Tag: Books

The Peacemaker’s Lost World | Peacemaker: U Thant and the Forgotten Quest for a Just World, by Thant Myint-U

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Peacemaker: U Thant and the Forgotten Quest for a Just World,
by Thant Myint-U,
Published by W.W. Norton & Company (2025)
Rating: *****​

History as Lives Lived

History, at its best, arrives not through timelines but through lives. In my primary and middle school, we were taught the 1960s through Indira Gandhi’s steely gaze or the grainy footage of moon landings; the United Nations appeared, if at all, as a backdrop to superpower posturing. Thant Myint-U’s Peacemaker upends that frame, placing U Thant – a Burmese schoolteacher turned Secretary-General – at the centre of the decade’s defining crises. What results is a narrative so compelling it reads like a novel, yet so rigorously archival that it reconfigures our understanding of the Cold War’s shadow lines.​

The book’s genius lies in this biographical method: history as the choices and constraints of one man, watched in real time. Congo’s descent into chaos, the Cuban Missile Crisis’ 13 feverish days, Vietnam’s deepening quagmire, the Six-Day War’s sudden violence – these are not abstract events but episodes in which U Thant, often alone, cables presidents, dispatches envoys, and drafts memoranda that might – just might – avert catastrophe. Myint-U’s prose is crisp, almost cinematic; the archival work (thousands of footnotes attest to it) feels effortless, letting the documents speak while guiding the reader through their implications.​

From Model UN to the East River

As someone who cut their teeth on Model United Nations – drafting resolutions on non-proliferation in airless school auditoriums, learning to parse the difference between General Assembly grandstanding and Security Council realpolitik – this book lands with particular force. The UN of MUN is a game of procedure; Thant Myint-U shows what it looked like when the gavel mattered. U Thant inherits the office in 1961 after Dag Hammarskjöld’s mysterious death in a plane crash, and immediately faces a world fracturing along post-colonial fault lines: newly independent African states demanding dignity, Asian nations pressing economic justice claims, and great powers treating the organisation as a useful irritant.​

The Cuban Missile Crisis chapter alone justifies the book. While Kennedy and Khrushchev trade ultimatums, Thant – calm, insistent, invoking Burmese non-alignment – proposes face-saving off-ramps that both sides, grudgingly, accept. It’s a reminder of multilateralism not as lofty ideal but as crisis management: the Secretary-General as the one figure neither superpower can fully dismiss. For those of us who have watched more recent UN processes, whether that is climate negotiations, advisory opinions, biodiversity summits, the contrast is stark. Thant’s UN had agency while the one we engage with can often seem like a spectator.

The Third World’s Brief Ascendancy

What elevates Peacemaker beyond crisis chronicle is its excavation of a forgotten internationalism. U Thant arrives as the first non-Western Secretary-General at the high-water mark of “Third World” ambition: Bandung’s afterglow, the Non-Aligned Movement’s birth, demands for a New International Economic Order. Myint-U shows his grandfather championing these causes: decrying apartheid as a threat to peace, proposing environmental safeguards decades early, insisting that decolonisation includes economic sovereignty. This is history as contested terrain, where the global South briefly set terms.​

Yet the erasure was swift and deliberate. Western capitals, comfortable with Thant during Cuba, bridled when he criticised Vietnam or equated Israeli actions with settler colonialism. The press followed suit; a Nobel Peace Prize was dangled, then withdrawn. Myint-U’s account of this airbrushing – US politicians belittling the “schoolmaster from Burma,” Israel’s complaints about his even-handedness – lands as a sobering lesson in whose stories endure. For a scholar of international environmental law, where similar dynamics play out today (loss and damage funds haggled over like Congo reparations), the parallels are inescapable.​

Hagiography or Measured Tribute?

Does all this amount to hagiography? The question hangs over any grandson’s biography, and Peacemaker invites it. Myint-U is candid about U Thant’s flaws: excessive reserve, overfaith in the UN’s machinery, a certain naivety about power’s brute realities. But the portrait remains warm, the judgments gentle. Readers expecting dispassionate critique might cavil; those who see the book as history through biography will find it exemplary.​

This is how I learned history: not as ledger of dates, but as human endeavour – Nehru navigating non-alignment, Gandhi wrestling moral absolutism against wartime necessity. Myint-U revives that method for a global stage, teaching us the 1960s through one man’s principled, often lonely, quest. It’s educational in the deepest sense: not mere facts, but a vision of what multilateralism briefly promised.

Lessons for a Fractured Present

Peacemaker arrives when the UN is widely mocked – Security Council paralysis, endless General Assembly speeches, credibility eroded by decades of selective enforcement. Yet Thant Myint-U insists on another reading: a reminder that individuals from the margins have, before, bent history’s arc. U Thant did not secure a just world; no one could have. But his decade in office proves the organisation can be more than theatre when led by someone who believes in it.

For those of us working in international law’s long defeats – climate finance battles, ocean governance deadlocks – the book offers bracing perspective. Multilateralism endures not because it’s perfect, but because alternatives are worse. In an era of Trumpian unilateralism and rising protectionisms, recovering U Thant’s story feels urgent. This is not nostalgia; it’s equipment for the fights ahead.

Five stars without reservation: archival rigour, narrative verve, intellectual heft. If biography can teach history, Peacemaker proves it can also rekindle possibility.

