Currently I have very limited access to reading material, so my patience with weak writing has grown thin.
First I read Brida. Sorry, but Paulo Coelho is a dumbass. I had always planned to read The Alchemist, but after sitting through 200 pages of this vacuous nonsense, I shall devote the time I would have spent in reading his stuff to just wondering how this guy got to be a bestselling author.
I switch to Haruki Murakami. Kafka on the Shore. Now this is some good metaphysical crap. And Murakami writes well to boot. The scenes with the talking cats are just as arresting as those of Bulgakov's felines in The Master & Margarita, and much less malignant to boot. I resolve to read more Murakami; he's that good. But ultimately, Murakami is a coward. He introduces controversial themes and then explains them away with shopworn literary devices like dreams and visions. Murakami the tease.
I return to the little bookstore with the politically incorrect titles and select my next book by its girth. 2-1/4 inches. 900 plus pages. Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. Now this book is a satisfying read. The author, a heroin addict and armed robber escapes from an Australian prison and flees to India, where he lives in a Bombay slum and learns Hindi and Marathi and runs counterfeit passports, drugs, and launders money for the Bombay mafia. Serves time in an Indian jail and goes from 200 lbs to about 90. Acts in Bollywood films and ends up fighting with the mugahedeen in Afghanistan. 200 pages in, I google the author and watch some videos where he discusses his experiences. I am heartbroken to read in wikipedia that this might not all be true. It feels true.
First I read Brida. Sorry, but Paulo Coelho is a dumbass. I had always planned to read The Alchemist, but after sitting through 200 pages of this vacuous nonsense, I shall devote the time I would have spent in reading his stuff to just wondering how this guy got to be a bestselling author.
I switch to Haruki Murakami. Kafka on the Shore. Now this is some good metaphysical crap. And Murakami writes well to boot. The scenes with the talking cats are just as arresting as those of Bulgakov's felines in The Master & Margarita, and much less malignant to boot. I resolve to read more Murakami; he's that good. But ultimately, Murakami is a coward. He introduces controversial themes and then explains them away with shopworn literary devices like dreams and visions. Murakami the tease.
I return to the little bookstore with the politically incorrect titles and select my next book by its girth. 2-1/4 inches. 900 plus pages. Shantaram, by Gregory David Roberts. Now this book is a satisfying read. The author, a heroin addict and armed robber escapes from an Australian prison and flees to India, where he lives in a Bombay slum and learns Hindi and Marathi and runs counterfeit passports, drugs, and launders money for the Bombay mafia. Serves time in an Indian jail and goes from 200 lbs to about 90. Acts in Bollywood films and ends up fighting with the mugahedeen in Afghanistan. 200 pages in, I google the author and watch some videos where he discusses his experiences. I am heartbroken to read in wikipedia that this might not all be true. It feels true.
The author uses Mexican sources and contempory Anglo sources and reconstructs the Mexican assult on the Alamo in the predawn hours of March 6 1836. His conclusion is that the defenders, for the most part did not go down fighting, but trying to escape.
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