Bibliomaniac

I think it been too long since I felt the weight of a book in my hands, even though it was only this morning that I finished one. I knew there was something missing while reading eBooks.

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The pages of the book were yellow, several had dog ears. There were marks from pens blue, black, red and green, ticks, crosses, and other little scribbled words and notes that made it obvious that for someone, somewhere, this was a textbook. There were parenthesis and numbered lines, points for an essay question no doubt. There were double lines marking the end of section, and I remember my photocopies of notes that bear the same mark denoting ‘end of syllabus’. The point from which you skip the rest of the chapter, and look for the next topic to study.

I hate marks on my book. I even dislike the ridge that is formed along the spine of the paperback when you hold it too wide open. I don’t like the pages to be tattered, though I do not mind when the pages have yellowed with age. I scream every time I see someone nonchalantly put down an open book on its face. Or when they lick a finger to flip a page…

Its dark chocolate hardbound cover is held together by sticky tape, the spine carries the library accession number in white, pasted with transparent cellophane tape. This book awes me when I open it. I do not know what made me pull it out, because there was nothing written on it, nothign to mark it special – perhaps there was nothing all that special about it… My fingers lightly skidded over the spine and then pulled it out, one among shelves and shelves of books, and just like that, I’m transported.

It not only opens the portal of my imagination to the world it speaks of, it frees me to think of those who came before me – I see countless people pouring over it, some studying lines from places, others memorising a special bit they come across. Some chewing nervously on the end of the pen they twirl as they read. (Not a single one with a pencil however, why don’t people use pencils anymore?)

I like the smell of new money, new paper and new books. I also like the beaten and weathered – but not termite eaten – pages and the aroma that takes you to a different world. It’s like living in three realities: that of your physical being, the story that the book carries, and the romance of the book itself. What romance? The one that unfolds when you find a pressed white grass-flower, and you wonder what the book saw. Did a lover wait for another under a tree, nervously pulling up grass? Was it the only gift, and meant to be preserved? Was it just carelessly trapped by an impatient reader too eager to abandon the book for the outdoors?

Or did someone leave a message?

Hamlet. What’s new about him?

Oh yes, Hamlet. What’s new about him?

I always had difficulty in relating to Shakespeare’s most famous character. One of my friends, however, seems to identify with him quite well. So here I was, discussing the man’s characters, and being on the critical side, for I must admit – I never liked him much. He might have been a man of action, but I considered the way that he broke down to grief a weakness. I disapproved. After airing this opinion a time or two, I paused. By what authority? What did I know about him – Hamlet, I mean, not my friend – anyway? Why was I making judgements based on a person I had read about over two years ago, when I am no longer the person that I was then? The way my friend looked at it made me think that my view was shallow, because he certainly saw depth in the man.

I did not have the knowledge fresh at the top of my head, and what I remembered of Hamlet was a little more than what every man knows – Father killed by his brother to marry his mother and take the Throne of Denmark. His sweetheart death by his hand – an accident. His two friends – Fortinbras and Laertes, who suffer a similar fate but react differently.

So I picked up my fat brown bound volume of ‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare’, opened Othello by habit, flipped back to Hamlet and began to read.

Rediscovering all the small things that one forgets with time is a beautiful feeling, seeing lines and thinking, “Wow, I remember this, and it’s beautiful!” is rewarding. It is impossible to approach a book like Hamlet without preconceived notions of everything that happens and everyone in it. I cannot say that I succeeded in casting aside those prejudices, because I did not. For instance, I was surprised in the very first act – one assumes that Hamlet always was melancholy, but the way everyone keeps harping on “Hamlet is changed” – it is obvious that the man was once very cheerful, though we do not see this side of him in the play. I still found it beautiful, and that I understood a great deal more than I did before. The intelligence that read it before was the same, perhaps the immaturity made me appreciate it less.

