Neil Gaiman – American Gods

Posted on | January 17, 2012 | 6 Comments

This book was recommended by the same person who introduced David Mitchell (number9dream) to me. It was then recommended by another colleague who borrowed number9dream from me. So, it had to be read. 590+ page chunkster or not, it had to be read.

I finished it about a month back, and my head’s been reeling since. I don’t really know how to pen my thoughts down, for this book is epic. But – I have to do better. I have to, at least, give it a shot. So, here goes nothing.

American Gods is literally about American Gods, and how they immigrated to the Americas with their believers, back in the day. Centuries (and generations) later, people have lost faith (as they do), but the Gods continue to live – or exist – as they try and find their place in the new age, when new Gods of technology, media and television have taken the place that originally belongs to them. With the impending storm, a battle is brewing – a battle between the gods, to see which ones survive, and which ones fade into nothing.

“Gods die. And when they truly die they are unmourned and unremembered. Ideas are more difficult to kill than people, but they can be killed, in the end.”

Shadow, recently released from prison, only to discover that his wife has died in unfortunate circumstances is approached by Wednesday – a man who has many-a-trick up his sleeve. He hires Shadow as a driver of sorts, and so begins the journey to the heart of America, a road trip a la On The Road.

“This is the only country in the world,” said Wednesday, into the stillness, “that worries about what it is.”

The rest of them know what they are. No one ever needs to go searching for the heart of Norway. Or looks for the soul of Mozambique. They know what they are.”

The journey is to gather up all the old Gods to lead them to the battleground, and fight the new Gods. Yes, even Gods have power-struggles!

The paradigms were shifting. He could feel it. The old world, a world of infinite vastness and illimitable resources and future, was being confronted by something else—a web of energy, of opinions, of gulfs. People believe, thought Shadow. It’s what people do. They believe. And then they will not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust the conjurations. People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock-solid belief, that makes things happen.

And then there’s poor Shadow stuck in the middle, haunted by the physical presence of his dead wife, trying desperately to find some kind of solace with coin tricks, and get over the events of the recent past, and make some sense of the current events: the Gods, the carousel that spins till he reaches the place with the statues of the Gods, disappearances of people, and a myriad of characters – some human, and some, well, Gods. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Even in the unlikeliest of places. But, that possibly, was the biggest problem with Shadow’s character – despite being Wednesday’s driver for most of the book, he really is just a passenger; passive and just along for the ride, while things happen in spite of him. An unlikely protagonist, some might say. Unlikely compared to say, his dead wife, Laura, or the enigmatic Wednesday.

I thoroughly enjoyed this book, and you can expect to see a lot more Gaiman on here! It’s a hell of a ride, and in parts, it’s exasperating, but all said and done, it’s absolutely worth a read!

And to finish off, one extremely long quote (shamelessly copied from the internet), which I absolutely loved:

“I can believe things that are true and things that aren’t true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they’re true or not.

I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Beatles and Marilyn Monroe and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen – I believe that people are perfectable, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkled lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women.

I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in America is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state.

I believe that all politicians are unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste.

I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common cold like martians in War of the Worlds.

I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman.

I believe that mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s aerodynamically impossible for a bumble bee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same time (although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself.

I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of causal chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck.

I believe that anyone who says sex is overrated just hasn’t done it properly. I believe that anyone who claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too.

I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman’s right to choose, a baby’s right to live, that while all human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system.

I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life is what happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.”

The pantheon of Gods unleashed on the readers is like a deep-dive into the world of mythology. The gods, incarnated as ordinary imperfect people, grace the pages, and reading about their past is fantastic. In fact, some of those bits were the most interesting in this chunkster, which I did fly through. It’s a long-winded meandering book, with plenty of detours and excessive digressions, some of which are relevant and some of which not. At times, Gaiman does ramble on for a bit, but his writing is incredibly witty and for the entire book, he keeps the reader (well, me!) hooked.

Happy 2012!

Posted on | January 1, 2012 | 1 Comment

Happy New Year everyone! It’s been a long 2011, but still, it feels like the year’s flown by, in the blink of an eye. I’ve not blogged much this year, and even if I take into account the books I haven’t reviewed (yet), my reading year has been pretty abysmal. I do apologise for that.

But, it’s a new year, and with new years come new resolutions, and one of mine’s to be a better reader, and to be a better blogger. I’ve got way too many books sitting pretty on my bookshelf, and I have this bizarre urge to compulsively buy all the books that I want to read, so, you know, if nothing else, I owe it to myself.

