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Yo, Claudio

I, ClaudiusI, Claudius by Robert Graves

My Rating★★★★★

The review I really have in mind will be attempted for this book only after I finish reading Claudius the God (to quench the burning curiosity of how this ‘Clau-Clau-Claudius’, a man, who in the first shock of being made emperor had this outrageous thought come rushing to his mind – “So, I’m Emperor, am I? What nonsense! But at least I’ll be able to make people read my books now.”, will conduct himself as a God-Emperor), The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and Rubicon: The Last Years of the Roman Republic, so that I can apply the same criteria for reviewing any work of history, as suggested by Claudius (original source for much of Pliny’s work) himself, through Livius and Pollio (all works unfortunately lost).

Meanwhile, have a short and enjoyable snapshot sampling of the book by going through the-easy-to-follow family tree given below. Ah, the tales that can be told while tracing those lines…

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Posted by on September 7, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books

 

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The Greatest Story Ever Told

One day, next to the wine dark sea,
…….I awoke and I realized —
…………..I had dreamt The Greatest Story Ever Told.
How excited was I, how thrilled the world,
…….How restless the morning and how anxious the winds:
…………..Every bird called to me, every cloud stopped to watch,
…………………Every ear of nature tuned in silent concentration.
I woke and I stretched, all luxurious, at ease,
…….What is the hurry now, the greatest work is done.
I sat down gently, next to the smoothest boulder on shore,
…….As the wine dark sea held its breath, and stilled its roar,
…………..I looked at the dust covering the stone,
…………………and the breeze cleaned it away, hurriedly;
…………..I got ready to write,
…………………and the birds brought a scroll, double-quick;
…………..I opened my hands,
…………………and a pen appeared, nature’s rules no longer patient —
For The Greatest Story Ever Told
…….Was about to be told.

 
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Posted by on July 20, 2012 in Books, Creative, Philosophy, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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Sisyphus Speaks

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Tired of your unceasing pity,

Of your allusions to hubris well rewarded,

Tired of being the symbol for absurdity,

And the one first invoked at failure,

Sisyphus speaks out now aloud:

I ask you — what of yourself?

The absurd hero is seen in you, not me!

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Doomed to eternal failure I might be,

But blessed am I in every way,

When I stand next to you,

You common man of today:

Blundering though your life,

Never knowing a goal or a path,

How can you know that taste —

The sweet taste of success, when

You are not even blessed enough,

To know the strong spice of failure!


So stop your pitying glances,

And envy me, you foolish rats:

Symbol for failure I might assuredly be,

But at the least I know what my success is.

Have you seen its form this life,

Or even conceived dimly of the thought?

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— For I see my goal everyday so clear,

And feel the exhalation of glory near,

I taste the spice of failure everyday;

And I live so I can fail and fail,

And try again the very next day,

Doomed to fail yet untiring, questing,

What greater success there be ever?

To strive in sweat to that distant goal,

And come tumbling down in grand despair!

,

Yes I would choose this lot of mine,

Over your blind and stumbling life,

With no grand goal, no glimpse of glory,

Just a sodden tramp in them marshes;

Rolling your stone on in the pointless plains,

Straining for nothing, attaining nothing,

And pitying me, for you dare risk nothing!

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Sisyphus speaks out now aloud:

Come join me if you care to live a little —

Take that rock and start the impossible (Sisyphean?) quest!

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Posted by on July 16, 2012 in Creative, Philosophy, Poetry, Puzzles, Thoughts

 

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An Evening In Paris

 

These thoughts are yours, O Paris,

You who still stays so far away;

Every dream as it arises,

Why don’t you laugh and sway?

 

An evening in Paris is my bliss,

And a night when I no longer travel;

To have a last embrace and a kiss,

Before every lie conspires to unravel.

 

Like a poem built up of sweet jingles,

Every part of you stands just perfect;

Every cornice and every single egress,

They are all so exact and circumspect.

