Quote of the Week - VIII

आचख्युः कवयः केचित्संप्रत्याचक्षते परे 
आख्यास्यन्ति तथैवान्ये इतिहासमिमं भुवि 

Some poets told this epic before. 
Others are telling it now. 
Different narrators will tell it in the future.

~ Mahabharata, by Ved Vyasa, Truschke's translation. 

Previous post in the series.

Sailing

 The great thing about this blog is that hardly anyone reads it. It has never been picked by search engine crawlers nor has it been associated with my name. And that's good because it gives me a chance to maintain a simple journal without the pressure of entertaining an audience.

I've been working like a maniac this year. It hasn't been smooth sailing. Most times I've underperformed and I've taken a long long time to get to an acceptable standard of performance. Research is hard and it's harder when you have the broad span of interests I insist on pursuing.

I have spent the past two and a half years on a grand quest to tame something I have only begun understanding. My mind is working and it is squeezing a month's worth of work every 10 days. And still it isn't enough. I need to do more.

This year is almost ending though there are quite a few days left in December still. I will persevere and I will push myself all the way. If nothing else, I feel the excitement of this phase, the imminence of facing the music, and some measure of power pulsing through my veins.  

Allez, I guess.

Best Books Lists 2020

1. The FT's list by different categories. I particularly liked their best fiction list.
2. The Economist.
3. Foreign Affairs.
4. New York Times.
5. Wall Street Journal.
6. Time.
7. New Yorker.
8. The Paris Review.

Election Results

 I think I must have wasted a full 24 hours on watching the election results coming in. Some thoughts:

1. This was way closer than what was predicted by the so-called experts. It's cute when people claim their predictions were not THAT wrong because the candidate did finally win. Or that the error margin is the same as in previous elections. The bottomline is their estimates were incorrect.
2. It is a relief to see how the final picture is setting up. I had picked Joe as the most likely candidate to win both the primaries and the election. I had to fight many close friends who were at times frustrated and angry to see me backing "a less progressive candidate." My choice was based on my understanding of the preferences of the country and who I thought was mostly likely to prevail. It feels gratifying to get texts from the same friends who concede I had a point. 
3. The political impasse will continue. It seems Joe over performed considering the balance of votes in Congress. This is important. There was no roll-over but people still felt they had to make a distinction at the top of the ballot even while voting conservative down-ballot.

I need to get back to work now! A day was lost.

Mrs. Dalloway, Again

Fifth year of an economics PhD is all about rhythm. You're supposed to be in the groove and on your way. Discipline, focus, and a self-reinforcing web of commitments.

Which is to say you shouldn't be surprised if I tell you my insomnia has grown in stature and I am a pebble away from collapsing under my own weight.

So what does one do at 2.46 am on a Wednesday with a once in a century pandemic on the loose along with a generation-defining election in a week?

A Review of Mrs. Dalloway

I have mentioned before that my favorite Virginia Woolf novel is To the Lighthouse. Indeed, that book touched me in a way no other work by Woolf has done, and though my opinion hasn't changed after reading Mrs. Dalloway again, I have a lot to say.

This time's sojourn in the London of 1923 began on a train ride to Southampton. I needed something to distract me from the worries of traveling in the midst of covid. And so I decided to get into a different stream of thought. A stream of consciousness, if you will.

Virginia Woolf's books have some common traits. They are all demanding reads: your concentration cannot drop or waver. Woolf is constantly moving across several characters' heads; she's switching the subject of the sentence deftly; and she's doing it all beautifully. Missing a beat doesn't only mean losing the flow. A distracted read probably means you would end up not liking the book, at a minimum.

The cold stream of visual impressions failed him now as if the eye were a cup that overflowed and let the rest run down its china wall unrecorded. The brain must wake now. The body must contract now, entering the house, the lighted house, where the door stood open, where the motor cars were standing, and bright women descending: the soul must brave itself to endure. He opened the big blade of his pocket knife.

Second, Woolf's books carry an undercurrent. Even if it is a scene of tranquility that she is painting, there is, right there, subtly, just underneath the surface, a whirlpool of anxiety and anger. It recalls Louise Glück's commentary on John Berryman, "The background is the abyss; the poems venture as close to the edge as possible." Virginia Woolf's darkness spills out through her characters, as with other writers, but it also seeps through her prose.

The secret signal which one generation passes, under disguise, to the next is loathing, hatred, despair. Dante the same. Aeschylus (translated) the same.

Third, her books are emotionally heavy. Virginia Woolf did not have a happy life. She was introspective and incisive with her assessment of the world and its many flawed characters. Her books can easily put you into depression. They are not for the faint of heart. Mrs. Dalloway is still a more sprightly read, unlike To the Lighthouse, but the abyss of despondency is a step away, all the same.

...with hazel eyes which had that look of apprehension in them which makes complete strangers apprehensive too.

And, finally, her books are extraordinarily perceptive. 

She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on.