I have a couple of other projects on the cards for next year, so you know, all in all, I’m quite excited. And hopefully, come December 2012, I won’t sit nodding along to Damien Rice’s Amie, thinking, “that pretty much sums up my year!”

Nothing unusual nothing’s changed

Just a little older that’s all.

Here’s wishing you and your families a wonderful 2012! :)

Jostein Gaarder – The Christmas Mystery

Posted on | December 27, 2011 | 5 Comments

This time of the year, I like reading at least one Christmassy book; one that propounds the Christmas spirit and is essentially feel-good, and festive. A Norwegian friend of mine fleetingly mentioned how, while he was growing up, his family would read this book together, reading one chapter on each day of the Advent calendar. Intrigued. Curiosity piqued. Specially as I’ve loved everything else I’ve read by Jostein Gaarder so far.

I did race through this book in two days though, instead of reading it patiently, over twenty-four days. But, in my defence, I *needed* to know what happened next. Clearly (and possibly slightly embarrassingly), Joachim, the child protagonist, has more self-control and patience.

On 30th November, Joachim and his father go into a bookstore, looking for an Advent calendar. They walk out with a hand-made calendar, a one-of-a-kind that the bookseller doesn’t quite recognise, and attributes its presence to John, the flower seller, who occasionally leaves things at the store as a thank you.

When Joachim opens the first door of the calendar the following day, not only is he greeted with a pretty picture, but also with a piece of paper that flutters out, that tells a story. The story is of a little girl called Elisabet, who spots a lamb in a department store, and is so keen to stroke it, that she runs after it, calling “Lambkin, Lambkin”.

She had decided to follow it to the ends of the earth, but the earth was round, after all, so they might go on running around the world for ever, or at any rate until she grew up, and by then she might have lost interest in such things as lambs.

As she chases after the lamb, she notices the hues of the sky changing, and the clock going back in time, at which she ponders,

…perhaps the clock hands had become so tired of going in the same direction year after year that they had suddenly begun to go the opposite way instead…

En route, she meets Ephiriel, an angel, who informs her that they are going to Bethlehem, to witness the birth of Christ, and the journey continues through space and time. And each door of the advent calendar reveals a little bit more about this journey. More characters from the Bible, including the three wise men, the shepherds and the sheep join the journey, as they progress towards Bethlehem.

While the tales of their travel unfolds, Joachim and his parents get caught up in another mystery – the mystery of the little girl who disappeared in 1948. Could she be the real Elisabet, the girl who this story was written about? Or inspired by? They try getting in touch with John, but he seems to have disappeared off the face of this earth as well, popping up every now and again, to speak to Joachim, but not shedding any light on the mystery.

There are twenty-four chapters in this book, each representing a day on the advent calendar. There are stories inside the story, and advent calendars inside the advent calendar – multi-layered, much like Sophie’s World. It’s an engrossing, fascinating book. The only flip side was, the mystery of the real Elisabet rushed to a close, and ended almost too abruptly. But, that’s a small small flip side, considering all else.

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie – The Thing Around Your Neck

Posted on | December 24, 2011 | 2 Comments

Having previous read both, Half of a Yellow Sun and Purple Hibiscus, I was quite happy when I received this as a Christmas present last year. The only concern I had was, my track record with collections of short stories – for the most part, I’m not a fan. “For the most part” being the key phrase.

This collection mainly focuses on African immigrants in America, and the lives they live, the experiences they succumb to – by virtue of their past. Or their present. Slightly reminiscent of say, The Joy Luck Club or The Namesake. Barring a couple of stories, this isn’t really brand new territory, but Adichie’s writing and story-telling continues to impress. That said, my biggest complaint with short stories, i.e. the lack of closure, still holds. And, as a reader, one’s left craving more – more about the characters, and more about what happened next.

The Arrangers of Marriage is one such story. We don’t get much insight into the characters, or what makes them click. So, when the story ends, there’s a sense of incompleteness; of wanting more, because the motives of the narrator hasn’t really been touched on. Or, what makes her click.

The two stories, Jumping Monkey Hill and the title story both tick off the feminist criteria. Jumping Monkey Hill is based in an African writer’s camp in Cape Town, where a group of people are meant to write a short story under the direction of a Brit whose passionate about African literature. Sexism and racism are both rampant in the story, as it hits home the underlying point: why do we always say nothing?

In The Thing Around Your Neck, a young girl goes to live in America with her uncle, after winning the Green Card lottery. When her uncle makes a pass at her, she runs away, and tries to make a life for herself.

