Death has a Thousand Doors

Yes, I admit it. I have read them all - potboilers branded with a gilded #1, semi-porn cloaked as romances, detective novels cheesier than Sony's CID and more. Those were simpler times, I read for fun. I laughed, cried, gasped and moved on to the next book.

Things changed when i started to write.

'Read like a writer,' said my teacher Renu, in the first writing workshop that I attended. The more I learnt about good writing, the more i demanded from teh books I read. I wanted to be wowed, by the story, yes, but also by the words, the turn of the phrase...the craft. I wanted to revel in the genius of the writer, at her/his grasp of the craft. I started to read for the writer in me.

As I move along the world map, I almost miss the fourth one - Andorra. On the map it is a speck, almost like the cartographer rested his pencil on the map for a bit and then forgot to erase the mark made by the pencil-point. Located between Spain and France, Andorra is so small, it does not qualify to be called a country, it is a micro state. Irrespective, I was not going to discriminate on size. As, I looked for a book based in Andorra, a murder mystery caught my eye. Do I dig deeper for a more literary book or read this one which seemed to have all the trappings of a quickie mystery novel. I was keen to check if I had, indeed, left my past behind me...and I decided on the latter.

Death has a Thousand Doors ticks all the boxes as far as mystery novels go - a heroine with a troubled past, a missing person, romantic undertones between heroine and detective, clues that flummox, creepy people who turn out to be okay and regular people who turn out to be creeps. A mystery novel does not have to do much to keep the pages turning, human curiosity to know whodunnit is enough. The writing is ordinary and the plot is often manipulated to accommodate a romantic scene or attempt to throw the reader off-track.  

The best I can say is - it is not terrible.  

On the bright side though, as the story winds through the towns and the surrounding mountainside, the landscape pops up on its pages. The characters zip through the towns and streets and give an insight of life in Andorra, best known for being a tax haven. To its credit, the book brings this unknown location under the spotlight and for the 300-odd pages I discover the world within this speck.

...And at the end of the 300-odd pages, I am safe in the knowledge that my past will not come back to haunt me.

So Vast a Prison

All I knew about Algeria was one, it is somewhere in Africa and two, it had been a French colony. The second fact a remnant from some history lesson in school.

An online synopsis of Assia Djebar's So Vast A Prison described the book's unique narrative style and how it intertwined two different threads. I was sold. Stories with complicated narrative are a weakness. It is like reading and doing a jigsaw all at once, two of my favourite activities.

The novel is sliced in three parts. The first part introduces the reader to Isma's present life. Married with a daughter and a job in the city, she seems to have a full life. But, it is clear right from the start that there is something amiss. She meets a young student, falls in love and has an affair. When she confides in her husband, he beats her up almost to the point of blinding her and then leaves her with the word 'talaq' thrice. This part ends with Isma determined to resurrect herself. The narrative style of this part is dreamy and I feel that Isma's caught me by wrist and pulling me along as I float through her story. I must move along at her pace, I cannot take my mind off for a second or I need to backtrack and read again.

The second part is a detailed history lesson on Algeria of the ancient times. If it has a relevance to the plot, it is lost on me. I drudge through it but don't retain a single detail. And I almost give up on the book. I skip a few pages, and hurry on to the rest of Isma's story.

The third part starts with Isma in the present as the director of a documentary - Arable Woman. This part alternates between Isma's experience directing the film and her memories as a child and the stories she has heard of her mother and other ancestors. Once again, Isma has me tagging along with her and once again I must keep pace.

The underlying theme of the so-called modern woman connects as it is much like in India today...a constant struggle between balancing the present with tradition, the superficial with what is deep-rooted in the collective psyche of society.

It is not an easy read and I would recommend skipping the history lesson entirely. But, what struck me is the similarity in traditions and mindsets here at home to a country somewhere in Africa.

Chronicle in Stone

I didn't know anything about Albania. If I had to point out where in Europe it is, it would be like playing pin the tail on the donkey blindfolded - the tail could land up on its ass or its nose or anywhere in between. So first things first, Google. I discover that Albania is in southern Europe. It is bordered by Greece in the south and shares the rest of its borders with some other countries I know nothing about. Yet.