The story covers a day in London and flits across the lives of several protagonists, chief among them being Clarissa Dalloway and Septimus Warren Smith. It's really just a single solitary day. The characters, however, are not merely living out the present -- they cannot -- for they cannot escape how their lives are inextricably connected to their past and how they are living out the consequences of decisions made many many years before. It's one of the themes of the book: the weight of past decisions lingers and its consequences cast a shadow decades removed. 

The notion of Time is not only connected to the past. Clarissa and Septimus both understand the fragility of their existence. Its finiteness and their sheer mortality troubles them. In To the Lighthouse (TTL) too there are questions about what a person leaves behind when they are no longer alive. But while this vexed question is left as the backdrop in TTL, in Mrs. Dalloway the characters actively consider their own mortality. 

Clarissa worries about the futility of her life. She finds it difficult to accept that her place in the world is transitory. She hopes the echoes of her existence reverberate in other people's lives. She wonders if the very wind and the leaves and everything else gets suffused by the momentary presence of ephemeral individuals. Septimus, in his fits of madness, feels he has obtained immortal knowledge which the wretched world cannot comprehend. He sees through it all. But the burden of knowing is crushing him, his mortal self. 

Time even makes its corporeal presence felt through the booming leaden circles cast by Big Ben. The striking of the tower is interspersed through the pages as it faithfully marks the passage of the day but also serves a constant reminder to all about the inexorable passage of time.

Big Ben was beginning to strike, first the warning, musical; then hour, irrevocable.

Yet it is not the role of Time that affected me while reading the book. It was its discussion of mental illness. Septimus Warren Smith is a veteran. He lost his closest friend in the battlefield. The trauma of the loss ensconces his soul slowly. It grows like a parasite. It affects his ability to communicate with his wife, Rezia, who he courted while billeted in Italy, who grew up in a convivial atmosphere of a family hat-making business, and who is now tormented by her husband's madness and terrified by his suicidal tendencies.

Even more troubling is the relationship Septimus has with his doctors. We begin with Dr. Holmes, a man completely out of his depth. Holmes thinks Septimus has no affliction. He gives an ignoramus' assurance. He lets Septimus' neurosis grow unabated.  It grows to the point when Rezia finally approaches the considerably more famous and expensive Sir William Bradshaw.

Woolf's dissection of Bradshaw is extraordinary and unnerving. It was possibly informed by her own experience with psychiatrists and psychologists -- Woolf suffered several nervous breakdowns throughout her life. There is a public facet of Bradshaw. He is kind, impressive, and an adherent of "Proportion." Proportion being the principle that the secret to a good life of health and success is keeping life's elements in check. Having the right balance. Superficially, his proposed treatment for Septimus is merely so: sending him to a house in the countryside where he is monitored and allowed to recover, away from Rezia.

But Rezia senses a sinister counterpart to Proportion. She calls it "Conversion," the tendency for those who live life in Proportion to force deviants into shape, to whip them without remorse; dehumanizing their worries as mere pathologies. In other words, Conversion seeks to conquer. Rezia fears for Septimus. She sees the ruthless cruelty in Bradshaw's methods. Cruelty, not of the physical kind, but something far worse. She is powerless. 

That is the most disturbing part of the novel. What is mental health? How do we understand it? How do we treat it? And what terrors does the patient suffer that are inaccessible to a closed well-educated well-polished professional? Rezia did a far better job of keeping Septimus sane than any doctor did. I do not think this is coincidence.

When I read Virginia Woolf there is always one character that seems to speak Woolf's mind most clearly. In TTL, it is Lily Briscoe. In Mrs. Dalloway, it is Septimus. Septimus is asking for help. Help is nowhere to be found.

The day ends. Clarissa organizes a party where prominent names pay visit. She also meets old friends who have influenced her life indelibly and about whom she cannot stop reminiscing on most days. But she has no time for them. The Prime Minister is here. And so is Sir William Bradshaw and a dozen other dignitaries.

In a novel about one's exhausting battles with inner demons; still having to make sense of life in the physical world; living in the shadow of a disorienting First World War, all in an exquisite, if demanding, stream of consciousness writing style, one hopes to find meaning in futility. And to answer the following question:

"What does the brain matter," said Lady Rosseter, getting up, "compared with the heart?"

Quote of the Week - VII

O mortal men,
Arise! And, casting off your earthly cares,
Learn ye the potency of heaven-born mind,
Its thought and life far from the herd withdrawn!

~ Edmund Halley, in the preface to Newton's Principia. 

(Previous post in the series.) 

 

A New Decade

I turned 30 this month.

I have a reliable test when it comes to judging what I've done in life. I always hark back to the time when I was 14 or 15. I imagine myself -- indomitable, unconquerable, uncompromising. And I ask myself if that young adult would've approved of whatever I have achieved today.

It would not be incorrect or harsh to say he would be sorely disappointed. In the three decades I have spent on this planet, I have ended up wasting most of my time in the last one. I have burnt myself over ambitions that deserved no attention; I gave my soul to these endeavors. I paid a heavy price.

It is disconcerting to know I am now supposed to be an adult. It is distressing to imagine the roads that are closed off to me, most temporarily but some permanently, simply because I made some fundamental mistakes.