Cell One, the opening story, was probably the most powerful of them all. In an age where the cult-culture is so prevalent, we meet a rich family, whose only son belongs to a cult indulging in debauchery and hedonism, and has been imprisoned for breaking and entering. In prison, when the teenager speaks up against the mistreatment of an older gentleman, he is beaten and thrown into the infamous Cell One. Eventually, unsurprisingly, he is released, but forever changed.

The other stories, some based in Nigeria during riots and wars, and some on immigrants in America are beautifully written. However, they are all within what is expected, and don’t really astonish or surprise… or wow. The raw emotions and startling vivid descriptions that made Half of a Yellow Sun so gripping are amiss, which is unfortunate. None of the stories give us a new perspective into Africa, or a new insight into America. Under different constructs, all the stories have been told before. And it’s that which left me feeling as though there was more to be desired from this collection.

Haruki Murakami – The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

Posted on | December 10, 2011 | 9 Comments

I’m not quite sure where to begin, but after finishing a Murakami novel, that’s not altogether too surprising. The Wind Up Bird Chronicle is oft’ touted as Murakami’s best and most notable work, and that’s what I was hoping for – to be completely blown away. And yet, despite the book being bizarre and ambitious in equal measure, I was left disappointed.

The book starts out with Toru, the protagonist, looking for a cat adopted by him and his wife, that’s gone missing. Toru has quit his job, has no real ambition, and is just drifting through life, trying to figure out what is it he wants to do, while his wife brings home the money.

When the initial search for the cat is fruitless, he ventures further out to the “alley”, and ends up meeting a high-school dropout, May Kasahara. His relationship with May evolves, and is almost bordering on pedophiliac. Still no luck finding the cat, so, he ropes in Malta and Creta Kano – the two psychic sisters, both of whom have interesting life stories, and end up visiting Toru in his dreams, as well as in reality.

And then, as things go, his wife leaves home for work one day, but never returns. In due course, our protagonist discovers that she’s left him, without  a word. As one does. And then, a sequence of extraordinary events, and interactions with fascinating characters sees his life spin (or should I say, tailspin?) out of control, where he’s no longer the master of his own destiny; instead, he’s struggling to figure out what on earth’s going on.

There’s the experiences as he sits in solitude at the bottom of the dry well, and then there’s the mysterious phone calls; the dreams which aren’t really dreams, and the reality that’s a tad distorted. All of it is a bit confusing – I’m all for magical realism, but this is just a little too over the top; a little too cryptic.

The book does cover a lot – from World War II, and the story of the solider and the spy, which had me absolutely gripped, to World War II, and the story of the animals that were heartlessly massacred, which had me depressed and lamenting.

‘The officer gave his order, and the bullets from the Model 38 rifles ripped through the smooth hide of a tiger, tearing at the animal’s guts. The summer sky was blue, and from the surrounding trees the screams of cicadas rained down like a sudden shower.”

It has the obligatory contemporary political slant, which most books by Murakami (that I’ve read) touch upon, if not focus on. And, again, as expected, there’s romance that fades away; and female characters all carrying way too much baggage. Add on strange names for some of the characters (Cinnamon and Nutmeg), and even stranger life stories, and it’s all Murakami.

The thing is, I just really struggled to comprehend what was going on, and why. And then it all fizzled out, and became even more ambiguous and abstract – the second half of the book, that is. Normally, I love ambiguity and magical realism, but here, it just didn’t “fit”, I thought. Sometimes, it be that way. All the more disappointing, as I was glued to the first third/half of the book.

Have you read this much-acclaimed book? Were you as underwhelmed as I am, or is it just me?

Holidaying in Hong Kong

Posted on | November 6, 2011 | 8 Comments

It’s warm, it’s congested, there’s no need for a jacket, and oh my god – there are so many people! Just over for a week, to get away from London, where my last holiday (or day off) was in January, and I’ve been feeling overworked and stressed. It’s so nice to get out of there, and just do nothing, albeit I have to admit that doing nothing doesn’t really come naturally to me. It’s always like, so what’s next?!

As expected, many a book came with me on my holiday. However, I have to make some wedding photo books, and there’s work to continuously catch up with, so not sure how many I’ll actually end up reading, if at all. I am the earliest riser amidst my friends, so morning’s seem like a good shout.