I chose Ismail Kadare's Chronicle in Stone for the period it is set in - World War II. Of the little that I know of WWII, Somewhere-in-Europe-Albania figures nowhere

The novel is set in a small city close to the Albanian-Greek border. When the story starts the border with Greece has just been closed and the city is under Italian control. But, this does not affect the protagonist's life, a young boy of 12-13. He spends his days traipsing around the city with his best friend Ilir, dreaming up gory fantasies and listening in to the gossip that the neighbours bring to his grandmother. But, his idyllic existence is short lived. The war intensifies and air raids, fighter planes, sirens and bomb shelters take over the cityscape. The city gets tossed around from the Italians to the Greeks and back and forth a couple of times. Every change brings with it more mayhem in the life of the boy and his friends and neighbours. They are forced to seek refuge first in the citadel and then later in a village in the outskirts. The story ends just before the end of the War, as the inhabitants return to their homes...'Again the tender flesh of life was filling the carapace of stone.'

While neither the name of the protagonist or the town is mentioned in the novel, the age of the protagonist and the description and location of the city implies that it is autobiographical in nature. The events that inflict the region are in sync with the history of Gijrokaster, Kadare's hometown.

The writer creates many detailed images and makes the landscape pop up from the pages. His favourite tool literary tool is personification. The river, his house, books,  the streets, all come to life. In one instance, he describes the fortress where the boy along with the rest of the citizens seek refuge:
'The fortress was indeed very old. It had given birth to the city, and our houses resembled the citadel the way children look like their mothers. Over the centuries, the city had grown up a lot.'

The novel delivers a strong message about war and its effects on everyone in its path. As I read it I picture a boy in a city in Sudan, watching the buildings around his house crumble to the ground. Or a young boy on a Greek island looking out from his window as refugees filter into his town...'The windowpanes were covered with frost. I stared blankly at the swarms of refugees on the road below. In tatters. Snowflakes and rags. The world seemed filled with them.'

Strange that descriptions from half a century ago, stand true today. Only the locations and the players change.

Zurich Transit by Max Frisch

My dad once told me of a neighbour who placed his own obituary in the newspaper. He wanted to see who would turn up for his funeral. His family, which had not seen the obituary, was shocked when mourners started turning up at their house. The young man was asleep in his room unaware of the chaos his little experiment had caused. When the truth emerged, he was declared an oddball by the community, and kind of ostracized for the rest of his life.
"He had always been a bit eccentric," my dad said. "But that was over the top even for him."

True that his action had been extreme but the thought is something most of us could probably identify with. Would not most of us want to know what happens after death? And not just in the after life, but also after in the lives that continue. How many will show up at our funeral? Who will speak how of us and how? How will the lives around us go on?

Theo, the protagonist in Max Firsch's screenplay Zurich Transit unwittingly gets the opportunity to do exactly that. He is on a flight back from a trip abroad when he discover through the newspapers that he has been declared dead, the victim of a car accident. He lands up at his funeral planning to reveal to his wife that he is alive but holds back for some reason. He then follows his mourners to the cafe for the wake in his honour and again does not come forth, instead choosing to eavesdrop on the goings on. He walks over to the shop his mistress works in and again turns away after a glimpse from across the road. He bumps into an Italian immigrant who proclaims that his fiancée is dead and he does not have the money to return home for her funeral. Theo plays out various scenarios in his head of the reactions of his wife and others when he reveals himself. As the story progresses, Theo's discontent with his life comes through.

The writer moves the camera frequently and quickly, from following Theo to following his wife post-funeral to his mistress who think she has seen him and takes off on a wild goose chase. It goes to his workplace and also follows his mother-in-law. The screenplay displays that these shifts would be like snapshots, quick and brief...glimpses into Theo's after-death. Reading a screenplay takes getting used to. The dialogue is interspersed with descriptions of the setting, the character, his expressions and actions. The language of the descriptions is instructive in nature...notes to the director who may be filming the movie. Firsch's directions are adequate enough.

The film script of Zurich Transit emerged from Firsch's novel My Name is Gantenbein. It was to be filmed in 1965 but was canned because of creative differences between the writer and the director. It was then published as a screenplay the following year. In 1989, the rights to the screenplay were procured by director Hilde Bechert and in 1992 it was filmed. Firsch had died a year earlier. But, perhaps he sat in the shadows during the premiere, watching his film sketch on screen. Maybe he was happy with the way it turned out and walked away into the light. Or, he grimaced and squirmed through the screening, and dissatisfied, gave up and took off for a new start.