Letters, Again | The Correspondent, by Virginia Evans

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The Correspondent,
by Virginia Evans,
Published by Penguin Random House (2025)​
Rating: **** (really, 3.7)

A life written in letters

Sybil Van Antwerp has spent most of her life doing what the title promises: corresponding. Most mornings, around half past ten, she sits down to write letters to family, to friends, to a university president who will not let her audit a class, to Joan Didion and Larry McMurtry, and to one person who never actually receives what she drafts. In The Correspondent, Virginia Evans turns this habit into form, offering an epistolary novel about the long afterlife of the things we commit to paper and the question of whether, very late in the day, forgiveness can still be written.​

One of the book’s great pleasures is how ordinary Sybil’s voice is on the page. These are not vaulted, self-consciously “literary” letters, but the kind of correspondence that would not be out of place in a family archive: clear, practical, sometimes meandering, with occasional shafts of humour and sudden, disarming honesty. At its best, reading this novel felt like dipping into someone else’s inbox – an experience familiar to anyone who has stumbled across old emails or handwritten notes and found themselves lingering over the everyday as much as the dramatic.​

Character, memory, and timing

Beneath the apparent lightness of the set-up, there is a more serious project underway. Letters from someone in Sybil’s past begin to arrive, forcing her back toward one of the most painful periods of her life and toward the unsent letter she has been, in effect, composing for years. Evans handles this slow reveal with a good deal of control: details are withheld and released with care, and it is often a throwaway line in one letter that gathers weight two or three sections later.​

Sybil herself is a satisfyingly knotty late-life protagonist. She is capable, funny, occasionally prickly, and far from saintly; there are blind spots in her own self-understanding that the letters only gradually expose. Relationships are largely built in the negative space between what she chooses to narrate and what she leaves out, which feels right for a book about how we curate ourselves for others on the page.​

When the letters misfire

For all that, the form does not always work in the novel’s favour. There are sections where you can feel the book working a little too hard to include particular exchanges from Sybil’s past. The schooldays correspondence with Rosalie, for instance, is ushered in quite smoothly – the transition into that earlier time in Sybil’s life is believable – but the transition out is much rougher, snapping us back to the present-day timeline before the emotional dust has really settled. The effect is mildly jarring, as though we have been shown a crucial folder and then had it slammed shut mid-perusal.

That pattern recurs elsewhere. Some letter-runs are anchored clearly in Sybil’s current preoccupations, and the movement between past and present feels organic. Others read more like backstory that needed a home, with the result that the overall rhythm of the book becomes uneven. The best epistolary novels often make productive use of gaps and jagged edges; here, the joins sometimes show.

A rushed final act

A similar unevenness appears in the pacing. For much of its length, The Correspondent proceeds at a careful, reflective tempo. Conflicts accrue slowly, the question of whether certain letters will ever be sent remains genuinely open, and the book is content to sit with Sybil’s ambivalence rather than resolve it. In the final 30–40 pages, though, the story accelerates dramatically. Long-deferred conversations happen, the fate of the unsent letter is decided, and various strands are tied off at a speed that feels out of step with the earlier patience.​

By that stage, the broad outline of what has to happen is fairly clear; predictability in itself is not the problem. What disappointed me was the sense that, just as the novel’s core conflicts reach their most interesting pitch, the depth and granularity of attention fall away. The early letters do the slow, difficult work of showing how a person learns to live around an old wound; the ending, by contrast, seems more interested in ensuring that everything is resolved before the final page count. The result, for me, was a slightly thinner emotional payoff than the set-up deserved.

Reading through my own correspondence

All of this is coloured, inevitably, by the way the book intersected with my own history of letters. My parents wrote to each other before and after they were married, when distance and circumstance meant their lives ran in parallel more than they overlapped. Reading those letters as an adult has felt, more than once, like having live access to their love story, and to versions of them that do not yet know me. My father remains an excellent email writer; he has sent me long, reflective messages over the years that I have not always answered, something this book made me wince about more than once.

For a period, one of my closest friendships existed almost entirely on email, by choice rather than necessity. We built a relationship inside subject lines and sign-offs, with all the latency and generosity that asynchronous conversation permits. It made me appreciate and provide space for longform conversations through my life. Spending time with Sybil’s habit of sitting down, regularly, to write – even to people who will never read the words – left me wanting to recover that practice. I finished The Correspondent with a modest, but concrete resolution: to write more letters and emails, and perhaps to try, at least once a month, to be a correspondent in more than just the literary sense.

This is ultimately why, despite reservations about structure and pacing, the book landed at a 3.7 for me rather than a flat three. It is not, in my view, an unqualified triumph of the epistolary form, and Sybil will not displace my favourite fictional letter-writers any time soon. But there is something quietly valuable about a novel that, even in its imperfections, nudges you back toward your own drafts folder and the pile of unanswered messages on the desk.

Shall we dance?

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Shall we dance, my friends?

Shall we play that agonizing game of waiting to take to the dance floor when the music is playing in the background? Shall we pretend we don’t hear the melody calling us, even as our feet begin to tap unconsciously against the floor? Shall we feign indifference to the rhythm that’s been there all along – that persistent beat of words waiting to spill onto the page?

Seven months is a long time to stand at the edge of the dance floor. Seven months of the music playing, of thoughts collecting like dust in the corners of my mind, of stories waiting to be told. But here we are again, you and I, circling each other in this familiar space.