Soooo, what am I carrying? Well, there’s:

• Jennifer Egan’s A Visit from the Goon Squad
• Haruki Murakami’s The Wind Up Bird Chronicle
• Michael Faber’s The Crimson Petal and the White
• Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys
• Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary

I really am not quite sure what prompted me to carry five books on a  ten day break, special considering at least two of them are fairly chunky. I did pack under eight minutes though, as I thought my flight departed later than it actually did… yes, the OCD super-organised control freak was not organised this once. It shows – I forgot my contacts, some prescription drugs, nightclothes etc. Oh well… C’est la vie.

Also, during my travels, my beautiful shiny MacBook Pro that I’ve had for about two years now, with not as much as a single scratch, got this massive dent. I’m not sure how. I was carrying it in my backpack – it wasn’t there when I left London, and boom! When I got to the other side of the world, there it was. I keep staring at it, lamenting. That’s taken some of the shine off this holiday. Poor little MacBook Pro! :(

I have been reading Madame Bovary for about two weeks now, and am not really getting into it. Should I abandon it or press through? Murakami sounds like a good holiday bet, but… suggestions please, on the reading front! Thanks!

xoxo

Vladimir Nabokov – Laughter In The Dark

Posted on | October 23, 2011 | 9 Comments

Congratulate me, for I’ve finished my first Nabokov. Some four years back, I attempted to read the much acclaimed Lolita, but failed to finish it for it was way too disturbing. I must give it another try.

My second foray into Nabokov’s world was far more successful though. Not only did I race through the book, but I was absolutely floored by so many aspects of it, that I don’t even know where to start.

The story is quite simple. Albinus, a wealthy man, decides to give up his family for Margot, a precocious manipulative teenager who is an aspiring actress. Completely smitten by her, he moves in with her, in an apartment he sorted out for her, while she works towards her end-game: ensuring his riches are hers, or using him to progress her non-existent acting career. The opening lines pretty much sum up the book:

Once upon a time there lived in Berlin, Germany, a man called Albinus. He was rich, respectable, happy; one day he abandoned his wife for the sake of a youthful mistress; he loved; was not loved; and his life ended in disaster.

Albinus comes across as a really nice man, adultery and abandoning his family aside. He’s innocent, naive and just… wrapped around Margot’s little finger. The way his relationship with his wife just fizzles out is…lamentable, really. It’s not very often when one finds themselves sympathising with the adulterer, but in Laughter In The Dark, one is compelled to – it’s not like there is an alternative. He has no backbone, he has no say, and he’s like a little puppy – eager to please.

On the other hand, Margot comes across as a little devil. Accustomed to getting her own way at every turn, and ensuring that Albinus is willing to jump through hoops to please her, she milks the situation to the fullest. She really is despicable, and her child-like personality and selfishness is both, cringeworthy and horrific. With each page read, Margot just becomes more and more reprehensible.

The beauty though lies in Nabokov’s writing – despite being a Russian author*, the translation is easy to read, but so beautifully poignant. To tell such a tragic story, with a tinge of humour, and no pity or heartache is quite impressive.

A certain man once lost a diamond cuff-link in the wide blue sea, and twenty years later, on the exact day, a Friday apparently, he was eating a large fish – but there was no diamond inside. That’s what I like about coincidence.

I enjoyed this book tremendously, and despite the fact that the subject was slightly disturbing, I was completely enthralled. On finishing this, I’d like to read all of Nabokov’s works (in good time), specially when I read some other thoughts on the book, and they inform me that it’s not one of his best.

*In my world, Russian authors are near impossible to read, and completing a book by one of them feels like a great accomplishment.

Daphne du Maurier – The House On The Strand

Posted on | October 23, 2011 | 4 Comments

What better way of spending a Sunday evening than curled up in bed, with a box of the world’s best chocolates, and a Daphne du Maurier? Well, possibly if the book wasn’t The House On The Strand…

Yes, I know that’s harsh, but if you compare this book to the likes of Rebecca or My Cousin Rachel, it falls well short. Possibly, that’s where I, as a reader, fell short – setting high expectations on a relatively obscure book by a fairly renowned author. Blame the gist on the back of the book for that though – after all, a story about time-travel always has potential.

So, when Dick Young, takes a break from reality in his friend’s (Magnus) Cornwall house, things get interesting as he agrees to be the guinea-pig for a drug developed by Magnus that results in him walking the streets of Cornwall in the thirteenth century, things are bound to get interesting. Dick’s looking for an escape, as he tries to figure out the next steps in his marriage and career, and Magnus is curious to see what happens with this magnificent drug that he’s created, and how different people react to it.