Daddy Long-Legs

I sit cross-legged in front of the piles of books. The piles of varied heights, stuck together in a single file resemble a city's skyline. My friend is clearing out her library and I have been offered to take my pick. I resist. I have moved on to digital books. Their sheer convenience has squashed the romanticism of the scent of paper and ink and the feel of paper between my fingers. But, this skyline of old books with creased jackets, fading inscriptions and browned pages cause the heartbeat to quicken and I give in. My bedside table heaves under this new pile of old books...it had got accustomed to the weightlessness of my e-books.

I start with Daddy-Long-Legs, intrigued by the said friend's shock that I had not read it as a child. Daddy-Long-Legs follows the story of Jerusha aka Judy through her college years. J is raised in an orphanage, the kind like most from early 20th century.  A place that survives on the charity of their trustees and reminds the orphans of that fact at every point. A place where the kids are expected to be satisfied with what they are granted and not aspire for more or better.

The story starts with J, at 17 years brooding over another Perfectly Awful Day - the first Wednesday of every month when the trustees would visit the orphanage. Every nook and cranny and every orphan had to be scrubbed and ready for scrutiny. Little does J know that this dreaded day would be the day her life would change. A spunky essay written by J catches the eye of a trustee. He decides to sponsor her college education as a writer and grant her a monthly allowance during her years at college. He has two conditions. One, that he would remain anonymous and two, that J would write to him every month to apprise him of the goings-on her college life.

The rest of the story is driven purely through the letters that J writes to her anonymous benefactor. She tells him of her classes, her roommates, her classmates and teachers and other activities at college. She shares her thoughts and feelings with him. At times she expresses her gratitude to him and proclaims herself the luckiest girl in the word. At other times she berates him for not disclosing himself to her. Through her letters, one sees J grow up and absorb the different experiences that college brings to her and finally lead her to her benefactor.

It is due credit to the writer's craft that she is able to move the plot through one-sided communication without falling into an over-telling mode. The letters are charming and vary in tone and mood to reflect the J's state of mind at the time of writing.

Daddy-Long-Legs reminds me why I fell in love with stories...they carried the possibility that anything, however improbable was possible. Five kids could solve mysteries and trap criminals. Cheese when toasted on a stick on an open fire in the mountains would turn golden. The naughtiest girl in school would mature to be the head girl and teacher's pet. Strange lands could float by and get stuck on the branch of really tall trees.

As I grew older my reading preferences changed, I moved to stories of the real world. The stories became a means to glimpse into lives very different from my own and they carried their own vision of possibilities. But, Daddy-Long-Legs reacquainted me with the blissfulness of inhabiting a world where it all ends well. After all, a small dose of fantasy amidst the constant barrage of reality is well deserved.

1984 - From the future

1984 is not one of those books that grabbed me from sentence one and pulled me along. In fact, the first 4-5 pages had me trudging along and the thought of quitting often crossed my mind. But, the memory of Orwell's Animal Farm goaded me to stick on. And I am glad I did.

George Orwell wrote 1984 in 1948, which makes the novella futuristic. Unfortunately in this future, people don't drive flying cars, eat pills for food and vacation on the moon, something my school essays about the future always had. The author in his book projects a grim future. And he projects it so well that as I visualise the protagonist Winston in his home, at work, the park even, all I see is grey. Not the sharp lines of black and white. But, grey, blurry grey in its many shades. 

As the plot unfolds, and the extreme future that Orwell projects comes to light, my first thought is 'Bah! That's a bit extreme'. But as I go further and the layers under the plot become more evident I think 'Genius! This man saw the future.' Censorship, corruption of power, extreme surveillance...Orwell spoke the language that has become a part of our existence today. The story moves and the parallels between the reality of the story and the reality of today become more evident. And that scares me. 

The one thing that Orwell could not foresee was the evolution of the language. Winston's use of terms like 'deep-bosomed maidens' and 'old boy' and when he says of Julia that 'he would ravish her' don't fit into the future of 1984. They existed in Orwell's times but soon fell out of favour.

Trivia: The character of Big Brother in the story is the inspiration behind the UK-based reality show Big Brother, also known as Big Boss in India.