 

But, to find meaning in your labyrinths,

Why do I have to descend to the sewers;

Even as my dreams grow colorful,

Why do they have to lose rhythm and substance?

 
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Posted by on July 14, 2012 in Creative, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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A Drifting Boat: Chinese Zen Poetry

A Drifting Boat: Chinese Zen PoetryA Drifting Boat: Chinese Zen Poetry by Dennis Maloney

My Rating★★★★☆

All the poems are so well translated and seems to keep true to their original innocence and wonder. Each piece in this collection should be repeated multiple times to feel its true resonance – like the humming and the mumbling that these poets talk of when they talk of chanting poetry.

The gibbons chattering, the moonlight flowing over you, the soft wind caressing, the lofty mountains for friends, the white clouds playful all around and the other minute yet infinite details of a secluded life take special meaning in each repetitive but strangely innovative verse.

And of course, the boats keep drifting, empty, alone; filled only with the silver moonlight.

My favorite one:

River. Snow.

A thousand mountains.
Flying birds vanish.
Ten thousand paths.
Human traces erased.
One boat, bamboo hat, bark cape — an old man.
Alone with his hook. Cold river. Snow.

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Posted by on July 1, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books, Creative, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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Invisible Cities; Imagined Lives

Invisible CitiesInvisible Cities by Italo Calvino

My Rating: ★★★★★

Marco Polo was a dreamer. He had great ambitions – wanting to be a traveller, a writer and a favored courtier. He wanted to live in the lap of luxury in his lifetime and in the best illustrated pages of history later. But he could only be a dreamer and never much more. Was it good enough? He never travelled anywhere and spent his life dreaming away in his Venice and is remembered to this day as the greatest explorer and travel writer of all time. How did that come about? It is a tale about the triumph of imagination over experience.

In Venice, that city of water, a network of canals and a network of streets span and intersect each other. Marco Polo was traveling in a little boat in that Venice and thinking of the Marco Polo he was meant to be when his imagination began to soar. All the travelogues he wanted to write started coming to his mind. A whole book of descriptions, all made of poems that would describe the beauty of this city like those waves reflecting it in varied shapes among their ripples. He watched the people moving along the streets, each eye seeing the same city differently, dependent on the angle of observation, and speaking in a language of symbols and images that is more powerful than words can ever be. The river is the story, the river is the book, arranged in perfect sinusoidal waves of its own and choosing as its reader the greatest of all appreciators, the book catches the splendor of the city and reflects it for your patient eyes in a sort of primitive cubism, leaving it to you to make out all its meaning and all its poetry and to see ultimately yourself in that reflection of all the cities that imagination could possibly build.

He started going on long voyages into his own mind, into the reflections of Venice, and into the reflections of those reflections. And then he wrote them down and he spoke of them and he sang of them. Men stopped to listen. They paid to hear him, first with time, then with gold, then with diamonds and great honors.

The Venetian was soon summoned to the court of the great Kublai Khan, who was also a dreamer. He envisioned himself to be the greatest of rulers, his kingdom expanding and pouring over the whole vast world until all the world was under him. He knew that information was power and he wanted to know of every single city under him, and of every city that was to be under him. ‘On the day when I know all the cities,’ he thought, ‘I shall be able to possess my empire, at last!’ He wanted Marco polo to be his eyes and ears and sent him off, with instructions to visit the most far flung and exotic provinces and to understand the soul of every city and to report back to him.

Marco Polo bowed every time and with great aplomb set off for his great voyages. Next week he would be in his beloved Venice, dreaming up the world, a world more real than reality, with all the ingredients needed to construct a city – memories, desires, signs, skies, trade, eyes, sounds, shapes, names and the dead. He spoke of old cities with gods and demons in it, of cities yet to be, with airplanes and atomic bombs coloring their movements, and of cities that should have been, with happiness and sorrow apportioned in balance. What separates the dream’s reality from the dreamer’s reality? He pondered on this mystery with every city. Maybe all successful men dream our lives as it should be while rotting in some sewer and maybe all unhappy men dream their unhappiness in life while rotting in some palace? Maybe we can only continue our chosen destinies and everything else is a dream. It is only invisible cities we can construct. And we can reflect on them only through imagination, and fiction. He knew his cities were real.

