Este último y Coetzee son los únicos galardonados con el Booker en dos ocasiones.

Diecinueve años después de que el ayatolá Jomeini proclamara una fetua contra él por los supuestos contenidos blasfemos de Los versos satánicos (1988), Rushdie ya no es un escritor confinado. El Estado iraní se comprometió hace una década a no buscar su ejecución, aunque la amenaza fundamentalista sigue pendiendo sobre su persona. El escritor, nacionalizado británico, ha presentado este año una nueva obra, The Enchantress of Florence; acaba de ser nombrado caballero por la reina Isabel II, y, desde ayer, figura en el medallero del Booker. Lo ha conseguido gracias a Hijos de la medianoche, pero el autor -según declaraba recientemente- sigue considerando su mejor obra Los versos satánicos, un trabajo que le mereció una irracional condena de por vida.

Rushdie discussed his experiences in surviving the infamous fatwa decreed by the Iranian government in 1989.  He passed on an opportunity to ban in Great Britain a slanderous but hilariously bad movie that depicted a muslim hit squad targeting him on an island compound, surrounded by a security detail that appeared to be Mossad (in one scene a sword wielding Rushdie stand-in orders a captured hit squad member to be tortured by reading to him The Satanic Verses).  A censorship board asked for Rushdie’s waiver of any rights to sue for libel if permission to distribute the film was granted, and he acceded, fearing that a ban on the campy film would give it an undeserved mystique.  His strategy succeeded - the film bombed, a victim not of censorship but of audiences’ unwillingness to recommend it.

The writer delved into contemporary politics, expressing his acceptance of the implacable hostility between himself and militant muslims such as Hezbollah officer Hassan Narsrallah, who recently lamented that Rushdie had not been assassinated while the fatwa was still in effect.  Rushdie stated plainly that they do not like him and he does not like them.  After the conversation portion of the event audience members asked him his opinions on various topics, most interestingly about Iran’s efforts to develop nuclear weapons.  He declared evenly, “I’m not in favor of it, but I’m not in favor of another goddamn intervention in the Middle East.”  The audience responded for the first time with applause.

Krasny leaped on that statement by observing that Rushdie supported the American invasion of Afghanistan.  Rushdie explained that when a foreign group comes to your country and murders 3,000 people, you should go get them.  Adding to the urgency of the intervention was the advent of the first takeover of a nation by a terrorist group - Al Qaeda essentially purchased control of Afghanistan from the Taliban. Oddly, only a smattering of applause followed this common sense affirmation of the right to self defense.  

Rushdie responded to a subsequent question by chastising Americans for electing Bush the second time; the first time was disagreeable, he felt, but not unthinkable.  Having witnessed the first disastrous seventeen months of the Iraq occupation, the American people lost their wits by electing Bush over Kerry.  A majority of the audience applauded gleefully, as though they had never before heard anyone criticizing President Bush.  I admit that I was ecstatic four years ago when criticism of Bush first surfaced on shows like the Daily Show and Real Time with Bill Maher, where it had previously been limited to less popular sources.  At this point I agree with most of the criticisms of Bush but derive little pleasure in hearing or reading them.  Bashing Bush has become so commonplace it feels like complaining about the weather.  

What irritated me about the excited support of Rushdie’s opposition to attacking Iran and regrets over attacking Iraq was the juxtaposition of that support with the shameful silence his other remarks about the necessity of bombing Afghanistan and the evils of militant Islamism were greeted with.  I am satisfied to sit quietly and listen to a great writer, neither applauding the parts I enjoyed nor booing the parts with which I disagreed, but if one is to applaud certain statements, why refrain from applauding a condemnation of islamism?  Why not applaud America’s retaliation for the attacks on September 11, 2001? The latter can be explained by pacificism, a philosophy I do not accept but can grudgingly respect.  The omission of any applause or cheering following Rushdie’s denunciations of mass murdering fanatics was inexcusable.