So what's next? A painful retreat or a glorious charge into the melee once more?

You know what I am thinking.

Suite Française

When Irène Némirovsky started writing Suite Française, she envisioned the novel to have five parts – a massive tome that would promise to be her finest achievement; her tour de force.

Irène was a famous writer of her times already. But she was also a Jew. And so, in 1942, she was arrested and deported to Auschwitz. She died a month later.

Before this unthinkably tragic end, Irène could only write the first two parts of her novel. Her manuscript should’ve been lost but it miraculously survived, preserved by her daughter as she successfully fled the Nazis. It still took sixty-four years for the manuscript to finally see the light of public attention. As possibly the first novel to be written about World War II, and because of the way it was written – in Irène’s journal compressed into 140 pages written in a tiny font while she was hiding in the countryside somewhere in Central France – it has since been widely acclaimed and was recently made into a movie by the same name, in 2014. (The movie is good but doesn’t really cover the intricacies of the novel.)

The copy of Suite Française that you can get now contains the first two parts – Storm in June and Dolce – as well as an appendix that contains Irène’s notes. These notes are morbidly fascinating, dealing with both the novel and her initial exasperation followed by leaden dread at what was to come.

The book was intended to be a story of a few individuals and their families in France in the time of World War II as they experienced the incursion and invasion of the German troops, followed by occupation, and was to chronicle their struggles as they sought to hold on to their lives, their livelihoods, and dignity.

Suite Française is an incredibly humane and compassionate story of France in the midst of invasion. It also challenges the reader’s conception of the individuals who comprised the conquered and, to a limited extent, the conquerors.

(Despite the author’s own turmoil, it elides any mention of the Jews – I think I could count only one or two instances where she even mentions the word.)

A short summary would be thus: it is a compelling book about inequality and collaboration dealing with the turmoil of emotions in the minds of the conquered as they find a way to survive, some choosing to compromise, others torturing themselves through hope, and yet others simply forgetting their circumstances. There are no modern twists and turns and yet the book is gripping in its own way.

Below, I present a synopsis of the novel. I keep it separate because I know of people who prefer not to know anything about the plot, and I respect that.

************

The first part, Storm in June, describes in vivid detail the Exodus of Parisians from their beloved city as the German army reached their doorsteps. In the midst of air raids and chaos, we follow a set of individuals from different classes and professions as they prepare to leave.

We follow a prominent family, the Péricands; a famous writer and his partner; a working class couple; a collector of antiques; and a few other well fleshed out characters, as they deal with panic and desperation when fleeing from one place to the other. Their lives occasionally intersect in the madness. Even in this dog-eat-dog world we see moments of collaboration and cooperation. Kindness shows up in the unlikeliest of places.

Némirovsky’s prose is unsparing as she provides a searing indictment of class inequities. This anger spills out on occasion,

"But why are we always the ones who have to suffer?” she cried out in indignation. “Us and people like us? Ordinary people, the lower middle classes. If war is declared or the franc devalues, if there’s unemployment or a revolution, or any sort of crisis, the others manage to get through all right. We’re always the ones who are trampled! Why? What did we do? We’re paying for everybody else’s mistakes. Of course they’re not afraid of us. The workers fight back, the rich are powerful. We’re just sheep to the slaughter. I want to know why? What’s happening? I don’t understand. You’re a man, you should understand,” she said angrily to Maurice, no longer knowing whom to blame for the disaster they were facing. “Who’s wrong? Who’s right? Why Corbin? Why Jean-Marie? Why us?”

Ultimately their escape is futile – the Germans are victorious and take over large parts of France. Storm in June ends here and we segue to occupation, which forms the second part of the novel, Dolce.

If the first part was urban in its scope and concerns, Dolce is all about pastoral life. We shift to a village far removed from the cities. Némirovsky herself was situated in a village when she fled Paris and one wonders how much of the content derives from her experience there.

With German occupation, invading troops were billeted with local families. This meant the presence of a German soldier living in a house with no men, for most French men were prisoners of war or killed in battle. The uncomfortableness of this situation is clear – the women of the household had to tolerate the presence of a person whose country was responsible for incarcerating or killing their husbands and sons. The Germans were their overlords, and the women were helpless. How they reacted and dealt with this intrusive occupation is an important theme of the book.

But what strikes the reader is Irène’s ability to get into the minds of the conquerors. Némirovsky’s lens is one of incredible humanity. She manages to make the occupants somewhat human and allows the reader to imagine their thoughts. This is remarkable. We follow, in particular, the strained relationship between Lucile Angellier and Bruno von Falk, the former being the daughter-in-law of a prominent land-owner in the village, the latter an officer, a Nazi.

It’s a truism that people are complicated, multifaceted, contradictory, surprising, but it takes the advent of war or other momentous events to be able to see it. It is the most fascinating and the most dreadful of spectacles, she continued thinking, the most dreadful because it’s so real; you can never pride yourself on truly knowing the sea unless you’ve seen it both calm and in a storm. Only the person who has observed men and women at times like this, she thought, can be said to know them. And to know themselves.

