on books

VS Naipaul did not manage to remedy the situation. Yes, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Yes, he writes books that are lauded by people better-versed in books than I am. Yes, his insights on life as an Indian in Britain is mind-freshingly blowing. But he's boring. I don't get it. It's just the way he writes. Heavy. Carefully chosen words, yes, but somehow carefully chosen to make me speed through the darn book so that I can get it over with. Maybe it's just his material. He finds it so interesting to distinguish between East-Indians and West-Indians and whatnot. I cannot even begin to fathom how different the East Indies are from the West. Maybe his real books will be different. I hope to god they are.

Onwards to a better book! Animal Farm by George Orwell, currently a beloved writer of mine. I read it before, but was too young to appreciate what's going on beneath the writing pigs. I hope I'll see better this time around. Already promised myself to read 1984 when I am planning to vote (which seems like a long long time in coming). Here's to an insightful journey! I have a feeling it's going to be beautiful. This copy is old and yellow and indestructible, just like mine was.

Also stumbled upon The Secret Life of Poems by Tom Paulin. Awful title, I know, but it has this bit about nursery rhymes I want to read. They sound so pleasing, they don't have to make sense! And when you put sense and keep the meter, the magic's gone. Fascinating. It's like Kurt Schwitters' Ursonate performed by Jaap Blonk. There is much to read into gibberish.

Beatrice said something about going to Ampang this Saturday? Should I go? The flesh is willing but the mind is weak. Next week is going to be hell and I don't have a Calculus 3 slave chained to my bedpost ready to swallow questions and vomit explanations. But I'll probably just end up watching more Top Gear episodes. But I don't know for sure. Gaaaa.