The first couple of “trips” introduce him to a myriad of characters who were alive in the High Middle Ages; co-incidentally, Magnus’ first trip with this drug introduced him to the same people, so there definitely is something about the drug – but what is it? It’s not LSD or any other hallucinogen – or, if it is, why do both friends encounter the same people with every trip?And what’s the relevance of this era? Why is the drug always transporting them back to the same period, and showing them the lives of characters who have no real historical importance?

Initially, I read each page eagerly, trying to figure out the hows and the whys. But instead, I was introduced to way too many characters of the past, who I cared little about. The fact that Dick came across as a fairly flat protagonist didn’t help – his character didn’t really evolve, and his interactions with his wife, kids and Magnus left a lot to  be desired. In fact, Magnus was the only character that was remotely interesting, but I don’t think he featured enough.

As Dick swings between the present and the past, spending any free time he has in the past – even after his wife and children arrive – one marvels at both, the addiction caused by the drug and the commitment to the past that Dick has. Dick can’t interact with the people he meets, nor can he make any difference. He’s invisible; just a bystander, a viewer, someone who sits by and watches from the sidelines. Perhaps that’s why he enjoys the past – there’s no decision to make, everything just happens, in spite of him.

The ending, unfortunately, is predictable as well, which is a pity. I’ve come to associate Du Maurier with incredible twists and turns in her plots (yes, it only took two books to do that!), and when after a story that I found slightly tedious to read didn’t even give me that, it added to the disappointment.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m glad I read the book, and I will try reading Du Maurier’s entire backlist in good time. I just do wish though, that the magic it weaved completely pulled me in, and left me awed for weeks after. It was not meant to be.

Angela Carter – Nights At The Circus

Posted on | October 21, 2011 | 6 Comments

When you start a book by Angela Carter, there’s only one thing that’s certain: you have no idea what you’re in for; nothing’s too crazy, nothing’s too bizarre. And of course, that’s why you love Angela Carter. Okay, scratch that. That’s why I love Angela Carter.

A story partly inspired by the myth of Leda and the swan, Nights at the Circus is a dazzling story about Fevvers, the winged aerialiste, who’s bamboozled the world, and has everyone questioning if the wings are real, or a mere trick.

The story starts in London in 1899, in Fevver’s dressing room, where Jack Walser – an experienced journalist – is interviewing Fevvers. As she recounts the story of her life – being born (or hatched from an egg), abandoned by her real parents; and brought up in a brothel, having an ordinary childhood, her wings sprouting as she hit puberty – Walser is enamoured, as is the reader. However, every now and again, an element of doubt creeps in: how much of this story is fabricated, how much is real?

As she continues her tale, of how she ended up at the circus, as an aerialiste, she weaves a magic tale, which is totally unbelievable but still makes you wonder… could it be?! Walser, still in search of the truth, at the end of the first section, decides to go undercover, and join the circus act as a clown.

The grand imperial tour takes the protagonists to Petersburg, where the action actually commences, as opposed to London, where it was almost like a long monologue from Fevvers, with very few interruptions from Lizzie (her adoptive mother) and Jack. In Petersburg though, the story becomes downright incredulous (yes, even more incredulous than the first bit!). The tale that Carter weaves, the imagery it evokes, the scenes from the circus act that are detailed – it’s all breathtaking.

Outside the window, there slides past that unimaginable and deserted vastness where night is coming on, the sun declining in ghastly blood-streaked splendour like a public execution across, it would seem, half a continent, where live only bears and shooting stars and the wolves who lap congealing ice from water that holds within it the entire sky. All white with snow as if under dustsheets, as if laid away eternally as soon as brought back from the shop, never to be used or touched. Horrors! And, as on a cyclorama, this unnatural spectacle rolls past at twenty-odd miles an hour in a tidy frame of lace curtains only a little the worse for soot and drapes of a heavy velvet of dark, dusty blue.

…And then there’s the characterisation; rich characters, with colourful histories and overwhelming personalities. Take Mignon, for example:

She had the febrile gaiety of a being without a past, without a present, yet she existed thus, without memory or history, only because her past was too bleak to think of and her future too terrible to contemplate; she was the broken blossom of the present tense.

In the world of Angela Carter though, her luck does take a turn for the better, and one does believe that there can be happy endings. At least, for a few moments. But as we continue in the surrealistic world so artfully conjured up (am I gushing?), a tiger must be shot, a murder attempt is made during an act, and Fevvers continues to astound everyone (and eventually get herself in trouble), while Wolser is no closer to determining the veracity of her story.