It took many years for the Great Khan to realize that Marco Polo wasn’t describing cities so much as the human mind and experience. He realized that every city, whether imagined by Marco Polo or constructed by planned blueprints or grown from slow accretion are all dreams given shape by human hands, by human ambition, by a desire for a future that can be shaped. In fact, Marco Polo’s cities started to seem to him more real than any he knew to be real. He learned that if men and women began to live their ephemeral dreams, every phantom would become a city in which to begin a story of pursuits, pretenses, misunderstandings, clashes, oppressions, and the carousel of fantasies would stop.

Khan now knew how to travel, to really travel. He could now accompany the great explorer in his prophetic journeys. He could describe cities to Marco Polo and he could listen to him, even as he filled in the details. They could sit together in the courtyard and be silent and still travel through the most exotic and most truthful of cities.

Then came a day when Marco Polo had to inform the Khan, ‘Sire, now I have told you about all the cities I know.

There is still one of which you never speak.

Marco Polo bowed his head.

Venice,’ the Khan said.

Marco smiled. ‘What else do you believe I have been talking to you about?

The emperor did not turn a hair. ‘And yet I have never heard you mention that name.

And Polo said: ‘Every time I describe a city I am saying something about Venice.

When I ask you about other cities, I want to hear about them. And about Venice, when I ask you about Venice.‘ Khan made an attempt at looking angry but he knew his friend could see through faces and all such masks.

To distinguish the other cities’ qualities, I must speak of a first city that remains implicit. For me it is Venice. For those who pass it without entering, the city is one thing; it is another for those who are trapped by it and never leave. There is the city where you arrive for the first time; and there is another city which you leave never to return. Each deserves a different name; perhaps I have already spoken of Venice under other names; perhaps I have spoken only of Venice.

You should then describe for me Venice – as it is, all of it, not omitting anything you remember of it.

Memory’s images, once they are fixed in words, are erased,‘ Polo said. ‘Perhaps I am afraid of losing Venice all at once, if I speak of it. Or perhaps, speaking of other cities, I have already lost it, little by little.

Kublai looked at Polo. He understood. To tell a story you have to start from what you know best. You have to put your soul in the story and then build the flesh, the hair, the face and the clothes around it. The more stories you tell, the more of your soul you invest and lay bare to the world. When do you start fearing that you are as invisible as the cities you create? Kublai continued to look sadly at his friend.

Kublai asks Marco, ‘When you return to the West, will you repeat to your people the same tales you tell me?

I speak and speak,‘ Marco says, ‘but the listener retains only the words he is expecting. It is not the voice that commands the story: it is the ear.

Then Khan knew that the sadness he felt so pressingly as he tried to force the wine down was not for his dear friend but for himself, he now knew that as he was listening to all the stories that Marco Polo was describing to him, he was only hearing stories that he was telling himself. The cities were all real, but they were not reflections of Marco Polo’s soul, they were not reflecting his Venice. They were reflecting Kublai Khan’s own soul, his own empire, ambitions, desires and fears.

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Post Script: I got a message from a goodreader asking me why I put up the whole story of the book without a spoiler warning…

Please go ahead and read the review without any fear of spoilers, the connection with the plot of the book (if any) is very tenuous – this is an imagined plot/backstory for a book that deliberately lacks one.

 
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Posted by on June 18, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books, Creative, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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Extended

The stark stripes
of
her black and white T-shirt,
so
extended by the dark
and
lustrous strands
of
overflowing hair
across
her pearly white arms.

