Messy, messy March

March was organically disappointing. I try my best to think up of good things to write about as I am perfectly aware of the fact that life is about good things, too, though it may seem, to (regular) readers of my blog, that I am a pathological cynic and an avid life-hater. But the minute I think of writing something pleasant and positive, something goes horribly wrong and I go back to the sniffly, angry, helpless, “fuck life” mode. Then it all falls into a smooth groove. Things and people compete to make my life miserable and among them this month were John Grogan, (I HATE TO SAY THIS but, I have to…) John Updike and Protima Bedi. So, it really isn’t my fault, you see. That I crib so much!

The Witches of Eastwick

When I read a book, I actually read it. I mean, right from the prologue to the blurbs on the back. This might be one of the first times that I skipped paras, pages, whole chapters together to get through to the last goddamn page and I’m furious it had to happen with Updike, one of the writers I idolize. The Witches of Eastwick was picked up with great anticipation from a second hand book store but, no amount of train journeys, calm afternoons and bone-chilling boredom at office could get me interested in the witchy ministrations of the three women with supernatural powers (you must be a classified moron if you haven’t guessed that much from the title yet). They have incredible orgies with a rich, though not overtly classy, man in town. The language is unbeatably typically Updike, I admit. But the whole point of the book escapes me. The only things that remain are the foursomes, the occasionally delightful witchcraft and Darryl Van Horne’s (the above mentioned rich man) spittle-lined lips and a surprisingly smooth arse.

Marley and Me

John Grogan thinks he has achieved something spectacular writing about his dog. I hate to crush his happy little life, trample upon his near-perfect book but, Marley and Me made me want to throw up. I love dogs. I mean, I really do. I believe they are far more worthy of life than most humans. But, man, this book is so fucking silly that you wish the “ill-mannered darling dog” Marley is shot dead if he doesn’t choke on the living room rug and kills himself. Grogan cannot write and I think he shouldn’t too lest he wants genuine canine lovers to start hating dogs. Skipped more than half the book.

Timepass: The Memoirs of Protima Bedi

Do not read this book unless you are confused, self-destructive, a sex manic, or a hypochondriac or all these put together. It makes you want to apply for gun license and shoot every one in your vicinity. Sometimes, people should stick to doing what they are best at and leave the job of writing books to the real writers.

PS: I pay my respects to Updike. He was a real writer. The Witches of Eastwick was just one of his nightmares.