The book raises uncomfortable questions about the compromises individuals made to survive. Even here, the privileges that the aristocrats have over the farmers and working classes are glaring.

In the end, one cannot help but feel a great deal of regret in not seeing this novel attain completion. The story ends on an exciting turn and sets up what would have been the intertwining of the urban and the pastoral. We can only wonder at what could’ve been.

Word Ruminations

One of the many delightful quirks of the Harry Potter series is the naming scheme JK Rowling bestows on her characters. The Black family, for example, are mostly named after stars in different constellations such as the Orion, Canis Major and Leo -- everyone knows that.

Bellatrix is my favorite name from the set, unfortunately given to a vile and evil character. The name comes from the female version of the Latin word for 'warrior.' 

And then, somehow, even though the words are very different in meaning, my mind jumps to the word 'belletrist,' which, according to Oxford Languages, means

a person who writes essays, particularly on literary and artistic criticism, that are composed and read primarily for their aesthetic effect.

Both are pretty words. 

EDIT: An earlier version of the blog suggested -- somewhat embarrassingly given my claim "everyone knows that" -- that all of the Black family members are named after stars in different constellations. My friend and immortal quiz partner, Abhinav Malhotra, pointed out that Narcissa Malfoy is not named after anything in the night sky. Some more research brought out another example in Lycoris Black. Both Narcissa and Lycoris are named after plants. Thanks bhai.

Clarke's Three Laws

In the huge universe of inspirational quotes, books, and movies, Clarke's Three Laws burn bright like an O-type star.

Briefly, they are:

1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong.
2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.
3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

The third one has received a lot of attention and fame but I find the first two to be more instructive. And inspiring. 

[From October 24, 2018]

Draft Pick: Guilty?

After a rough week, the best I could do to extract productivity from a languid Friday was to clean up old drafts. I found I was preparing a follow-up draft to my post on The Battle for Grammar about 7 years ago. It has been far too long for me to do justice to my thought process as on June 9, 2013, and so the only sensible step was to retain the hyperlink to this wonderful kinetic typography YouTube video of Stephen Fry expounding on the same topic except with an eloquence not within my current capabilities. I had intended to share the video as ringing validation of my thoughts developed independently of Fry's own exquisite tirade though this video and the text behind it easily predate my blog post.

Notes on COVID Part III

I should've been writing more frequently but PhD pressures made sure I didn't do anything beyond an intransigent proof.

Still, for record keeping purposes, this was my draft from April 22, unedited,

----------

We'll start this edition by pointing out an erratum in my first post. First, Shakespeare did not write King Lear during the plague, he wrote it during a period of brief respite from it, between 1603 and 1610. He did write a play, Coriolanus, during the plague years. Read more here.

The New Yorker also tries to make an argument that Newton's two year hiatus from Cambridge, and ensuing isolation, was not the reason for his brilliant achievements. He was already thinking deeply about the problems at least a year before, and continued producing outstanding work after re-joining academic life.

I don't buy the argument. That he was a genius and was producing outstanding work all his life is indubitable. Yet, it doesn't mean he couldn't have had an extra spurt of creativity from his isolation. The argument doesn't convince me, but the article is still an inspiring read.

*****

I will be focusing on India in this post. I do so because the country stands at the cusp of exponential explosion. It is a critical time and understanding the data would do some good.

----------

Yeah, India did see the exponential increase in cases.

And just for completeness sake, right now we seem to be on the cusp of an exponential rise in deaths from COVID here in the US.

Sigh.

Notes on COVID-19 Part - II

Lazy data work here but I am wondering if this will be the third week in a row when the number of cases reported on a Tuesday shoots up.

The consecutive red bars are JHU numbers from Sundays and Mondays. It would seem that reporting of deaths falls at the close of the week.

Not clear if there's a reason or if it's sheer coincidence.

But if there is a pattern the number of deaths today should be 2500-2600 roughly. Based on the size of the jumps the last two times.

Previous post

Quote of the Week - VI

Volcanoes be in Sicily

And South America,

I judge from my geography.

Volcanoes nearer here,

A lava step, at any time,        

Am I inclined to climb,

A crater I may contemplate,

Vesuvius at home.

- Emily Dickinson

Previous post in the series.

Notes on COVID-19, Part I

The world is in a mess. The COVID-19 -- or coronavirus; I will use both terms interchangeably -- pandemic has humbled humanity. It's a virus that rides on the traits that define the 21st century world, such as a globalized economy and the wanderlust of an unprecedented number of prosperous individuals.

The virus manages to lull every newly vulnerable country into the proverbial false sense of complacency. Most of us aren't naturally wired to fear an exponential function. Till then (and beyond), the virus spreads easily and incubates for roughly 5-7 days before announcing its presence (if at all). It leaves 80% of the infected relatively unscathed but devastates the rest. The body goes into overdrive fighting the virus and, in its worst form, the body's aggression can lead to lungs getting filled with fluid and debris, or can lead to complications seemingly unrelated to a lung disease.