Indigo by Satyajit Ray

It was with some trepidation that I started this one. The ghost of my last experience with a translated book (Gulzar's Half a Rupee Stories) was still haunting me. Okay, maybe that's a slight exaggeration, but I said a little prayer anyways. It worked. Indigo is a good translation of some of Satyajit Ray's short stories. Somewhere in the first few pages, I forgot that I was reading the translated versions of Ray's original creations. The voice of the translator and author merged into one. 

Many of the short stories in Indigo revolve around the theme of the supernatural. Haunted houses, spirits, past-lives, spells, strange creatures take centre-stage. Other stories pivot on the evil that can emerge from the most commonplace appearing minds. I had always associated Ray with serious issue-oriented subjects on which his films are made. This, despite the fact that I don't remember seeing any of his films but that's the impression I held. These stories revealed a different facet of the creative genius. 

The only complaint I have is that the last few stories were a tad predictable. Maybe because they were read as a collection and so after a point if was easy to predict what way the author was likely to go. Since the stories were not written as a collection but as individual works over a stretch of a few years, they should have best been savoured like a course-by-course degustation rather than a happy meal from the drive-thru? 

Sea of Poppies

One of my favourite reads last year was Amitav Ghosh's first, Shadow Lines. In fact it made its way to my shelf of all-time favourites. What I loved about Shadow Lines was the unusual flow in the narrative. The story moved between different time periods with a nonchalance that made me envy the writer's genius. I have read one more book by the author, The Glass Palace. In this one, the author displays his prowess in placing created characters against actual events and real people. I remember wanting to visit the Burmese King's palace in Ratnagiri after I finished the book.

Sea of Poppies, thus, had a lot to live up to even before I had read the first line. Ghosh once again experiments with the narrative. The story starts off with three-four different threads which appear unconnected in the beginning but soon it is clear that at some point they are all going to intertwine. The author gives space to the back stories of all key characters so much so that as the reader I felt a bond with them and I connected with their angst. And by the end of it I was rooting for each one of them to get their desired resolution.

The irritation in the story-telling was the use of vernacular dialogue followed immediately by its translation. As a writer it is something that I fight to not do with a vengeance, however tempting it may be at times. And as a creative writing teacher, I have had many a classes run into overtime, because of a discussion on this subject. I wonder what Ghosh's reasons were to write so much of the dialogue in this manner. But, the plot was the winner, it gripped me and compelled me to push through the dialogue to reach the end.

The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid

I am apprehensive about reading books or watching films on prevailing topics like terrorism and Islamic fundamentalism were just after 9/11 and rape was just after the Delhi rape incident. I often, find these stories gimmicky, written not because the writer had a story to tell but because it was a story that the audiences would like to see or read. Such stories read contrived and thus disappoint. So, it was with some trepidation that I added 'The Reluctant Fundamentalist' to my reading list, the excellent reviews swayed me towards it.

And the story does not disappoint. For one, it is not about a young, innocent Muslim boy who is wronged by America or administration, turns into a radical but is killed just before he can bomb an American city into  oblivion. The story is about Changez, a Pakistani student who graduates among the top in his class at Princeton, and lands a dream job, but 9/11 happens and changes everything. In this story, unlike most others on the topic, the catalyst for the change in Changez is his inner conflict. Should he align himself to his inherent sense of allegiance towards his land of birth? Or should he continue on his professional journey in the country at war with his homeland? Or is there a middle path?

The hero of the novel though is not Change, or the plot, it is the narrative style that Hamid chooses to tell the story. By making Changez the narrator of his story, he gave me a singular point of view and allowed me to imagine the rest based on Changez's narration of events.
'Is he to be believed?
'No! He is he an unreliable narrator.'
'He sounds genuine enough, doesn't he?'
As the story twisted and turned towards the climax, I oscillated between the options, but not even after the end could I make up my mind. The author's movement between the present and the past is smooth. And, the clues he gives about Changez's listener through Changez's eyes are enough for the reader to get an inkling about his identity without it being revealed.
"Run, Changez, run," I almost screamed out. "Get away from this man." But, the warning stayed stuck in my throat.

Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh

The first book by Khushwant Singh that I remember reading was a collection of jokes. I was about 14-15 then and there was one joke which I still remember: 

Q: What is the definition of table tennis in Hindi?

A: Batti ke neeche...takht ke oopar...idhar se thaka-thak,udhar se thaka-thak.