You might expect a New Year’s resolution at this point. A grand declaration of “I will write more” or “I will post every week” – the kind of precise choreography we convince ourselves we need. But I’ve been thinking about something different: guiding principles rather than rigid resolutions. It’s like choosing to learn the fundamentals of movement rather than memorizing specific dance steps. These principles aren’t waiting for the clock to strike midnight or for a new calendar to hang on the wall – they’re about approaching each day with intention, about recognizing that growth and change don’t adhere to our arbitrary timelines.

This is, admittedly, a grand experiment I’m conducting with myself. The hypothesis is simple: that principles which guide us daily will serve us better than resolutions that often feel like deadlines looming in the distance. That instead of waiting for the perfect moment to change, we acknowledge that change is a constant dance we’re already engaged in.

I’ve noticed something fascinating about writing – it’s less like a skill you master once and more like a muscle that needs constant exercise. In the months when I’m regularly putting words to page, something magical happens. It’s not just the blog posts that flow more easily; every form of written communication becomes more fluid, more precise. My emails carry a certain rhythm, my text messages find their own poetic tempo. Even my thoughts seem to arrange themselves more coherently, as if the very act of regular writing tunes the orchestra of my mind. This year, as part of my guiding principles, I want to honor this connection. To acknowledge that each word written, whether in a lengthy blog post or a quick message, is part of the same dance – each step making the next one more natural, more graceful.

There’s a certain vulnerability in returning to this space after so long. It’s like stepping onto a brightly lit stage after months in the wings, squinting slightly at the familiar-yet-foreign feeling of exposure. But perhaps that’s exactly what makes it meaningful. The willingness to be seen, to share the stumbles along with the graceful moves, to invite others into this dance of words and thoughts and half-formed ideas.

So shall we dance this dance of trying to write again? I can’t promise perfect rhythm or flawless steps. I can’t even promise I’ll keep writing – though that’s the hope, the intention, the principle I’m embracing. All I know is that the music is playing, has been playing all along, and I’m finally stepping back onto the floor.

The only way to dance, after all, is to keep dancing. And this time, I’m choosing to hear the music in every word, every message, every thought that finds its way to expression. It’s all part of the same beautiful choreography, this daily practice of putting words into the world.

Inklings

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The weekend saw the clocks go forward, our first sunny day marking the start of Spring, and the start of Global Poetry Writing Month. I raced through Toshikazu Kawaguchi’s Before the coffee gets cold and its sequels. A fulsome review will follow, but I haven’t been able to stop recommending the books for their warmth and their exploration of a very difficult question. Each book’s opening pages ask you If you could go back, who would you want to meet? A truly fantastic way to foreshadow what follows, but you carry the blanket nostalgia all through your time with the books. I have existed in that state since, yearning, over the past few days for parts of my pasts, and accepting, slowly, that these pasts are not my present parts.

This is how I am coping.

This afternoon, I purchased Before the coffee gets cold for a dear friend and wrote a short note in the front of the book. I have, over the past two years, essentially moved to living entirely digitally. I mostly take handwritten notes on my iPad nowadays, so getting to witness the shapeliness of my crooked (read, beautiful) cursive on paper once more was joyful. Yet a tinge of something unfamiliar wafted over me. The writing wasn’t slanting, I could draw ruled lines between my letters. The discomfort came from it being a strange experience from a faraway time. A heavy pen, the ink spilling, the worry of the words not quite flowing. The familiar, long-forgotten beast.

Why don’t I write anymore? Ah, that gnawing thought. I examined my short three-sentence note, dated, and grinned. My brain drew the connecting line, squealing with joy – my lack of writing by hand seems to be manifesting in terms of reduced verbose creativity. I do not want to generalise, but I have noticed that living digitally has changed the confidence with which I spill words out onto the page. If you have followed this blog for long enough, you know that I do not enjoy editing. This blog has been the one space I edit nothing at all. I sit, and whatever flows, flows. However it meanders, it meanders. Yet the ease of the backspace has meant all I do nowadays is edit. I have starter trouble more frequently. I have written about this.

So of course I spent the evening cleaning out my pens and filling ink. I write mainly with fountain pens. I dabbled with the odd gel and ballpoint pens, but nothing stuck around for long enough. Some pens refused to write. I spent an hour cleaning them out. They all write now. They’re in front of me as I type: one from Grade 5, one from Grade 7, one from Grade 10, two from first-year of University, and two graduation gifts.

I’m going to keep a notebook with me through the day. I don’t know how I will use it, but I’d like to set it out when I take my laptop/iPad out wherever I am. Apparently there’s something called a commonplace notebook. I need to read more. For now, I am not a thought, but an inkling once more.

A Symphony of Voices | The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois, by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers

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The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois,
by Honorée Fanonne Jeffers
Published by Harper (2021)
Rating: *****

As a reader, there are few things more exciting than the discovery of a literary gem that enriches your understanding of the world, captivates your imagination, and leaves you with a sense of wonder. This experience is only heightened if the book marks a night spent reading to start the Easter weekend away from e-mail.

