I'd never review a book I've not read with full attention that I can offer. Therefore, this is not a review; it's an account of the thoughts that ran through my head when I couldn't get past the first 100 pages of Seven Summers, by Mulk Raj Anand.
What is the purpose of writing, or any other form of art for that matter? Is it not to question, challenge or celebrate life?
An artist could do it with a bouquet or a brick, in a manner unbearably cruel or with sympathy.
One can cajole you like you're a kindergarten kid or thrash you, there can be numerous corrective measures.
Some writers indulge us with our own misfortunes disguised as the plot. Some unashamedly pat us on our back for something we need to be kicked for.
Some do ask questions but in a manner that doesnt demand answers. The majority, though, consists of the herds of populist writers lauded for the escape they provide by taking us on fantastic journeys. Journeys which are far away from the crude reality of our sad, little, meaningless lives.
Seven Summers does nothing more than indulging the reader and though that's not too bad a thing to do, it still isn't my cup of tea.
Discover more about Seven Summers, by Mulk Raj Anand, here.
i like ur questions. i really like ur questions. it indicates someone's using their mind to read..not just reading because the world is reading.
ReplyDeletebut just as i was about to drown myself into it...ur writing ended!!!! quite sad, but nevertheless, i loved the issues u raised.
neha