Drip

Quick shot for the day.


I was reading an Indian author Anita Nair sometime back. I picked up a book of hers on a whim, not from any reecommendations or suchlike. The book began in a very descriptive style, focussing on the little things, the little sounds, like the dog's paw scratching upon the door and so on. The writing style was highly evolved and drew me into the book. It was a set of autobiographical essays which was the other reason I was drawn to it. I like such books, since they can tell us a great deal about the author, their thought processes and we are in a better position to decide if we want to read more of their work.

This book turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. Though her grip on the language is stronger than some of more high-profile peers and her sense of humour and wit are very much in place, the writing lacks that spontaneity, which I admire greatly in this genre. When someone starts writing with the primary motivation to tell a story that has been lying dormant inside them, the writing just turns out to be different, so much more real. On the other hand, when the writer always has a reader's response in mind, the writing more often than not appears pretentious; there's always this attempt to manipulate. There are far too many examples of how voraciously she has read and how many obscure authors she can quote so easily from. There are also attempts to draw sympathy and appear childlike and so on.

The underlying reason that draws me to art is honesty.

I also read Into Thin Air. And despite Jon Krackaeur suffering from survivor's guilt which is only natural under the circumstances, there is a lot of honest questioning and a genuine desire to seek the truth. That is what I liked about this book. This is not a book I will forget.