 
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Posted by on June 1, 2012 in Creative, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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The Classics Club 77

Jillian over at A Room of One’s Own, had the amazing idea of hosting a book club of sorts, which she has called The Classics Club. Each person picks a list of classics they want to read over a certain period of time (say, 100 classics over a period of five years). It’s a very stress-free project; each person picks their own books and sets their own pace. I’m going to reward myself with five full snickers bars for every couple that I finish along the way. I’m a lover of classics and there are so many I have yet to read, so I am jumping in to join Jillian and the other participants.

My current goal is to read the following 77 classics over the next 2 years. Some of the books on the list will be re-reads for me, but I either read them so long ago (when I was a kid/teenager) that I have forgotten almost everything about them or they are part of my “thirty books to read thirty times” list.

Most of the books will receive a full review here on the blog but if it is too overwhelming (or underwhelming), you may have to check over at goodreads for the short informal review.

Anyone is welcome to join the Classics Club, so if you’re interested, just click on the Classics Club link at the top of this page to be taken to the sign-up page on Jillian’s website (or click here to get more detailed information).

Start date: March 23, 2012
Goal finish date: March 23, 2014
Books in blue = re-reads
Linked books in green = read (links will take you to full blog posts or goodreads reviews)

*The books are in chronological order (more or less)

  1. The Mahabharata and Ramayana in original
  2. The Thousand and One Nights 
  3. The Tale of Genji by Murasaki Shikibu
  4. The Iliad By Homer
  5. The Aeneid by Virgil
  6. Metamorphoses by Ovid
  7. Gargantua and Pantagruel by Françoise Rabelais
  8. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes
  9. The Complete Works of Shakespeare
  10. The Pilgrim’s Progress by John Bunyan
  11. The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
  12. Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne
  13. Reveries of a Solitary Walker by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
  14. The 120 Days of Sodom by Marquis de Sade
  15. The Red and the Black by Stendhal
  16. The Charterhouse of Parma by Stendhal
  17. The Female Quixote by Charlotte Lennox
  18. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
  19. Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin
  20. Dead Souls by Nikolay Gogol
  21. Moby-Dick by Herman Melville
  22. Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
  23. The House of the Seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne
  24. Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe
  25. Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper
  26. Les Misérables by Victor Hugo
  27. The Hunchback of Notre-Dame by Victor Hugo
  28. The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James
  29. Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert
  30. War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy
  31. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
  32. Middlemarch by George Eliot
  33. Erewhon by Samuel Butler
  34. Hunger by Knut Hamsun
  35. Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
  36. Quo Vadis by Henryk Sienkiewicz
  37. Kim by Rudyard Kipling
  38. Buddenbrooks by Thomas Mann
  39. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
  40. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster
  41. A Passage to india by E.M. Forster
  42. Nostromo by Joseph Conrad
  43. Howards End by E.M. Forster
  44. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists by Robert Tressell
  45. Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham
  46. The Razor’s Edge by W. Somerset Maugham
  47. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce
  48. Rashomon by Akutagawa Ryunosuke
  49. Ulysses by James Joyce
  50. The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
  51. The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann
  52. Doctor Faustus by Thomas Mann
  53. Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf
  54. Decline and Fall by Evelyn Waugh
  55. Orlando by Virginia Woolf
  56. Remembrance of Things Past by Marcel Proust
  57. Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence
  58. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
  59. The Apes of God by Wyndham Lewis
  60. The Man Without Qualities by Robert Musil
  61. For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway
  62. Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
  63. Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
  64. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
  65. Siddhartha by Herman Hesse
  66. Brighton Rock by Graham Greene
  67. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck
  68. The Glass Bead Game by Herman Hesse
  69. Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren
  70. Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh
  71. The Death of Virgil Hermann Broch
  72. Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin
  73. Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis
  74. The Last Temptation of Christ by Nikos Kazantzákis
  75. Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
  76. All About H. Hatterr by G.V. Desani
  77. The Tin Drum by Günter Grass

Do check back from time to time to see the progress and the reviews!

