I usually do not do book reviews, neither do I enjoy them. I am of the general opinion that everyone should be allowed to figure out if they like a book or not, with no external help; much like with people. But every once in a while a book comes along to remind you of your supreme naivete. In our sanguine smugness and misplaced faith in reason we tend to analyse, assimilate and file away experiences to be fished out as convenient anecdotes. The reality of the episode fades with time, repetition and with this basic act of classification, and we begin to use these instances only as precedents to support a case. We are argumentative and competitive and rarely, if ever, dwell on a moment long enough to allow it to seep into the bedrock of our psyches.
And then, suddenly, you realise that realities are real, not manageable instances. No matter how much you 'manage' them, its graphic nature can never be veiled.
Like I said, I don't like book reviews. I prefer to go in blind. But this book deserved a word, not of praise but of caution. It will not negotiate, it invades. It does not forgive, it demands vengeance. It cannot give, it drowns. And most importantly, it stays.
Reading Red Sorghum is an exercise of agonised fascination. Mo Yan does not give the reader any respite, he is as ruthless as his characters and seems to take the untold-- or rather the excrutiatingly described-- violence in the same matter of fact, survivalist mien as they do. Watching a movie allows you the ephemeral comfort of closing your eyes to avoid the horrifying. The book will not brook such cowardice. And so, regardless of the fact that your insides are cringing, you continue reading. Just like the characters in the book.
They only stop when they are dead, just as we can only stop reading at the end of the book. It drains you, stretches you taut and thin and brings home the fact that you know nothing, can never know and that you should pray that it remains that way; because to know is to never be able to ignore.
The closing pages of the book describes the changed landscape of the place of setting-- Mo Yan's only lapse into blatant allegorical eloquence. Filled with a deep and abiding guilt at the inadequacy of the present to live up to the past, the author finally helps you name that terrible ache in your chest, so smothered by horror and shock. It is shame: the shame of not being that original, the true seed of the earth that aught to stand tall and proud instead doomed to the boxed existence of pet rabbits. And yet, underneath that crushing realisation, one also knows that we came from this cruel, loving, avenging earth and will return to it no matter how many times we are exhumed from our rest or fight its reclaiming tug- this too is true.
Ah literature, love of my life.
And then, suddenly, you realise that realities are real, not manageable instances. No matter how much you 'manage' them, its graphic nature can never be veiled.
Like I said, I don't like book reviews. I prefer to go in blind. But this book deserved a word, not of praise but of caution. It will not negotiate, it invades. It does not forgive, it demands vengeance. It cannot give, it drowns. And most importantly, it stays.
Reading Red Sorghum is an exercise of agonised fascination. Mo Yan does not give the reader any respite, he is as ruthless as his characters and seems to take the untold-- or rather the excrutiatingly described-- violence in the same matter of fact, survivalist mien as they do. Watching a movie allows you the ephemeral comfort of closing your eyes to avoid the horrifying. The book will not brook such cowardice. And so, regardless of the fact that your insides are cringing, you continue reading. Just like the characters in the book.
They only stop when they are dead, just as we can only stop reading at the end of the book. It drains you, stretches you taut and thin and brings home the fact that you know nothing, can never know and that you should pray that it remains that way; because to know is to never be able to ignore.
The closing pages of the book describes the changed landscape of the place of setting-- Mo Yan's only lapse into blatant allegorical eloquence. Filled with a deep and abiding guilt at the inadequacy of the present to live up to the past, the author finally helps you name that terrible ache in your chest, so smothered by horror and shock. It is shame: the shame of not being that original, the true seed of the earth that aught to stand tall and proud instead doomed to the boxed existence of pet rabbits. And yet, underneath that crushing realisation, one also knows that we came from this cruel, loving, avenging earth and will return to it no matter how many times we are exhumed from our rest or fight its reclaiming tug- this too is true.
Ah literature, love of my life.
4 comments:
Well.. your words of caution have been heard.. and ignored.. cuz now you have me itching to read the book!
Don't say I didn't warn you.
It's a thing of terrifying intensity though. Make sure you keep Stardust at hand. :D
seems a lot like reading shantaram chapter twenty - a strain you can't stop exposing yourself to.
At a certain level, the book strips you of choice. You just can't let it go. And I'll take up Shantaram as a reward for progress(?).
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