Driving away from my field of study is delightful but sometimes painful. I am no a big fan of literature but glancing through my English fiction bookshelf is more than enjoyable, both visaully and spiritually, which has also created a mixture feelings of devastation and inspiration. Some highbrow novels are tough to read and destined to be had rather than read, or even worse that people tend to lie about having read.
The world is full of lies. We all smell suspicion in the air. Governments lies. Bankers lies. Scholars lies. Parents lies. Even our uni. students lies. We too often hear lies like "having submitted assignment," or even "[self-claimed] being illiterate" (no joke!). Does lies matter? Who knows, while the majority of us consider only big lies matter.
I read through a few, some unfinished, a lot untouched. García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude was one of the most intimidating and let me down indeed. Reading on public transport and while waiting for a date (not to make a good impression though) has always been my habit. Novels is one of my options (others like articles and columns). One blogger would get swooned with a man scowling Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being (highly recommended, best of the best) which shrewdly shows his refined tastes and possibility of intellectual conversation.
Talented authors ripple the wildest minds into deep solitude and lash the tranquil ones out of control. Wilde and Orwell never bores me while Kundera and Eco deserve best of the best. Another author I like is W. Somerset Maugham, Elieen Chang's favourite English novelist, playwright and short story writer. I first noticed his name by his On a Chinese Screen, not a book at all, as he revealed, but notes for a book (I am yet to finish it I confess). His exquisite and sarcastic writing style completely caught my heart and I began to trace his writings on the Far East ever after.
to be continued...
No comments:
Post a Comment