It is a work of passion, and… frankly, I was reminded on Túrin Turambar. Turin is a character out of Tolkien’s world (the ‘Lay of the Children of Hurin’ in BOLT3 and ‘The Silmarillion’) – ‘I am Agarwaen the son of Úmarth (which is the Bloodstained, son of Ill-fate), a hunter in the woods’ says Túrin in the Silmarillion, and perhaps a comparison of these two is in the offing. I know I want to do it.

A few days back, as I was walking down the English section of my library, I found ‘Shakespeare’s Tragic Heroes – Slaves of Passion’ by Lily B. Campbell. Curious me picked it up, checked it out and went back to the hostel. I skipped the parts where she analyses Lear, Macbeth and Othello (not reading the Othello section first took a lot of self control) and finished the book as far as Hamlet was concerned. ( I have since finished all those sections as well – fascinating analysis)

She mentioned ‘Shakespearean Tragedy’ – A C Bradley, and I went out again, got my hands on that, came back and read it.

Bradley and Campbell present the ‘tragic hero’ in different ways. While Campbell prefers to try to think of Shakespeare’s characters as he would have thought of them by studying the Elizabethan philosophy, Bradley seems to forget the fact that these were plays, not books. Several devices that Shakespeare used – for instance when Iago talks to the audience – Bradley interprets as Iago trying to convince the audience. Perhaps. I think that Iago is merely informing the audience of what is happening, what he feels and what he plots, because there is no other way of doing it. The author cannot write narratives in a play like he can in a novel. Anyone who has tried a play with too much narration knows that the audience gets restless. I’ve seen some who nod off.

The point to the whole exercise was that given these two totally different interpretations of Hamlet, I accept Campbell’s. Occam’s Razor does have its uses after all.

I am no student of literature.
So yes, Hamlet. What’s new about him?
I still like Othello better than Hamlet, but now, I think I see more to Hamlet than I did before. :) Just goes to show that even what is “done” is a tresure trove of more information… if you just look

p2p: The Artist

I attempt a sketch of someone who can sketch everything else.

She is a painter, and every time I see her paintings, I realise that this – THIS – is something I have never had and never will. It is not that I feel less than what I am, but that I acknowledge that this is greater than what I can be.I realise that she does not know the value of what she holds. She turns to her range of colours, her box of paints when she must express what she cannot otherwise. In those vidid streaks, her soul is wide open for anyone to read. She can abandon herself to that medium, without thought of who will see and what it will mean…. and she lets her ability speak for itself. She only tries to rid herslef of excess emotions, but in every picture, I see a message to me, for me.Where she sees confusion and the attempt to rise above it, I see my inspiration – let go. Let it be.

And if it were not enough that with her brush she weaves magic, her voice is that of an angel. She can trill, sing, carry the audience with ther strength of her voice and melody. She can make you feel the song and believe the words she sings… and the promises it carries.She is Vikram Seth's Nightingale, and I ferverantly hope she never meets Mr. Frog.. in her desire to find comfirmity. She is the essense of a vibrant proactive, dynamic woman. That elusive being who belongs in her world.

She is, in short, superwoman.

~*~*~

Other p2p:
Chitchat
First Love

Belated pictures of Palar

When everyone was talking about the flood in TN, I was writhing in my seat waiting for my photographs to be developed. (Digital cmaera, alas, is on my "to buy" list, and has been bumped to #2 since I urgently require a new motherboard *sob*) The roll was overexposed. *sigh*

Quite a few people were expecting those pictures of Palar with water in it (hasn't happened in 15 years, I'm told) and so, I begged borrowed and stole these. All pictures in this post were taken by Thumbdrive, who currently isn't upto putting them up herself on her blog. :) They were taken on Tuesday (second day of rains). Water rose for another couple of days, all that greenery drowned, and then the water level dropped again on Friday (When I passed it) and rose again from saturday night. Or so I'm told. I don't know the dates, but I guess I could hunt them up.

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by Thumbdrive

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by Thumbdrive

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by Thumbdrive

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
by Thumbdrive

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
by Thumbdrive

What one does when one has no time…

.. find more things to do.

Exams here.
Big time.

Frantically last minute studying to begin.
No time.

So why have I signed up to write a novel in a month?

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