The sunset is bland.
In his dreams, it was red ruby and fiery orange. It was from within the wild whirligig of colour, the silk voiced enchantress with rose lips had sung sweet, mad melodies for him.
He is now in Dry Dusty Grey.
Death comes in many ways, but always brings black, stony numbness.
Never has it happened to me, that I have rushed through the book because it is so bad. This entry is about the mind numbing experience -- The book is markedly forgettable and absolutely nothing to write about.
This was my second grapple with this exercise in self importance. The first time I tried to handle it, I was taken completely by surprise. The sheer enormity of the ridiculousness of the first five chapters floored me. With a meek wave of the white flag, I retreated, curling up with an old volume of Wodehouse. Wodehouse always has a soothing balm like effect on me. A single Jeeves yarn was good enough for the Bourne Ultimatum, but the above mentioned five chapters required the combined powers of three complete books from the Psmith Omnibus. Thus renewed, I returned for a rematch.
I think that the rematch idea was a bad one. I had given up the first time because the book bored me. I never realised, the first time around that apart from being singularly insipid, the book also does not have a point, apart from the dripping pretentiousness. I had been trying very hard to finish it for the last four days, but last night, as I slept I kept having the same nightmare -- I am reading the ridiculous ramblings from the The Rule of Four. Trust me, that is scary shit. I had no option left. Any hot Bene Gesserit would say, "I will face my fear.I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path." Any hot Bene Gesserit would do what I did. I decided to let the damn thing pass over me. I woke up at 3:30 in the morning, and by 7 am I was through the Vapid Volume. I might not exactly be a finer deeper man after doing so but am certainly a much more relieved one.
For those who might be interested, the book is about nothing. Unrelated to the plot, it mentions a bunch of college students who generally trudge the snow and prepare for some thesis thingy about some 16th century text. Also totally unrelated to the plot, it mentions an art collector running amok with a pistol because somebody stole his blueprint or thunder or mojo or something. This art collector eventually sets fire to an alcohol soaked clubhouse and in the process, burns himself to a cinder. Oh yes, there is a girl there also, but again, not really a part of the plot.
Tags: books, bad books, reviews, The Rule of Four
Rarely does the Indian MSM dole out such wholesome entertainment. They generally fail to deliver when they trying. However, extremely efficient reporting has come up with some scintillating news. Monica Bedi hates Indian prisons and is getting wildly nostalgic about her comfy old days in Portugese prison. To make it worse, she has been estranged from her bosom buddies who lovingly have been referred to as 'those two' by the erudite reporter. Sad, since they were moved out 'before she could develop friendship' with the comely 'those two'. When will the bad english, braindead reporting and the numbskulls stop ?
These are sad times for Monica Bedi in particular and the Indian fourth estate in general.
When it has to be told, it has to be told. I have been witholding it long enough, but I can no longer do so. Ladies and gentlemen, the puri-sabji in Bangalore is not the Happy Combination. It is not the Right Stuff.
Back in my wild, younger days when I was in Gurgaon (about a four months back), after a hot and dusty week out in the open, roping in a herd of inexplicable deadlocks and taming a bunch of difficult memory leaks, I would go to Om Sweets in Sector 14, kick back and unwind over a plate of puri-sabji. That plate of puri-sabji, single handedly would restore the deep scars left behind by unindented code, non-recursive locks and team meetings. In short, it rejuvenated.
The Bangalorean Puri-Sabji in sharp contradistinction, depresses me. It leaves me glassy eyed, silent and markedly unfulfilled. There is a very distinct and profound flaw in the Bangalorean Puri-Sabji -- It Lacks Zing (as Dr. M.D. so correctly points out). This singular lack of zing saddens one. It leaves the poor spirit wanting more. I am a lost soul trudging the weary desert without the Manna raining from heaven.