Since then I have read his autobiography and 'Death at my Doorstep', a collection of obituaries written by him. The last obituary in the book is of the author himself, maybe he does not trust anyone else to do justice to it. Or maybe he wants to have the last word on himself. The obituaries are written in his natural style. There is no glorification, he states it as he saw it, perhaps, with a little malice as he was wont to do.

Train to Pakistan is set at the time of the partition of India, into India and Pakistan. At the start of the story he places the reader in an almost non-existent village with no more than three brick structures and a railway station. But, it is clear that the village is on the brink of losing its sleepy status when the author informs - Of the many slow passenger trains, only two, one from Delhi to Lahore in the mornings and the other from Lahore to Delhi in the evenings, are scheduled to stop for a few minutes.

The story does not address the political or social aspect of it. It is about some of those people who knew least about the goings-on but were probably affected the most. And that is why it strikes a chord. The story is written in his threadbare style. He writes without bias, without taking sides and without passing judgement. He plays the role of the commentator and leaves the reader to judge and opine. He paints graphic images, without any inhibitions, that made me cringe and shudder and vow not to read it before bed. 

Train to Pakistan was Khushwant Singh's third novel, and it makes it clear that the man never did hold back. His ability to express himself without reservation was not acquired with fame and experience, he was born with it.

The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl

Horror films don't freak me out. Yes, I close my eyes and then peek from between two fingers. But, they don't haunt my dreams and turn them into nightmares. Maybe because I don't really believe in the living dead. What do put the heebies and the jeebies in me are evil tales of seemingly innocuous people leading a regular life.

The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl has 50-plus short stories by the author and each one of them revels in jumping out of the bushes and screaming "Boo" at the reader. The settings are of the ordinary, a bed and breakfast or an apiary or a country manor or a farm. The characters too don't draw any suspicion be it a matronly landlady or a bookseller or a travelling salesman or a country hick. Then, as the stories moved, some element would be introduced, almost as subtly as the pea under the princess' bed. Sometimes I spotted it as soon as it appeared and at times I missed it, and had to read back to figure out where he had twisted the simple tale. But, the resolution was almost always rewarding.

My favourites in the collection were The Landlady and The Bookseller. The Landlady starts off with a young man in search for a B&B in Bath. He chances upon a place run by a middle-aged lady. There were many clues that pointed to the oddities in the establishment but nothing quite prepared me for the creepy end. In the Bookseller the author's detailed description of the dusty shop and the spiritless owner and his secretary almost lulled me into a false sense of security, but not quite. It is almost at the end of the collection so I had smartened up to Dahl's tricks. And when the secretary called her boss William Buggage, "Billy", I knew the twist was around the corner.


Next review: Train to Pakistan by Khushwant Singh

Twelve Years a Slave

A few months ago, I joined a memoir writing class. 

"I am not sure why I have taken this class," I said in my introduction. "I don't think my life in interesting enough to make a read-worthy memoir."

This was not a concern for Solomon Northup when he was asked to write his memoir in 1853. In his 50-odd years he had been through some extraordinary situations. He was a free black man at a time when it was a privilege to be one. When he was about 30 years old, he was duped, abducted and sold as a slave. Over the 12 years that he lived as a slave, he worked on plantations, changed owners, was abused and tortured, until he was rescued and united with his wife and two grown children. 

The film had me riveted. And when the end credits rolled up to inform that it was based on the memoir of Solomon Northup, I knew I had to read it. It was not so much the story, which I already knew from the film, but the fact that it was a memoir written in the 19th century by a man who was not a professional writer. He was just someone who had led an unusual life. 

The book disappoints. Wikipedia describes the memoir "as told to and edited by David Wilson", and that's what it is. It reads like a narrative account by the memoirist as it was told and reads like a first draft. No techniques of the craft of writing seem to have been applied to endear itself to the reader. The story is expected to achieve that feat on its own. Already familiar with the story, I gave up at page 40. When it was first released in 1853, Solomon's memoir sold 30000 copies making a bestseller in those times. I suspect it had more to do with the subject matter and the fact that it followed close on the heels of Uncle Tom's Cabin, a story based on the same topic but much better written. 

Watch the movie, skip the book or re-read Uncle Tom's Cabin.

Half A Rupee Stories

The stories in the collection are authored by Gulzar, and that's what tempted me to add it to my 2014 book list. I had not read anything by him but I had seen his stories (Hu Tu Tu, Maachis) played out on the big screen. His storytelling had stood out in those films and I expected his stories to overawe me as well. But, I did not take into account that it is the good stuff that is often lost in translation.