 
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Posted by on March 22, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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The Penelopiad or The Ballad of the Dead Maids

The Penelopiad: The Myth of Penelope and OdysseusThe Penelopiad: The Myth of Penelope and Odysseus by Margaret Atwood

My Rating: ★★★☆☆

This has been my introduction to Atwood and I have to admit that I feel slightly underwhelmed. I went in with high expectations, wondering how Atwood will take the ‘waiting widow’ of The Odyssey and transform it into a full length novel. Turns out that she mostly indulges in recapitulating the bulk of the original with a few wild theories and speculations thrown in as supposed rumors that Penelope has gleaned in the after-life.

Which brings me to how the story is constructed and this happens to be the high water mark for this novel. Atwood starts with Penelope addressing us from the other side of River Styx, reaching us through the mysterious sounds of the night and the barks and hoots of unseen animals. Penelope has grown bold since her death and is no longer the meek woman we saw in the original but a bold one who doesn’t mind speaking her mind and spilling a few uncomfortable beans.

Penelope subjects all the popular characters of the odyssey to scrutiny but reserves a special attention for Odysseus, Telemachus and Helen. She convinces us with case-by-case analysis that Odysseus was no hero – he was a lying and conniving manipulator of men who never uttered one truthful word in his life. She talks of rumors that told her of what his real adventures were, stripped of the trappings of myth. Telemachus becomes a petulant teenager full of rebellion against his mother and Helen becomes the ultimate shrew, seductress and a femme fatale of sorts.

But the story that Atwood really wants to tell is not of Penelope, that story is hardly changed except to assert speculations on the original text whether Penelope really saw through Odysseus disguise or not. What if she did? It hardly changed the story.

The real twist, and the only reason to take up this book is to see Atwood’s exploration and reinvention of the twelve maids who were killed by Odysseus in punishment for betraying him by sleeping with the suitors. These twelve girls are the Chorus in this book and appear every now and then playing a baroque accompaniment to the text and giving us new perspectives on their story. This carries on until Penelope herself reveals to us that they were never betraying Odysseus, she had asked them herself to get acquainted with the suitors to get obtain information for her. They had never betrayed Odysseus or his kingdom. So their murder was just that – murder. This was Atwood’s plot twist and her intended question was about the morality of this ‘honor killing‘ as she calls the hanging of the slaves, which, she confesses in the foreword, used to haunt her when she was young – ‘Why were they killed?‘, she used to ask herself and tries to present their case in this modernized version (which even includes a 23rd century trial of Odysseus).

In the end though, the reader hardly gets anything beyond these idle speculations and supplemental myths and small factoids like how Helen was really Penelope’s cousin and that they have to eat flowers in Hades. Even the main point of the book, about the dead maids, too ignores the fact that Odysseus genuinely seems to believe that they betrayed him by helping the suitors in various ways and hence it becomes as question of misinformation than morality and the blame will fall back on the shoulders of Penelope herself, rendering this whole exercise moot. Just go read the original again; the short hops of imagination that Atwood has taken in this retelling can easily be overtaken by the leaps you might make yourself in a re-reading that you might treat yourself to on a leisurely sunday afternoon – and those will surely be more impressive as well as intellectually more rewarding.

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Posted by on March 21, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books, Thoughts

 

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Hidden Gems

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Hidden Gems

All that passes,
passeth by,
all passers-by
steps over the body;
christ lies still,
sneering in secret,
at the passers
hurrying by,
each to his ends,
forgetting why.

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Posted by on March 14, 2012 in Poetry, Thoughts

 

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Revisiting The Heart of Darkness

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After passing past that Castle of Ego,

Laying siege on the very borders of Mind,

We entered the vast and bristling forests,

Of that strange, strange land, that Id,

Which doth divide the knowing, waking,

From the land of dreaming, unknowing.

