I have this semester an incredible number of books to purchase and read before I can attend class and begin reaping the benefits of paying $6,000 worth of school fees. Such a staggering amount of books that my mind reels.. such a staggering cost to my wallet as well.. Not so strange, though, is this: the mere thought of having to list down the books I'd have read by the end of April is nauseating enough for me to risk putting off intellectual vanity for something more humble: a short summary of why I like what I like.



One of the best questions I've ever been asked in class by way of an introduction is 'Who are your favorite authors?', a question fairly open to interpretation and one I chose to understand as 'What do you like to read?' - because that is more telling than a personal list of literature's who's who. Besides, listing favourite authors can sometimes be misleading especially when you've only read one book by said author and simply assume he makes the list. Once I read Somerset Maugham's Of Human Bondage and found it so brilliant that I assumed nothing he writes can be anything less than above-average. Oh the folly of youth! I picked up Then and Now and from then till now, I've never been able to finish it. A joke as bad as that had better have a good point...

To finally begin on answering the aforementioned question, I like my Indian literature tremendously. Maybe it is heritage, maybe it is ethnicity, maybe it is my father's reading habits which he never found necessary to keep discreet; he was a fan of V. S. Naipaul, Vikram Seth, Narayan, Mark Tully, a little Tagore and a lot of Khushwant Singh. I remember finding A House for Mr. Biswas in his library (now it has been converted into a room - more specifically, mine) and I took it upon myself to try reading what I thought was a grown-up book, but I was young, far too young to truly appreciate Naipaul's literary genius. What did consciously affect me was that this was a well-written story and, even better than that, it was written by a fellow Indian. I felt a sudden strong affinity to this man, this stranger, whose manuscript I now held in my hands; he was of my blood, we were of the same land; more importantly, if he had written this and since we are brothers in arms, then surely I, too, doubtlessly, am capable of writing beautiful fiction as well. On a less epiphanical note, I also remember after visiting India at 7 years old (and later at 9 and 11) being struck by a rich sense of culture, a land saturated with history and a people proud of it. When a literature emerges out of such a land, how can anyone take it lightly unless the author himself takes it lightly? Every Indian author, I think, writes with a deep awareness of the weight of India's history, which makes even a paragraph a momentous task, what more an entire novel?

European authors and poets are extremely pleasurable to read as well, much more than the bland, coarse American style. I do not like American literature, give or take a few exceptions. That is not to say I do not think American writers are not good writers; but when one writes a novel, naturally, the attempt is to write The Great American Novel and in order to do this, certain unavoidable elements have to be incorporated into the story - such as locale, an accurate glimpse into a certain era of history, language, tone, speech, mannerisms, etc.. forgive me if I am not doing such a good job of explaining it but hopefully the gist of my meaning is conveyed. Anyway, I feel although plenty has happened in American history, there is still something rather inelegant about its vibe. It could be the way people talk there which affects language and speech (a crucial part of literature), it could be the general atmosphere - it's hard to put it down and say 'Here, this is exactly what is unpolished about American literature'; usually it is a combination of various things, some of which I have already listed (although rather ineffectively). European literature is elegant, it is complex yet simple; it is forthright, succinct, subtle. It can be necessarily elaborate but not so much that it becomes incessant rambling. It is not loud, unlike the American style. I don't feel like someone is shouting at me through the pages. European writers are like friends who you understand are cold not because they want to prove a point but because it is in their nature and style to be a bit aloof - and it suits them well, too. Theirs is a finer art; it goes down smoothly and warms the body like a shot of good expensive whiskey. Nothing is wasted, nothing spills over, it is all contained perfectly.