In Love Songs, Jeffers masterfully weaves together the story of Ailey Pearl Garfield, a young woman struggling to make sense of her family’s complex history and her place within it. As the novel unfolds, the reader is drawn into a rich tapestry of interconnected lives, spanning from the days of enslavement to the present. With each beautifully crafted chapter, Jeffers expertly layers historical fact, personal narrative, and a touch of magical realism to create a story that is both deeply moving and utterly captivating.

Jeffers’ storytelling prowess is impressive. Her characters are vividly rendered and deeply human, their voices ringing clear and true. Ailey, in particular, is a beautifully realized protagonist, her journey of self-discovery serving as the novel’s emotional backbone. Jeffers has a remarkable ability to breathe life into her characters, making them feel as real as the people we encounter in our own lives.

Despite its length and the complexity of its narrative, the novel is a true page-turner. Jeffers expertly balances the various storylines, allowing each to unfold at just the right moment to keep the reader fully engaged. This sense of momentum and pacing is reminiscent of other great works within the genre, such as Yaa Gyasi’s “Homegoing,” which also explores the multigenerational story of an African American family through history.

Growing up, my first exposure to the female African American experience was through Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings”. Even accounting for their differences in genre and scope, it is difficult to look past common thread they share: the exploration of African American identity, history, and resilience. Through their respective narratives, both authors provide powerful insights into the complexities of race, culture, and self-discovery. I think some comparative analysis is therefore merited here.

Both works share a strong emphasis on the theme of self-discovery. In Love Songs, Ailey embarks on a journey to uncover her family’s history and understand her place within it, grappling with her identity as a young, educated African American woman. Similarly, in Caged Bird, Angelou recounts her own struggles with self-acceptance, self-worth, and identity as she navigates the challenges of her childhood and adolescence. In both narratives, the protagonists’ journeys of self-discovery are intrinsically linked to their understanding of their family’s histories and the broader African American experience.

Furthermore, both authors demonstrate a keen understanding of the complexities of race and culture, examining the ways in which these forces shape individual lives and experiences. In Love Songs, Jeffers explores the concept of racial “passing,” or the practice of light-skinned African Americans presenting as white in order to escape racial discrimination. In doing so, she highlights the fluidity and constructed nature of racial identity, as well as the painful sacrifices that individuals must make in order to survive in a racially stratified society. Similarly, Angelou’s work delves into the complexities of race and culture by examining the impact of racial prejudice and discrimination on the protagonist’s sense of self-worth and identity.

Both books possess an undeniable emotional resonance that has the power to captivate readers and leave a lasting impression. They share a profound commitment to exploring the African American experience with depth, nuance, and empathy. My recall of Angelou’s work was especially struck by Jeffers’ use of sex and religion as themes.

The portrayal of sex in these books allows the authors to explore complex and sensitive topics, such as sexual awakening, sexual violence, and the intersection of race and sexuality. In Love Songs, as Ailey comes of age, she grapples with her emerging sexuality and its implications for her identity and relationships. Jeffers’ portrayal of sex in the novel is nuanced and multifaceted, encompassing both the desire for intimacy and the darker aspects of sexual relationships, such as power imbalances and coercion. By incorporating these elements into the narrative, she invites the reader to reflect on the complexity of sexual relationships and their impact on personal growth and self-understanding.

Maya Angelou’s autobiographical account includes a harrowing portrayal of sexual violence, as the young protagonist is raped by her mother’s boyfriend. This traumatic event profoundly affects Maya’s sense of self-worth and contributes to her struggles with identity and self-acceptance throughout the book. Additionally, Angelou’s exploration of her own sexual awakening and subsequent unplanned pregnancy highlights the complex relationship between sex and personal growth, and the undue societal expectations placed upon young Black women.

In both works, the intersection of race and sexuality is an important aspect of the narrative. The authors examine the ways in which race and cultural expectations influence the characters’ experiences and perceptions of their own sexuality. In Love Songs, the concept of racial “passing” also has implications for the characters’ sexual relationships, as it raises questions about identity, authenticity, and the nature of desire. In Caged Bird, Angelou’s experience of sexual violence is situated within the broader context of racial discrimination and the devaluation of Black bodies.

Through their respective narratives, both authors also explore the complexities of faith and spirituality, as well as the impact of religious institutions on the African American experience.

In Love Songs, Christianity is depicted as a central component of the community and family life, shaping the characters’ values, beliefs, and sense of identity. Throughout the novel, the church serves as a place of solace, hope, and community, offering spiritual guidance and support in times of struggle. However, Jeffers also explores the darker aspects of religious institutions, highlighting instances of hypocrisy and the potential for religious dogma to perpetuate harmful stereotypes and social norms. This nuanced portrayal of Christianity in the novel invites the reader to consider the multifaceted role of religion in shaping individual lives and communities, as well as its potential to both empower and constrain.

Similarly, in Caged Bird, religion plays a significant role in Maya Angelou’s upbringing and the shaping of her values and beliefs. The church serves as a central institution within her community, providing a source of spiritual guidance, communal connection, and moral instruction. However, Angelou also grapples with feelings of doubt, disillusionment, and questioning, as she navigates the complexities of her faith and its implications for her understanding of herself and her place in the world. Through her candid exploration of her personal spiritual journey, Angelou offers valuable insights into the role of religion in the African American experience, highlighting both its potential to uplift and its capacity to perpetuate oppression.