What does a person do in these times? For sure, it is everyone's responsibility and basic common-sense to stay indoors but I don't see that from my window in upper Manhattan. A friend recently shared data that showed roughly 50% of New Yorkers being out of their homes every day.

If one does choose sense and sensibility, there is much to be done on a personal level. New opportunities beckon. For example, if a person doesn't read now with their alternative options drastically reduced and work disrupted, then it is hard to think of a time when they would.

I have lined up the following books -- The Decameron by Boccaccio, King Lear by Shakespeare, and Don Quixote by Cervantes. I have never read the first, I think it is an apt book right now since its backdrop is the Black Death. King Lear was written during the time of plague and I couldn't remember the details of the story; it has been so long since I consumed Shakespeare. Don Quixote is one of my favorite books and I couldn't resist the opportunity to read the whole novel -- one of the first ones ever written -- again.

People have shared Isaac Newton's achievements when Cambridge shut down during the plague. The tale is undoubtedly inspiring but working in a cramped Manhattan apartment doesn't seem to replicate the same setting despite having many more luxuries than 17th century England. Then again, the luxuries probably distract than help.

I also intend to share news and views related to economics and finance because why not? As a researcher it's a time to process how the world is changing. An economist cannot do much in these times obviously. But maybe they can change the way people think about non-normal events.

And who knows? Maybe this will be the new normal. The virus is frustratingly resilient and it brings no comfort knowing it belongs to the family that includes the common cold. If the common cold is any omen, it's going to be hard to find a vaccine for COVID-19. Or maybe we could always have had a vaccine for the cold but that wasn't considered to be a profitable undertaking.

Watch this space for more. 

Best Books I Read in 2018

Now that I am on a roll and churning out blog posts by the day-I-happen-to-have-insomnia, I feel that this is my only chance to write posts I should have written literally years ago.

Starting with a list of the best books I read in 2018!

I want to assure the kind reader (hi mom!) I already had my list ready. I even had fragments of the post, in a shape worse than mint-conditioned Draft Picks but enough to crank this out before I lose myself again.

So instead of writing long descriptions and full-er reviews in all their excruciating detail I list below the best books I read in 2018. Usual disclaimer: this is not a list of the best books published in 2018. I usually never read a book the year it's published -- my to-read list is a couple of years behind, despite 50+ books/year deep into PhD life.

Let's begin:

1. Death's End by Cixin Liu

Okay, this was a no-brainer. The Remembrance of Earth's Past trilogy is by far the best work of science fiction I've read in years. I also believe the trilogy would have attracted more attention if it had been written by an author from the traditional bastions of fiction literature.

In the two years since I've read the trilogy, it seems a lot more people are reading the books. That's brilliant and richly deserved. Don't miss it.

2. Ants Among Elephants by Sujatha Gidla

A disquieting personal history of a Dalit (untouchable) family, Gidla nonchalantly reveals the unimaginable horror and humiliation that a large chunk of India's population has had to face for an unthinkable span of time (and which continues in various ways today). The history walks through several generations of Gidla's ancestors and is intimately tied to the events around and after India's independence - a narrative that refuses to be slotted along traditional political lines and ideologies. Very honest, non-sugar coated, unsentimental account leaving you blown away by the details and powerful (but subtle) imagery. Guarantees to leave you uncomfortable.

The thing about any good memoir is that it brings intimacy to the story and (in this case) the theme at hand. You become part of their family, the quirks of the individuals in them, and the ambitions and miseries they all face. What that does (and Gidla does it here superbly) is that all the injustice, the humiliation and the inhuman deprivation becomes personal. It adds to the sense of outrage you feel. I've been reading on caste for decades. It's one thing to study it from afar and nod your head in empathy or shake it with academic disgust. It's quite another to feel part of the story and to feel the pain and distress.

The second thing about the narrative is that it moves quickly and smoothly through the half a dozen plots. There is no time for Gidla to wallow in self-pity or provide any philosophical take on any of it. No academic dissection or analysis. It's just an honest, authentic story. And I found that to be far more effective and galling than many deeply sympathetic but distant descriptions.

The book is interesting and entertaining in its own way. Fast paced. The fact is the basic idea of the memoir could've been an account of any person's personal family history. What changes it and makes it fascinating are the characters and the intimate details of the struggles and the decisions they make. None of them justified by the author, or indeed, sentimentally weighted.

Lastly, it's a jaunt through decades of post Independence events as we only see their reflection on small, mostly insignificant individuals.

3. Genghis Khan and the Making of the Modern World by Jack Weatherford

Some revisionist history now. This is a well-written and entertaining book. Most people have heard a lot about the cruelties and barbarities of the mighty warlord and it is hard to argue against the havoc he created in the world as he conquered. It is also true that Weatherford is a little too enamored by his subject yet this book ends up being a good counter-weight to the dominant narrative and pushes the reader to give a second thought to aspects of Genghis Khan's reign that escape attention, namely, his administrative capabilities (once regions were absorbed) and his policies in matters of communication, trade, law and religious freedom. These aspects are arguably admirable.