But this way is much too hard to follow;

And is harder even to describe to you:

We are more likely here to perish,

Here in these vast, dense hinterlands;

For these woods that we see arrayed,

Has never previously been crossed,

By mortal men or by Gods before,

Except by the Duke, on his missions,

To plunder and to subjugate.

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He had sliced a path so wide and true,

For himself and his army vast,

Marking along the trees as he trode,

Deeper and deeper into these woods,

Holding fast to his own marks,

And to the crude compasses of his day,

Wary of the beasts and birds,

And of dark shadows of the serpents,

And the importunities of bugs and bites.

Vexed he was by silence and dark,

But angered more by lonely shrieks.

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So we move on in this path of old;

Those old trees that the Duke had marked,

Now but marshy ground to mire our carts,

When will we cross these woods so dark,

And reach the sparkle at the other end?

That river which we truly seek,

That drowned the Duke and freed the Mind,

That river so cool, called Sanity.

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This poem was Inspired By:

Heart of Darkness (Everyman's Library, #174)

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Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

My Rating★★★★★
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Posted by on March 12, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books, Poetry, Thoughts

 

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Rogan Gosh: The Acid-Masala Curry Comic

Rogan GoshRogan Gosh by Peter Milligan

My Rating: ★★★☆☆

Rogan Gosh is designed to be as incomprehensible to the reader as the original dish must have been for Milligan and McCarthy. The name comes from rogan josh, a spicy Indian curry dish, rich in chillies and dangerously red in appearance.

As Grant Morrison says, Rogan Gosh was a product of the new psychedelic period of the nineties. The focus turning from outer concerns to inner ones, along with the presence in many of the artist’s lives of the new psychedelic drugs.

It was also supposed to be inspired by the Amar Chitra Katha tradition of story telling. This was the reason I decided to take a look at it. The cover was a weird blue half-god, half-acidhead, with an assortment of images that assaulted my good sense.

But I decided to be forgiving and carried on. The first page of the comic convinced me that I will not only read this but also love it, no matter how much of a hallucinogenic trip it might be. McCarthy had reprocessed the lush, painted look of the Amar Chitra Katha comic books from India and also imbued them with a sort of deranged other-worldliness that was impossible to resist.

That tanned man with the mustache you see in the crowd is Rudyard Kipling himself, one of the possible contenders for the lead character in this book, where dream-world meets reality, shakes hands and sleep together.

Rudyard Kipling goes into a drug-house in search for truth after some serious accident involving his servant and then lapses into a euphoric dream in which he dreams of two characters who are pre-incarnations of a future “Karmanaut” called Rogan Gosh. And then the whole of the psychedelic adventures unfold.

That or the whole thing is a dream by a rejected lover who drinks and cuts his wrist and hallucinates ever closer to death.

Or, it might all be real and Rudyard Kipling might really have been a form that Soma Swami, the ultimate villain who tries to keep us all veiled in Maya, took to trick Rogan Gosh into destroying himself and he pre-incarnated as the two characters and all their adventures are real.

The text too flows between several narrative voices, including Rudyard Kipling and an unnamed dying youth representing the voice of bleak rational existentialism in the face of the uninflected void. Blending their stories like the spices of the Curry that inspired them, they dress it up and serve it forth for your dining pleasure.

Got all that? Now remove all the “Or”s and replace them with “And”s. Yup. Rogan Gosh is supposed to be an experimental story where it is not a Either/Or world but a world were dreams and reality are all happening at the same time, one inside the other, creating each other.

The concept is good and the presentation is mind-blowing. But, I wish they had given it the definition it deserved instead of making this such a free-flowing story with no ends or resolutions and absolutely no structure. The art work seemed slovenly at times and completely random at other times.

Don’t worry about all the plot details I covered here, they were not even half of the possibilities and they were not spoilers. You can’t really spoil a good curry.

PS. Today might be a good day to appreciate Rogan Gosh, especially if you too look like that cover after your Holi celebrations. Happy Holi!

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Posted by on March 8, 2012 in Book Reviews, Books

 

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