One of the most striking aspects of this novel is the thoroughness of Jeffers’ research. Throughout the book, it becomes apparent that the author has painstakingly studied the historical context within which her story takes place. For example, in the chapters set during the era of slavery, Jeffers deftly incorporates details about the daily lives of enslaved people, from the brutal work in the fields to the cruel punishments meted out by slave owners. Additionally, she brings to light the often-overlooked contributions of African Americans in shaping the United States, such as the heroism of Black soldiers in the Civil War.

This commitment to accuracy and historical truth-telling is commendable and serves to elevate Love Songs from a mere work of fiction to a powerful educational tool. As a result, readers are not only entertained but also enlightened, gaining a deeper understanding of the African American experience and the intricate tapestry of American history. Jeffers enables readers to empathize with the struggles, joys, and triumphs of the characters, fostering a deeper understanding of the complexities of race, identity, and resilience. In a time where empathy is difficult to ‘teach’, I was left with the feeling that fiction can heal.

Kannada Academy: Weekend 1

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I have waxed eloquent on this blog about my desire to learn the Kannada script before. My ambition in the past two years has remained unchanged. The unfortunate part is that I have done nothing about it. That is not entirely true. I have tried. My mother and my chikkamma taught me the script briefly in 2019 winter. There was a brief window where I could write out the script from memory, but could not read anything. Since then I’ve been start-stop with the copywriting books. One of my second cousins tries to motivate me, but I lose this pretty fast. It hurts when you can’t really read anything. Since I’ve come to Cambridge though, my sense of identity has heightened. While this is a bit of a joke now at home (I’ve watched more Kannada films in the UK than I have in India), the Cambridge University Kannada Society, and colleagues here make me really want to learn everything I can about the language and the people.

Realising that my attempts (modest ones) were not going to get me anywhere, in March, I started hunting around for teachers. It was around this time I saw the Kannada Academy website. With my current income, I live a relatively frugal life. Ambitions I have are added onto my ever-expanding bucket-list, and become goals I save toward. I knew I had a pay day in the week after I first noticed the website, and so, I saved it to Pocket, and set a phone reminder to return the weekend after. So I did and sent through the fees – explaining clearly what my ambitions were with the course, and being fully aware that the course outlines seemed to teach the spoken Kannada before the script, knowing I needed help with the script predominantly.

It took just one nudge, but fifteen days later, when I was about to ask for a refund, someone from their team got through to me. We exchanged a brief call over WhatsApp, and I was set up for classes this weekend. These classes took place yesterday and today over Google Classroom.

What a joy they have been. Easily the best two hours of my weekend. I do not say this lightly, it has been a particularly wonderful weekend: some golf was played, friends were met, excellent food was consumed. I have been unable to contain the smile on my face while being taught these concepts.

Here is what I have learned so far: the five main sounding vowels (this has a corresponding Kannada word I am forgetting now), and five consonants with their forms (short vowels & long vowels both + the glottal stop).

While this may sound dry, the Kannada script is so unique to my eyes (although I’ve seen it before), that the shapes becoming familiar to me has been a very fun process. Today at the start of class, my teacher asked me to read some words aloud (they mostly had no meaning), but the heart suddenly gaining the knowledge and appreciation that the brain could recognise the script – phenomenal.

The last bit that I think deserves commendation and is noteworthy is that my teacher is a pop-culture machine. Several of my colleagues here have a deep appreciation for Kannada pop-culture. I’ve heard lots of new songs and stories of the film industry from them. My teacher is adding to this growing knowledge, and I’ve now got a new Spotify playlist where I am documenting the different songs he tells me about. My notes jot down where the references come up. I will share that maybe when it’s populated.

Now onto keeping this momentum by practicing through the week. I am motivated now by the external accountability these classes present, but equally by the absolute fear of embarrassment. My teacher’s very kind: in some struggles today, he laughed along and commented, “that’s what learning is all about!”

I tend to agree, but not putting in the practice to learn, and having to go over things again in class – that’s where the real embarrassment lies.

Literary-isms

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Ever so often, I catch myself say something that feels like it’s taken out of a young-adult novel with teenage dramatis personae. You know exactly the type: where one of the central characters is a boy who wears hoodies and jeans, with headphones on at most, if not all times, where this clothing is emphasized, repeated as foreshadowing the character who becomes his love-interest and makes him take off his headphones and indulge in conversation – their meeting trapped in time, space, and the novel becoming about everything aside from the routine that interrupts the meeting of their minds. I catch myself having a sequence of thoughts when I’m dressed in similar attire (perhaps a consequence of associative memory), and think to myself, right after, that belongs in a book. A book filled with tropes, but my masterpiece, my Michelangelo. 

I associate my foray into this genre with John Green, an author whose work amazes me for how riveting and unputdownable the novels end up being, but equally, after a friend pointed this out, for the sheer profoundness crafted into people who are wise beyond their years. My friend told me, teenagers don’t talk like that, referencing Green’s use of a cigarette as a metaphor in The Fault in Our Stars. I chuckled along in agreement and queried other nuggets of wisdom I had gleaned from these younger characters. For all my quips about seniority being immaterial to respect or knowledge, I dismissed them, till my reading journey got me along to a point where I realized the generalization, that all these characters be pooled into one single space within a Venn diagram marked with a circle teens was flawed. Their wisdoms, their quips stem out of their lived experience – and disassociating, taking a step back, those pieces seem to fit. Granted, this create a hero arc in their lives, but, it fits. Chapeau, my friend, what else can I say? 