For a reader, the book is delicious. It starts off with the story of young Temujin and his improbable ascendance to dominance from the deeply fractured tribal system in Mongolia. Given that Genghis Khan had one of the largest Empires in history it goes without question that the tales of his conquest are jaw-dropping.

Jack Weatherford does well to reinterpret the Mongol period of dominance without the prejudiced blinkers that see every "outside" conqueror to be barbaric. He also does well to contrast the comparatively progressive administration of the Mongol Empire with civilizations in the rest of the world. But a caveat. Yes, the Mongol Empire deserves much more respect from the modern world on many fronts - as one of the mightiest Empires of all time, a fearsome military power and a highly sophisticated administrative behemoth. But I wouldn't go as far as making everything that happened in the world to be a consequence of this era. This isn't damning criticism -- clearly a lot of things we take for granted in the modern world such as several country boundaries, regional cultural traits, as well as the diffusion of technological progress directly flow from the actions taken during the Mongol Empire. But it is important criticism -- Weatherford gets speculative on occasion.

4. How to Get Filthy Rich in Rising Asia by Mohsin Hamid

Hamid is a fantastic writer. His writing style is accessible and piercing. In this bildungsroman masked as a self-help book, he pieces together a picture that is instantly recognizable to most people from Asia.

The beauty is that you never noticed it yourself. Hamid paints in vivid detail the backdrop to the lives of the privileged in South Asia. The overfull bus bouncing down a pot-holed road; people in constant danger of spilling out. The slow moving marauding cyclist on a busy road; an idle turn away from death. The salesman going door-to-door to face almost certain failure and disdain; preferring this life over back-breaking labor. You see because Hamid moves them to the foreground. He throws the light.

There's also something to "you" being the protagonist: adding another layer of intimacy that comes by the use of the second person. Ultimately, what starts out as a brash and seemingly unemotional guide to climbing out of the ditch of despair and destitution in an emerging country becomes an endearing story that touches you with its rawness and simplicity. This was my first book by the author. Quite impressive.

5. Inglorious Empire/An Era of Darkness by Shashi Tharoor

Not Tharoor's best book but there are good chapters in this one. The Myth of Enlightened Despotism is that one chapter I'd recommend anyone and everyone to read.

Content-wise the book packs a powerful punch. At a time when the legacy of colonialism sees many back-and-forth discussions the book carves out its space by offering perspective on something which statistics and the dehumanizing long term view of history often miss - that many ordinary people suffered grievously, and that millions died at the hands of the policies (and deliberate neglect) of colonial leaders. This at a scale and over a period never before seen in India.

It's a great book because it directly addresses many hearsay theories about the supposed good brought about by the Empire. Tharoor by no means aims to demonize the British; indeed his own passion for many things British is freely admitted and expressed. He only points out that the colonial project of extraction and exploitation spread over some centuries should not, at the very least, be whitewashed by presumptuous theories about there being good intentions behind the actions taken by the oppressors. It's hard to refute this claim.

Best Books I Read in 2019

Before half a year elapses again, and taking advantage of another night of insomnia, let me quickly recapitulate the best books I read in 2019. The usual caveat applies: this is a list of books I read in 2019 and liked/loved the most. I wish I could keep up with the newest releases every year but I never do.

1. A House for Mr Biswas

As a soon to be released book review will explain, VS Naipaul's passing away two years ago reminded me that I had not read his supposed magnum opus. The book, about one Mohun Biswas, is a tragicomedy and a deeply perceptive tale of pre- and post-colonial Indian societies in the Caribbean. Mohun has lived his childhood and youth in wretched poverty and humiliation. He seeks redemption and he seeks dignity. His life is spent in the fevered dream of building his own house. Will he do it? A House for Mr Biswas is a poignant story. It is dark comedy. It is an insightful glimpse into the dynamics of "joint-family" politics in that era and speaks to the politics of relationships even today. It is, in sum, very well-written.

2. Culture of Encounters: Sanskrit at the Mughal Court

This is a fantastic book that has sadly never been mass published. Audrey Truschke is most commonly known for her Aurangzeb book -- a lucidly written, fast paced, and informative account that is not without contestation, both (fair) nuanced academic and (obviously) rabid lunatic. I would recommend reading that book but not before Culture of Encounters, if you can get your hands on it.

The book covers the fascinating history of Sanskrit scholars during the times of several Mughal emperors, most notably Akbar and Jahangir. The first chapter is a stultifying chronology of all scholars who took patronage over the dynasty's time. The book then picks up and soars with its description of Akbar's efforts to integrate Sanskrit literature and its rich cultural history into his reign. The most brilliant chapter is his project to translate the Mahabharata into Persian calling it Razmnamah or the Book of War. There is much to learn and admire in this syncretic and beautiful time in India's history. Here's a review I wrote last year:

"The book itself has been on my TBR for a long, long time. Audrey Truschke first came on the Indology map with this book that is basically her PhD dissertation at Columbia. I waited quite a bit for the book to become cheaper but that didn't happen. In a fitting move - Columbia History PhD writing a book published by Columbia University Press - I borrowed the book from the Columbia University Library. 

