If you're gonna do it/ Do it right.

THE AUTOGRAPH MAN
ZADIE SMITH

Sure-footed, and elegantly angsted-out. Intense, but also supremely controlled. Centred around one man's quest for identity, it draws a staggeringly beautiful, and carefully structured framework that questions fame, and forgetting. Faith, and ritual. The notion of permanence, and death, death, death. Friendship, and fidelity.

Alex-Li Tandem is the confused, drugged-out/ drunk on most occasions, title character, in search of the Holy Grail of Autograph Men -- a Kitty Alexander. He's conflicted in every possible way. Of course, the external quest for the rarest of autographs parallels his internal quest, for resolution of his grief at his father's death when he was a child.

It's intelligent and intense, and somehow more accessible than her other two books. Not less literary/ deep, don't get me wrong -- at least, not much. But it just feels younger, somehow. Less 70 mm and multi-generational and allusive. But stunning still.

Aside: I promise to write longer sentences. This staccato stuff sounds like me, but makes for very bumpy reading. My apologies.

I won't ask for much this Christmas/ I won't even wish for snow.

THE AUTOGRAPH MAN
ZADIE SMITH

It's a book I'd saved up for when I need the distraction of a stunningly absorbing read. Given life and upwardly mobile stress levels, started it a few nights before. Nearly halfway through.

Smith wrote this one between White Teeth and On Beauty, and it's quite delicious. Till I'm in a position to review it, here's Salon's point of view. (A lot like mine, but their gushing's slightly more posh.)

I walked across/ An empty land/ I knew the pathway/ Like the back of my hand.

HOWARDS END
EM FORSTER

Always loved Forster's short stories, even though I'm not very attached to that form of writing. Strangely enough, I didn't ever get around to any of his full-length stuff. Till now.

After reading (and falling in love with) On Beauty, I simply had to read the book it was inspired by. If only to learn how much of Zadie Smith's writing/ plotting was completely original.

Howards End is a spectacular novel, at the heart of which lies an unexpected friendship. It is the depth of that friendship that leads to Ruth Wilcox's bequeathing of Howards End to Margaret Schlegel. And they are but two of the many characters that make this fairly sprawling story come to life.

Smith's retelling of the story is even more beautiful, since she's shifted the landscape to a present-day American university. Introduced elements like race, nationality, and art/culture. And amplified the chief conflicts: emotionalism vs. practicality, culture vs. materialism, etc.

Her story is as much of a comment on our times as Forster's was of his -- on morality; on families, homes, and family homes; on society; on art/ culture; and on identity.

It's a flawless retelling of an already quite perfect story.

Loved both books. Was blown away at the spirit with which one takes on the other. Lingered over, and enjoyed immensely, the threads that ran through both narratives.

It's a bit like falling for the same person after many, many years. Much has changed; much is new. Yet, there are so many things that provoke the exact same reaction they did all that while ago.

Maybe I should read more Forster.

Take all your big plans/ And break 'em.

WEIGHT LOSS
UPAMANYU CHATTERJEE

Hated it as much as I liked English, August. Namely, quite a bit.

IRISH GIRLS ABOUT TOWN
Ed. MAEVE BINCHY, MARIAN KEYES

The two-minute noodle version of chick lit. Short, snappy stories that shine light on the principal problem with (most) chick lit. Namely, you can't draw out a short story into a full-length novel without putting many readers to sleep.

PICTURE PALACE
PAUL THEROUX

Lush, real, vivid, insightful. Loved every minute of it. My first non-travel Theroux, and certainly not my last.

PRIOR BAD ACTS
TAMI HOAG

Trashy (but fulfilling) thriller. Can't believe she used to be a romantic writer for years. Read her Loveswepts way back in college.

LUCKY STARS
JANE HELLER

Looks and feels like regular chick lit, but much nicer. A decent plot/ premise, for starters, even though it kinda falls apart eventually. Like Olivia Joules! But nice, nonetheless.

California/ Rest in peace.

Other stuff that I've read, but can't be bothered to write about.

CRUEL SHOES
STEVE MARTIN

A bunch of essays (more like whinings, or short short shorts) he wrote before he learned to be funny, coherent, and cool. Greatly and utterly avoidable.

MOO
JANE SMILEY

Hugely recommended, in spite of featuring talking cows. Call me intolerant, but I barely made it to the second chapter.

A NICE DERANGEMENT OF EPITAPHS
ELLIS PETERS

Also fairly heavily recommended. Began quite well, but I lost interest somewhere along the line. I can be quite scatty and easily distracted at times: these are exactly those sort of times. But I might give it a bash again later. (When I run out of other things to read.)

THE LAST YEAR OF BEING SINGLE
SARAH FOSTER

Incredibly predictable chick lit. (Or am I just being snotty and hardcover-reading? C'est possible.)

Anyhow. That's all the stuff I read that's unfit to read. More about the stuff that is, later.

Hold on, little girl.

ON BEAUTY
ZADIE SMITH

Scrumptiously good. Much, much, much easier to read than White Teeth, which I really liked quite a bit.

But in all honesty, I can't review it without reading Howards End, the book it's written in tribute to.

So hang on a bit. I'll be back.

Scare myself to death/ That's why I keep on runnin'.

AREA 7
MATTHEW REILLY

Sure, it's a thriller; sure, it's about the good guys versus the bad, and no prizes for guessing which side wins; and sure, it has enough italics and exclamation marks to give an army of typographers nightmares for life. But it's the only regular-sized book I finished at a single sitting since I don't know when.