It’s in those moments, when I speak or text these sentences – sometimes compliments I’m passing on to people, or explanations of something I’ve said, oftentimes apologies, and even mundane observations, that I think, I need to write that book. I have that one sentence, maybe a handful, and here I am, dreaming of these long young adult novels that are as page-turning as I found Green’s work. You see the problem here, don’t you? I’ve identified myself as that character making these quips, and placing the onus on myself to write. It takes a couple of hours, but eventually, I come to the realization that at best, this belongs on a twitter thread, and dismiss them completely. No record, no memory. Like the first step of editing a poorly crafted tweet before the internet sees it, my lack of record means I have no recollection of the sentences I’ve waved off into the abyss. 

I caught myself having one of these moments yesterday while exchanging texts back and forth with a friend. In the casual conversation about how much time felt like it had slowed down and days had morphed into each other (a sign of this pandemic for most), my friend said every day feels like Sunday. I seized my literary moment. With no hesitation, in real-time, I said, I’m caught in a sea of Wednesdays. I can recall, vividly, my pride at typing this masterpiece. In dissecting the novel in a Grade 7 Book Club or English Literature class, perhaps a teacher would say, Why did Mr Rao choose to use the word “sea”? To which the bright spark that lingered in greys, hood down, at the back of the class, would shoot back, because he felt like he was drowning. And so the English teacher would have found her star, and a new student-teacher relationship would foster the creation of a Dead Poet’s Society, bonded together by the one moment someone really understood what an author meant. Except, in this case, the author, me, didn’t use sea because he was drowning. I used the word sea deliberately, because I’m floating, one day to the next. More than that, I picked Wednesdays deliberately. An odd choice, as my friend suggested, but one I easily explained, below:

I don’t know. I think it’s the fact that it feels like the middle of the week, despite there being no fixed middle because it’s the closest you can get to a middle on the work week calendar. Or maybe it’s the memory of having good lunch in high school with friends.  Or the long forgotten but never really gone memory of being yelled at for saying régle wrong in french class.

And for the Dead Poet’s Society that emerged, there would be the one kid that researched the author’s background, found this post, and got the actual meaning behind the tour de force that is a sea of Wednesdays. For an outsider, a sea of Wednesdays would make no sense. What does he even mean?, they’d ask, and when someone explained it, they’d say, then why on Earth couldn’t he just have said, “every day felt the same”, to which, literary flair, would be the only appropriate response.

So I had this moment, right, on the train yesterday, coming back from London, and I said to myself, that belongs in a book, and for the first time, having a record of that moment and the realization that followed, I can see now that at the very least, it’s given me enough content to fill a space on a blog that serves as a daily reminder of my place as a writer. 

As I’ve decided to start recording each of these phrases I concoct, these literary-isms that occupy space in my heart as novels that are never written. The plan is to blog about them and what they meant when I said them originally, for anyone to adopt if they’d like, but more crucially, for me to remember what on Earth I actually meant, lest I think someday that a sea of Wednesdays was a number of shops called Wednesday’s, like Sainsbury’s. 

Tintin / Captain Haddock Meme - What a week, huh? Captain, it's Wednesday - HD Restoration / Remastered (2864*2480): MemeRestoration
This twitter account has become a favourite of mine: What a week, huh? all Wednesdays

Unconditional Love and Family | The House in the Cerulean Sea, by T.J. Klune

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The House in the Cerulean Sea,
by T.J. Klune,
Published by Tor (2020)
Rating: *****

Introduction

I’m a sucker for books that contain the fantastic and magical, especially when they’re heartwarming reads. The blurb to this book, on Goodreads, was pretty reflective of something similar so I dived right in. I was rewarded with a journey filled with positivity and love, everything I needed at the time put into words.

Plot

The book takes us through Linus Baker’s life. A quiet man, he is a Case Worker at the Department in Charge of Magical Youth (DICOMY). His job is to oversee the well-being of magical children who spend their time growing up at Government-sanctioned orphanages. It’s a job he’s worked for a long time, no promotion, no demotion, and he follows rules to the tee. Out of the blue, he is summoned by Extremely Upper Management at DICOMY and given a super-classified assignment: to travel to Marsyas Island Orphanage.

He is not told much else prior to his departure, but once he arrives on the island, he learns that six dangerous children reside there: a gnome, a sprite, a wyvern, an unidentifiable green blob, a were-Pomeranian, and the Antichrist – all under the care of Arthur Parnassus, who is charming and will go to any length to keep these children safe. Over time however, it becomes clear that not everything about the orphanage, or the island are as they seem, and Linus is faced with decisions to make that go against everything he believes in.

Riding on Characters

Good books, for me, center either around well-constructed worlds, or well-constructed character arcs. Naturally books that combine the two elements are therefore appreciated by me even more. This had a reasonably well-created world, you’re introduced to it early, and through Linus Baker’s view, it becomes quickly apparent what the distinctions from the world we live in today are. That allows focus to shift immediately on to the characters. Having nine protagonists on which the story rides requires meaningful relationships to be forged between each character, something Klune develops naturally. Additionally, each character arc is extremely well thought-out and the book concludes without any unanswered questions, which is a delight. The dialogue is a delight to read, leaving little thinking or effort on the part of the reader to understand each characters’ motives. This by no means undermines the complexity of the characters, but it’s just a pleasure to read something that feels effortlessly written and enjoyed.