Before I talk in detail about the book, a caveat. Whether you're on the Aurangzeb-was-terrible side, or the Aurangzeb-was-a-great-king end, or somewhere in the convex combination between these two points, this book is NOT about Aurangzeb. So hold your tongue.

The book. The book is gorgeous in its own way. It captures a rich history of the cultural and aesthetic interactions between the Indo-Persian and Sanskrit schools of thought at the Mughal court. For instance, one learns about the representatives from the Tapa Gaccha and Kharatara Gaccha at Akbar's court (and later Jehangir) and how Jain Sanskrit scholars sought to integrate the Mughal court into traditional Sanskrit accounts and histories. 

The book can be deceptively off-putting because Truschke starts this book - quite unlike her later Aurangzeb book - with typical academic caution and dryness. In fact, the introduction and the first chapter - a kind of an encapsulation of all major Sanskrit scholars at the Mughal court across several kings - is very boring. She does this, I assume, because she wants to set the context and the stage as one would do when writing an academic paper. 

It's in the chapters that deal with Akbar's reign that the book soars, and how. The second chapter deals with the different kinds of Sanskrit encomiums addressed to Akbar written by different Sanskrit scholars. The praises throw light into the unique reign of Akbar, when the best artists and scholars of the era held residence at the Mughal Court, many of whom are part of contemporary Indian lore. Truschke shows off her hold over these many written works and describes many of them in rich detail. 

The third chapter contains a gripping and very interesting account of how Akbar commissioned some of the best Persian and Sanskrit scholars to sit together to translate the Mahabharata into Persian, called the Razmnamah (Book of War). This is a glorious chapter and talks about many details about this unprecedented mission undertaken at the behest of Akbar, and executed by his grand vizier Abu Fazl. There are many interesting tidbits here, including the focus and attention that the translators gave to different books of the grand epic, and the way the translators made sense of the content for an (ostensibly) Persian speaking audience. 

There are far too many details for me to put out here (watch out for my blog) but one does come away with one conclusion. The moniker of Akbar the Great (I hasten to add that Truschke NEVER uses or suggests this term) is well-deserved. 

The other chapters deals with aspects such as how Persian thought was introduced into Sanskrit texts and vice versa. Richly detailed. 

There is the overarching question that Truschke grapples with: why did the Mughals do this in the first place? Her main contention is that the Mughals sought to integrate themselves culturally and aesthetically with the Sanskrit history of India mainly because that is how they envisioned their place as being in a long line of kings of India. This was, in other words, their way of becoming a fabric of the land. This makes sense to me. However, the added motivation for doing this can be seen in a emotional sense or in a transactional sense. My own reading is that the prolific investment in Sanskrit based culture made by the Mughal court (including by Akbar, Jehangir and Shah Jahan) must have involved a mix of both factors. Truschke doesn't enter these waters of trying to disentangle the two sources. 

There are some minor errors but really trivial ones that escaped proof-reading efforts. They have absolutely no bearing on the substantive content of the text."

3. The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer

Siddhartha Mukherjee writes extremely well. If you haven't read this book, and if you can stomach some unease, you absolutely must read it. Mukherjee presents cancer as our greatest and -- persuasively argued -- hardest battle. The latter because the occurrence of cancer is linked with deeper questions about mortality. Cancer happens by hijacking the very processes that keep us alive and healthy. It does so with chilling and ruthless efficiency. But unlike the more modest normal cell the hyper efficient cancer cells fail to incorporate the externality of their growth on the body ultimately consuming it. (This last sentence was brought to you by my economics education.)

That said, the book isn't by any means exclusively focused on the biology/genetics behind cancer. It is so much more. My short review:

"One of the best works of non-fiction in the past decade, SM's Pulitzer Prize winning book deserves all the plaudits it gets. It is at once a medical history of the disease the Greeks named karkinos because of the resemblance of swellings to carapace; a story of generations of doctors coming to grips with its mystery over several centuries; a throwback to the many individuals who mounted a prolonged, attritional, and ultimately humbling war on the disease, their character sketches delightfully fleshed out; an account of human hubris and a very good demonstration of the frustrating role of paradigms in the sciences with many wrong turns and dead-ends. Lastly, it gives a cellular biologist's recapitulation of the slow but fruitful progress of genetic research in understanding cancer's genesis. This research program led to the most commonly known drugs treating cancers today. It also sets the stage for his next book.

Above all, the book is a compassionate and poignant glimpse of the courage and resilience of the countless unnamed patients who have had to fight the disease. SM speaks of their willingness to experience complete uncertainty while embracing new forms of treatment. He speaks of their boldness in demanding experimental methods which would leave them drastically changed physically and psychologically. And he speaks of their grace and determination in accepting the merciless, slow stream of information that often accompanies different phases of treatment. SM thus imbues the narrative with humanity and transforms the battle against this most ancient and sinister of enemies into a deeply personal tale.