Bay Area residents characteristically suffer from a syndrome of strident opposition to almost any action taken by the U.S. government coupled with apathy towards even the most atrocious behavior by foreign powers (except when the foreign powers are U.S. allies or are perceived to be U.S. proxies).  If I may indulge in a bit of pop psychology, this mentality arises from severe low self esteem.  Only people who deeply hate themselves would resent and consistently assume the worst about their own representatives, while apologizing for radicals’ use of murder, torture, and rape.  What makes this perspective truly despicable is the hypocrisy of acquiescing in, if not approving of, atrocities that would be deeply offensive if committed by the U.S.  A fair, educated person will view world events with an understanding that American immorality does not excuse the same immorality in its opponents.

Arthur and George (1) is a fictionalised account of the lives of two men who grew up in totally separate and different environments in the late nineteenth century, but whose lives were destined to come together following a sequence of events that made news headlines as the Great Wyrley Outrages. George was the son of the vicar of the village of Wyrley in Staffordshire, who became a solicitor in Birmingham. Arthur was brought up in Edinburgh in a family that had known better times; he was destined to become one of the most famous men of his time.

George is accused of writing anonymous letters and of mutilating a horse on the flimsiest of circumstantial evidence. He is brought to trial and amazingly is found guilty and serves three years in prison. After his release George is still unable to resume his career as a solicitor until he can clear his name. He enlists the help of Arthur (full name Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the Sherlock Holmes novels), who vehemently pursues George’s case.

 This is less than the bare bones of the book: whilst crime detection is one of the main themes, it is by no means the only one. George’s father was a Parsee and his mother was from Scotland, but George maintains throughout that race was not the reason he was accused of the crimes. Arthur’s family relationships and his second wife also play a large part in the story as well as his enthusiasm for spiritualism – or “spiritism” as he calls it. For most of the book I was riveted – I could also feel the anger build up inside me as I read with disbelief how the Staffordshire Police contrived to prosecute George for the crimes and even accused him of writing the anonymous letters to himself and his family.  I you haven’t yet read it – I wholeheartedly recommend it.

News  - and titles to look out for

I’ve just heard on the news that Salman Rushdie’s novel Midnight’s Children (2) has been voted Best of Bookers. Rushdie was the early favourite for the winner who was chosen by online voting on both sides of the Atlantic. He also won the Booker of Bookers prize in 1993 when the Booker Prize celebrated its 25th anniversary. I didn’t know that the novel had been adapted for the stage: you can read about how it was done at Online Review London.

Michael Rosen, the current Children’s Laureate has been speaking out again about the government and teachers failing to put emphasis on the importance of reading for pleasure in children’s education. I couldn’t agree more – time and time again it’s been shown that children who are good readers are also higher achievers. Read more about what Mr Rosen had to say here. 

I’ve mentioned “chick lit” before (you know the sort of thing produced by Marian Keyes, Cecelia Ahern, and Sophie Kinsella). It’s not the sort of thing for my taste, you understand, but  a new novel might just be an exception to the rule. Robyn Sisman brings out her fifth novel next month: A Hollywood Ending  (3), available in August,  is about the daughter of a rock idol and an ‘80s soapstar who gets tired of Hollywood and is offered a Shakespearean role on the London stage. Ms Sisman is an American living in London and likes to highlight transatlantic differences in a humourous way in her novels.

Much later on in the year, there’s yet another title out from Alexander McCall Smith:  La's Orchestra Saves the World  – a standalone title,not part of a series – is set in Suffolk in 1939 and is about a widow – La – who forms an orchestra to raise the spirits of the locals. Apparently Mr McCall Smith was a member of an orchestra at one time – the Really Terrible Orchestra in Edinburgh

and finally…name that song!

Which song do these lyrics come from ? :

Baby we can talk all night

But that ain’t getting us nowhere

I can’t give you the answer, but you can find out by taking part in the Name that Song  fun competition now running in Kirkby area libraries. It’s all part of the current theme – music -  in the National Year of Reading.

Next time – Jonathan Dimbleby’s Russia.

1 Arthur and George by Julian Barnes.  Vintage £7.99  9780099492733

2 Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. Vintage £7.99     9780099578512

3 A Hollywood Ending  by Robyn Sisman   Orion £9.99  9780752898889

4  La’s Orchestra Saves the World by Alexander McCall Smith  (1st Nov 2008)  Polygon £12.99  9781846970924