As the show wraps up in Petersburg, and moves on to the bleak forests of Siberia, the narrative continues in its bizarre vein, where a railroad “accident” caused by the outlaws has resulted in memory-loss striking a chief character, the circus disintegrating, but the protagonists looking forward to the turn of the century as a sign of hope, and new things to come. It’s that last line though, that confuses the living daylights out of me, and makes me re-question everything I’ve read in the book. I read this book about a month back, but the mind still boggles; the implications are still hazy.

Magical realism at its best, the strong female characters – an anomaly in the nineteenth century, the sexuality and the sheer madness of it all is fantastic. You question everything, deliberate on each sentence, try sizing up the characters, but there is no stereotyping them. It’s a parody on all the fairy-tales you know and love; it’s inspired by all the myths that don’t add up, but still exist in our world; it’s just – Angela Carter.

So, if you enjoy a foray into the world of surrealism and magical realism, and want to be completely blown away, give this a go!

Suzanne Collins – The Hunger Games

Posted on | October 9, 2011 | 6 Comments

Oh sweet temptation, I cave to thee ever so oft’, and yet, how scarcely do I regret it. A tinge of embarrassment, possibly, and an element of judging the fool that wears my shoes does creep in, but that’s alright. That’s alright.

This book has caught my attention numerous times since it hit the stands a couple of years ago, and each time, I picked it up, put it back on the shelf and moved on. About three weeks back though, desperate to try and find something that would complete my three-for-two purchase at Waterstones, this was picked up. Allow me a moment of sentimentality, for it’s a dilemma I might never face again, with the three-for-two scheme coming to a close.

What do you say about a book where the writing is ordinary at best, the plot supposedly unoriginal (inspired by the Japanese novel, Battle Royale), and a book which is aimed at young adults about survival?

Kill or be killed. “Last man standing” wins. Innocent people die. Innocent children die. It’s a far cry from the days of Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, where justice was always served; from the days of Sweet Valley which was just high school fluff; from Roald Dahl where the villainous characters always got what was coming to them as they were purely outsmarted or outwitted by brilliant children.

Maybe you put that into perspective, with the Harry Potter books, where the innocent died at the hands of Lord Voldemort, and it was left to The Boy That Lived and his friends to avenge their family and friends, and protect the world of wizardry from the Dark Lord and Death Eaters.

In a futuristic society, North America has been replaced by the twelve districts of Panem. Every year, two teenagers (a boy and a girl) from each district are chosen to participate in a reality TV series (will we never escape those?): The Hunger Games. The objective of the Games is simple: the last teenager still standing wins, and the way to ensure victory and your own survival is to kill others your own age, who haven’t committed any crimes, who’ve done nothing wrong.

In District 12, the poorest of the Districts, Katniss’ younger sister is called upon to represent her district. Katniss immediately volunteers in her place, protective of her younger sister. The other representative from the district is Petra – the baker’s son. The two go to the Capitol, show-off their skills, eat more than they’ve ever eaten and see more luxury than they’ve ever seen. They prepare for the Games, honing their existing skills, and trying to build new ones, as they meet the other tributes – the other representatives.

And then the Games begin.

People from the different districts group together, and hunt in packs, and like in any other dystopia, it’s cringeworthy to see how naturally people do anything to survive, even though it’s the monsters at the Capitol who have ensured this lunacy occurs year after year, as a punishment for a rebellion that occurred years ago. The book is gripping, as everyone wants to the girl who volunteered to take her younger sister’s place to emerge victorious. It’s not that the others should die (although a couple of them are truly obnoxious), but, the rules are simple.

Obviously, as the case is, with most fiction (young adult or otherwise), there’s a parallel love story, as all the tributes battle for survival and the pride that comes with emerging victorious. It’s these parallel – sometimes unnecessary – love stories that make these books slightly trying. Same thing with Harry Potter and the Harry-Ginny, Hermione-Ron thing – what was the point? What did it accomplish? Such a tame ending to the seventh book.

I digress.

There’s a love story, here as well, but possibly, what Collins has done is, made this love story the base for the second and third books of the trilogy (which I have also finished and will pen down my thoughts on, in due course); the base for the Capitol’s anger; and the base for the events that follow – but no spoilers here. Not yet anyway.

I’d recommend this book, in all its entertaining glory. It’s not great reading, by any stretch of the imagination, but a book this entertaining and gripping deserves a read.