It is a book on cancer and therefore one cannot help be a tad squeamish at times. Some chapters can be morbid. Despite that, it's a wonderful book. Extremely well written. 

A rewarding and highly recommended read."

And that's that! Oddly enough, I could only shortlist 3 books. 2019 had a lot of disappointing reads and my resolution for 2020 is to avoid bad reads as much as possible. Wish me luck!

Dust and Rubble

I am a cursed being. I love books. I always have. I have completed the book a day challenge, all 365 of them à la Shashi Tharoor.

I am also old school. I cannot stand a book's e-counterpart. I refuse to buy a Kindle or use any kind of e-reader. I have always found the concept insulting to the idea of reading. Reading a paper book means curling up with a friend -- old or new -- and discovering joy, mystery, and intrigue. Every page has a memory even if most wash off. When I open my eyes in the middle of the night I glance at my book shelves taking in the warmth they have exuded ever since I've been a child.

My curse is not that I love books. It is far more embarrassing and chastening.

I am allergic to old books. The sort of book that makes ardent readers excited. That makes them sniff the pages and relish its dusty smell. That sends them down involuntary detours of fantasies about the book's previous owners; about the history elapsed from the time the book was published through the rollicking journey it may have had to ultimately reach the present owner. The annotations in the margins. The inscriptions.

It's not that I haven't resisted. Every once a while I pluck up the courage and get myself a battered yellowing old book to read. And though I have failed almost every time the allure of conforming to the habits of my brethren refuses to perish.

*************

Neuromancer is a famous book. As the first novel to win the Hugo, the Nebula and the Philip K. Dick awards it stands out as the mighty Sirius in the star studded map of Science Fiction literature.

"How far you’ve come, to do it now, and what grotesque props. . . . Playgrounds hung in space, castles hermetically sealed, the rarest rots of old Europa, dead men sealed in little boxes, magic out of China. . . ."

Neuromancer is widely considered to be one of the first major works of cyberpunk (the dystopic genre of Sci-Fi that is described by Wiki as high tech and low life). The story follows the exploits of a delinquent wasted individual, Case, who is a has-been cyberspace thief (a "hacker" for lack of a better word). Case lives on the edges of society as an outlaw doing petty crime and dragging out his existence in a hell-hole in Japan all the while scraping the bottom of the barrel to make ends meet.

Things take a dramatic turn when he meets the samurai shotgun Molly (a memorable and awesome character) who offers Case a way back to health and, more enticingly, the work he reveled and excelled in. There is a price, of course, setting in motion an exciting chase as the protagonist and his rag-tag associates seek answers to a deepening mystery.

Case's skill is to jack himself into the Matrix and find ways of breaking the ice -- Intrusive Countermeasures Electronics -- of organizations. The Matrix is a world removed from the normal world and allows Case to switch between personalities and locations at will. His targets eventually lead him to an AI which controls the mercenary guiding him. Matters deepen as the AI wants stuff that promises to wreck havoc with the usual order of the world.

I found the book in one of those cardboard boxes hastily labeled with a marker-ed "FREE BOOKS" that are reasonably common in any university. There it was, lying between a Dover classic by Le Corbusier and a ragged old book on the Economics of Crime. I had heard enough about Gibson's masterpiece to lay claim to the book. As well as its neighbors.

The copy was dangerously old. This was going to take effort. And some skill. Most definitely some pain too.

The reward to reading Neuromancer is perspective. Neuromancer makes The Matrix trilogy and Inception look like derivative works feeding off the incredible imagination of William Gibson. In fact, in the novel, one can enter a deeper state than the Matrix where time flows more slowly for the outside world even as weeks pass by in the innermost state. It's that familiar.

Iacta alea est.

*************

My own journey began with trepidation. The first two days of reading ended with angry rashes on my hands and chin. My body was rejecting the old book with astonishing ferocity. I had to regroup. Use my unreliable brain to figure a way out.

A tissue box. Aha.

Two pieces of tissue carefully enclosing the fingers on my left hand. Another two guarding the right. And thus began my painstaking quest to read the book. No archival scholar, no Egyptologist and certainly no surgeon ever paid more steadfast attention to the movement and exposure of their fingers as I trying not to touch the ruinous substance on the pages. (Apparently it's the acid used in curing that causes the reaction.)

Thankfully, I do this at home. My parents are used to my eccentricities. My sister rolls her eyes. Visitors think I am delving into the depths of eternal knowledge. Our domestic help, Valli, doesn't understand what I am up to but she gives me the benefit of doubt.

It worked. Barely. I could see I was reading large chunks of the book in one go stopping only because the smell of the book ultimately irritated my nose and made my scalp itch.

Four days like this and the deed was completed. I sent the book on its way, hopefully, to an owner who doesn't share my vulnerabilities.

For all the praise I've bestowed on the book, it is written in a faintly clunky manner. The writing quality has its moments but one struggles to find reading flow.

But maybe it was just the clunky way I read it. Mission accomplished.