Four years ago I completed my Diploma in Spanish and I take on Spanish to English translation assignments once in a while. They are mostly financial and legal documents or corporate brochures. Sometimes when I am stuck, Google translation or a similar tool comes in handy. But, it is dry, mechanical content, a one plus one equals two kind of translation. It does not that require expression.
To simply translate words good knowledge of the target language (English in my case) can suffice, especially when the purpose of the translated content is to simply pass information. But, the purpose of translating prose is not just to tell the story to the reader. The purpose is to create the same images like the original, to evoke all the emotions as the original and to engage the reader as wholly as the original. And that is not the job of a translator, it is the task for a storyteller who can also translate. Only someone who can articulate himself with ease in both languages can do justice to the expression of the writer. 

Half A Rupee Stories fail in translation.

The narrative reads awkward and the dialogue jars. What should have been a quick, smooth read was tedious. I was tempted, often, to give up but I turned to the next one hoping that would be the one that would break through the translation barrier and sparkle in all its glory. The very-ordinary translation spoiled the reading experience and none of the stories stuck. I found myself attempting to translate back to how I imagined Gulzar would have written it. Not an easy task for someone for whom the first best thing about college was 'choose French, dump Hindi'. I finished the book only because I hate unfinished books on my bookshelf, sitting there, mocking me. Silly me! Better use of time would have been to watch Maachis again.

What Arundhati Roy and I have in common...

Arundhati Roy and I have a connection.

I had just finished my workout and was sitting in the lobby and was chatting with the person who owns/runs the gym.

"Why don’t you become a personal trainer at my gym?" he asked.

"Are you mad? Who would want me to train them?" I laughed it off and left.

Later that day at lunch I told some friends about it, I thought they would have a good laugh. 

"Why not?" said Renu. "I think it’s a good idea."

"Ya me too." said Chloe.

"Are you all mad? I don’t look anything like a trainer and I don’t know anything about training. Plus, I am supposed to become a writer." I said.

"So? said Chloe. "Arundhati Roy was an aerobics instructor before she wrote The God of Small Things and became famous."

Well, I thought, if Arundhati Roy did it…and I have been a trainer for almost six years now.

                                              ——————-

My first attempt at reading The God of Small Things was when I was in my 20s. It had gained a lot of attention and appreciation and I thought reading it would be good for my intellectual image. A few pages was all i could get through. Though, I did pretend to have read it through. Now, at 35, it was the right time to take another stab at it. I am a more mature reader, I told myself, and a creative writing teacher. How shameful to not have read one of the gems of Indian literature in English. And one of my huge life decisions was inspired by her, I owed it to her.  

The start was hesitant, but short-lived. Within a few pages her writing had transported me to the Kerala of the twins, Rahel and Estha. Her detailed descriptions, which had bored me a decade ago, enchanted me and depressed me at the same time. ‘I will never be able to create images like this,’ my soul wailed, as I swallowed page after page. The narrative flow must have been difficult in the writing process but its reading is effortless thanks to the author’s ability to stay true the voice whether it is the older Rahel or the younger Rahel. But, more than the plot, it is the images that Arundhati Roy sprung on me with every detailed description, they evoked the exact emotion they were designed to - amazement, disgust, misery, joy, despair collided as the pages turned. The end came too fast.

Below: A picture taken outside Arundhati Roy’s house in Akkara, Kerala. Akkara also gets mention in her novel.

The Old Man and the Sea

The Old Man and The Sea is a short read, but not a quick one. I had attempted it before but abandoned it after 20 pages, can’t remember why. This time I persevered. Maybe it was the pressure of years of forsaken resolutions. Maybe it was the fact that I am a more evolved reader. probably a bit of both. This was Hemingway’s last novel published before his death. It was also one of his most successful stories.

The story is about an old fisherman in the middle of an unlucky spell and his three day struggle, as he tries to bring in, against all odds, the biggest catch of his life. What worked for me was not so much the story as his writing style. The simplicity gripped me. I also could not help but admire the patience with which he delves into the details, thus conjuring up vivid images. For most of the book, the old man is the only character but Hemingway uses the fish, the sky, the sea, the sun, moon and stars as an effective support cast. And therein lies his brilliance. I must admit that I tuned off at times especially when he detailed the fishing technicalities, but was baited back after a sentence of two.