Asking the difficult questions

All of that – the characters and the dialogue does not take away from the tough questions the book tries to ask of us. There’s a lot of internal conflict presented within the book about prejudices and differences, and the way we actually respond to these as against the manner in which we ought to be responding to these. It asks of us why we categorize people and experiences into extreme ends on a spectrum, or into pigeonholes, rather than looking at them as they are – complex, and not necessarily classifiable. A lot of the decisions Linus Baker makes through the book are a result of his own reflections on these topics, and they’re an excellent reminder of the need to reflect about these things on our own.

Conclusions

There’s so much joy in this book. I went into it knowing it was a standalone, but I long to understand and read more about the kind of joy Linus Baker is able to spread to the kids he learns to love. I hope there’s some fanfiction to keep me occupied while I wait for a sequel (should it ever arrive).

Open Your Heart | The Forty Rules of Love, by Elif Shafak

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The Forty Rules of Love,
by Elif Shafak,
Published by Viking (2010)
Rating: *****

Introduction

This is the first audiobook I ever consumed. It was recommended to me the minute I opened up my Audible app for the first time. I saw it, was intrigued, checked out the plot, and knew I had to read it immediately. Of course, I didn’t audiobook it completely. I ended up reading more than half of it because I felt a strong desire to push forth – the narrative had me so hooked. This is also what has sparked a renewed interest in reading Rumi’s poetry, or beginning to read Rumi’s poetry.

Plot

This is a book with a plot-within-a-plot, a book-within-a-book. The narrator/protagonist, Ella Rubenstein is a housewife, who takes a job as a reader for a literary agent. Her first assignment becomes reading a manuscript titled Sweet Blasphemy, a novel written by Aziz Zahara. The book tells the tale of Shams-i-Tabrizi and Rumi, their respective journeys and how they find each other, and Shams’ role in transforming Rumi’s life. Ella is smitten, and takes to communicating with Zahara, finding that Rumi’s story apparently mirrors her own life, and sorrows, with Zahara being the person tasked with helping her find love, and joy again.

Nested Stories

Shafak does a beautiful job of switching between the manuscript and the real-life of Ella Rubenstein. The transitions between the two feel timely, never abrupt, and the chapters are never too long, so you never lose track of where you are in each story line. They seem to weave into each other purposefully, especially since they are meant to mirror each other – the pacing is well done, and Shafak introduces elements of conflict, or of communication and resolution in away that never seems to take your attention away from either plot. I appreciated deeply how Rubenstein’s letters to Zahara mimicked communications and the building relationship between Shams and Rumi. The conversations Shafak writes are deep and meaningful, opening up the minds of each of the characters in the book.

The Little Things

Shafak embeds the Forty Rules of Love into the book, exposing them by imagining that Shams revealed them throughout his life when the time was right for the person being spoken to, to receive them. You can see this across his interaction with common-people, with Rumi, and through Zahara’s quoting of the rules of love in his conversations with Rubenstein. I loved that each chapter began with the second arabic sound “ba”, and that each section of the book referenced an element. The story, in its entirety, with Shafak’s lyrical writing, made me more mindful and aware and appreciative of the beauty I have surrounding me, and for a while, all I felt like doing was sitting down and taking all of it in.
It opened me up to a new kind of love, and I cannot wait to read more Rumi soon.

Conclusion

Easily one of the best finds I’ve made this year. Worth reading for how well she brings Rumi and Shams-i-Tabrizi to life.

Brothers & Sisters | The Dutch House, by Ann Patchett

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The Dutch House,
by Ann Patchett,
Published by Harper (2019)
Rating: ***

Introduction

The title of this review stems from this Coldplay song. I discovered this book through the Goodreads algorithm, and later saw this lovely special edition that had been printed which looks stunning (here – look at those pages!), and was tempted to read it. I consumed this in-part through an audiobook, and in-part through the ebook. My overall rating stems from how I felt at the end of the book rather than being representative of individual components of the book itself.

Plot

The book navigates the life of the Conroy family, centering around siblings: Danny and Maeve, who struggle to confront the past and live in the present – returning to their childhood home as observers to figure out everything in their lives. The book begins at Danny’s childhood, with Maeve taking on a motherly role when their biological mother abandons them. It takes us through a tumultuous teenage time, where Danny and Maeve are booted out of the house by their stepmother once their father passes, and how they survive the world.

 The Home As A Character

Patchett does a tremendous job of making The Dutch House, the titular object a character within the book. She exposes the interiors, first allowing Danny to discover the house while growing up, and then allowing the younger stepsiblings to introduce us to more layers to the house when they are left in the care of Danny & Maeve. Maeve recounts everything about the past by using the house as a frame of reference. Not only does that set up context to the time in which events take place, but it takes you through the house’s own ageing process at the same time. The voice and tone of the book always make you remember the house’s presence – and in some sections in particular, it feels like it’s the walls of the house talking.

A Rushed Ending

This was honestly beautiful till I was about 70% in. I loved everything about it. I enjoyed the way the siblings grew up and grew older together, and the kind of challenges Danny was going through in processing his emotions. There was a complexity to both Danny and Maeve that made them feel like real people, and that these were real events happening in everyone’s lives. However, the last 30% really threw me off. The plot was rushed through and felt unbelievable. The changes to their lives felt like they were impossible in real-life, which took away from all of the set-up that Patchett had accomplished in the first half. That was disappointing. It felt, in a sense, that this book would have been more enjoyable had the ending not been as rosy as it ended up being. Especially because the book tries to hint at how we deal with the past as people. I would have genuinely preferred if Danny and Maeve struggled – in one final scene, with the idea that they would not get closure, and learned to live with that.

Conclusion

Read for characters who seem to have hearts of gold, and sibling relationships that seem to mirror what real siblings are actually like.

To-Read

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It’s now been exactly a month since we were asked to leave campus. In several ways, this has been a month where I’ve been able to do all of the things I’ve envisaged doing with my time, but never been able to do because I’ve consistently been under the impression that I didn’t have the time to do these things. Rather, I didn’t make time for them. Things like learning the guitar – and reaching out to my friends for help with that. Or learning coding, and reaching out to my friends for that too. Writing book reviews and reading books every day too.

A result of the book reviews I’m writing every day now is that I spend a lot of time on Goodreads. Since 2016, Goodreads has been my go-to for several things: book recommendations, making friends,keeping track of my own reading. While I’ve waxed eloquent about how much I love the algorithm because it has introduced me to some great books, today, while uploading my latest review, I saw that the algorithm recommended a book whose plot made me instantly decide not to read it. I decided to look at some of my other current recommendations – and what I noticed was a disturbing trend of some poor recommendations, especially those that stem out of my to-read shelf.

I blamed the algorithm for a few seconds before recognizing that if this was a trend, there’s likely an issue with my to-read shelf that’s leading to these suggestions in the first place. I had about 500 books on there, accumulated largely in the past 6-7 months. Since I’m someone who enjoys a large range of books, in terms of the genres I read and like exploring, I generally add a book to my to-read shelf the minute the blurb looks interesting – without really looking at much else. Glancing through my to-read shelf I realized my mistake instantly. These are too many books whose subjects no longer interest me at all, and books I wonder when I was interested in even, resting on the to-read shelf.

I cleared it all out in 10 clicks.

My to-read shelf now contains 0 books. I’m going to build it from scratch, and actually follow-through on reading the books I add to that to-read shelf. While it’s likely to grow faster than I read books I add to the list, I feel like this will make me genuinely interested in tracking my interests and reading habits over time. I’m going to move books around shelves as well. I’ve created a “Not Now” shelf for books I add to the “To Read” shelf but decide to discard for the time being. That way atleast the algorithm can differentiate recommendations for me.

Only one of those ten clicks made me feel things. That last one. Oh, it was brutal.

It was only when I clicked that final time that it hit me that I had effectively just discarded all the books that I was curious about in the past 5 years – without reviewing them or taking a back up. I felt sad for a few minutes and ate a chocolate bar to overcome that.

I wouldn’t have read those books anyway though, honestly. Not one of my to-read books has “purposefully” made its way to my “read” shelf. It’s happened by accident.

Let’s see what I discover next.

You Go, Gurl | Equal Rites (Discworld #3), by Terry Pratchett

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Equal Rites (Discworld #3)
by Terry Pratchett
Published by Harper Perennial (2005)
Rating: ****

Introduction

Like I mentioned in the earlier Discworld review, reading Discworld is a project that has been underway for a while now, and is likely to take a while still. As always, this remains a series I come back to when I’m in a slump because I know the books are short, the story arcs simple and easy to follow, and the world explicitly explained.

Plot 

Drum Billet, a wizard who is about to die,  follows the wisdom of his staff, attempting to find his successor. Wizards are generally the eighth sons of an eighth son, and in the village of Bad Ass, up in the Ramtop mountains, an eighth child is being born to an eighth son. Unfortunately for everyone concerned Drum Billet’s staff is of a particularly progressive bend of mind, and the child he leads Billet to is a daughter, not a son. It is thus that Eskarina Smith becomes destined to be a wizard.

Given the premise this sets up, as evident above, and the title, the story is very predictable. Esk faces several challenges as she seeks to become a wizard, ultimately succeeding. What I enjoyed about this is that as the third book in Discworld, you can see Pratchett seeking to examine this magical world from as many lenses as he is capable. In earlier books, he’s looked at the philosophy and mechanics of Magic, and now, he looks and introduces a series of books focusing on the gender implications of a magical world (or of any world, really).

Characters and Sass

Really well-written introductions to Esk and Granny W, who legitimately stole the show for large parts of the book. As compared to the other two books, there is humour led by the protagonists themselves; as opposed to coming out of supporting characters with whom they interact. Pratchett’s inclusion of Simon, a young boy struggling with his magic – to contrast with Esk’s own journey, helps to bring forth the challenges she faces within a setup that recognizes traditional gender roles and restricting women’s use of magic to the limitations that witches are confined to. Granny W has a lot of sass – something that made me chuckle more times than I would like to count.

Discworld Itself

While I fully recognize that this is the first book in the Witches subseries on Discworld, I felt that there was still scope to introduce elements about Discworld to the reader by having Esk or Granny W interact with fresh parts of the world that we hadn’t heard of. What I enjoyed about the previous two books is that they added layers to the physical space that is Discworld. I wished that had happened a little more here.

Conclusion

A solid read that’ll guarantee laughter. Short and predictable, perfect for a reading slump.