It was exactly like watching a movie, only much less cheesy, since it all happened in my head.

The guy's a genius. His books are chockfull of conspiracies, Sikorskys, traitors, call signs, and thermonuclear devices.

Maybe I should watch the Indiana Jones flicks again.

You've been fallin' off the sidewalk/ Your lips move, but you can't talk/ Tryin' to throw your arms around the world.

DAVE BARRY DOES JAPAN
DAVE BARRY

Not the biggest of Barry fans, I must admit. But since I'm convinced that Someone-Important-Up-There has written Japan into my script this year, I gave it a shot. Armed with a tin of wasabi-covered green peas (I kid you not: the brand's called Tong Garden, and it's available at Health & Glow), I plunged in recklessly.

It's your regular all-American diatribe on something 'foreign' -- occasionally funny, and largely predictable. Lots of jokes on how strange Japanese characters are, how unpronounceable the language is, how short the people are, how weird sumo wrestling is,... (But, hell, if I was looking for insight, why would I read Barry?)

Surprisingly, though, carefully mixed with his standard-issue-raving-and-ranting, you'll find a fair amount of good things about the Japanese. Excellent service wherever you go, for instance. Great, well art-directed street food. No tipping. Elevator Ladies. Very Ladies. Their fascination for the form and sound of the English language, combined with a reckless disregard for its meaning. (Much like India -- that's why you see so many Tshirts that don't make sense. Except in Bangalore, the land of Tantra Tshirts.) And that's what made the book so readable for me.

I won't be rushing out to buy another Dave Barry too soon, but if stuck for a choice, I'd definitely pick a book like this over all of his column-writing put together.

If you disagree, (and I know plenty of normal, intelligent, funny people who love the man) this is his site. And if, like me, you're turning Japanese, check this out.

Sayonara for now. (Though the Japanese usually say 'Bye' too.)

Tongue-tied and twisted/ Just an earthbound misfit/ I.

Some of the stuff I've read in the last two months -- in no particular order, and with very little accuracy.

A GIRL'S GUIDE TO HUNTING AND FISHING
MELISSA BANK

PIECE OF CAKE
SWATI KAUSHAL

PANIC
JEFF ABBOTT

HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE
JK ROWLING
(re-read)

WHITE TEETH
ZADIE SMITH

MILKRUN
SARAH MLYNOWSKI

GIRL ALONE
RUPA GULAB

THE DANCE OF THE BHULESHWAR BRUSH
DAKSHA HATHI

THINKS...
DAVID LODGE

BLACK LENTIL DOUGHNUTS
CK MEENA

And if you're good, baby/ I'll even let you break the dishes.

KITCHEN
BANANA YOSHIMOTO

Another first, from a well-known, much-respected writer. Yoshimoto's only the second Japanese writer I've ever read, and I'm far from disappointed.

Rather regret not having read her earlier. Have often picked up one of her books, read its synopsis, studied the author pic, and replaced it back onto the shelf. Quite out of character for me not to have given in to my fascination with that name. (Banana is a pseudonym, one she chose as being 'cute' and 'purposefully androgynous'; her real name is Mahoko Yoshimoto, and this is her official website.)

Lessons learned:

1. Kitchen has a lovely voice -- young, urban, feminine, quietly desperate. The themes are familiar: death, sleeplessness, loneliness.

2. This Japanese phase in my life might be boring, workwise, but it rocks literally.

You really got a hold on me.

THE CEMENT GARDEN
IAN MCEWAN

McEwan's first. A tale of incest, death, adolescence, family, and Britishness, told in an oddly dream-like fashion by fifteen year-old Jack.

Just like its protagonist, the story has no great connection to time or place, instead, it's defined solely by its child characters -- four children who conceal the fact of their mother's death in order to keep from being split up and taken into foster care.

It's as thoroughly absorbing as a nightmare, full of twisted, morbid imagery. But it's written with all the control/ self-awareness of his later work. It's also a fairly short piece of fiction, almost like an expansive short story.

Enjoyed it much, given my fascination with first novels. After all, McEwan's widely considered to be one of the most perfect writers of our time.

Zadie Smith says this best:
I have often thought Ian McEwan a writer as unlike me as it is possible to be. His prose is controlled, careful, and powerfully concise; he is eloquent on the subjects of sex and sexuality; he has a strong head for the narrative possibilities of science; his novels are no longer than is necessary; he would never write a sentence featuring this many semicolons. When I read him I am struck by metaphors I would never think to use, plots that don’t occur to me, ideas I have never had. I love to read him for these reasons and also because, like his millions of readers, I feel myself to be in safe hands. Picking up a book by McEwan is to know, at the very least, that what you read therein will be beautifully written, well-crafted, and not an embarrassment, either for you or for him. This is a really big deal. Bad books happen less frequently to McEwan than they do to the rest of us.

Says she talks to angels/ They call her out by her name.

EATING WITH ANGELS
SARAH-KATE LYNCH

Chick lit, yes. Predictable, no.

Centred around a moderately happily married, slightly overweight restaurant critic in her mid-thirties, it deals with her great love for food, her losing battle with weight, and her warped relationship with her mother -- pretty standard fare for this genre of writing. But, about a hundred pages in, the book takes a sharp left from this all-too-predictable path.

Not that it's a life-alteringly new perspective or anything, just that it was a pleasant surprise to see a mainstream chick lit story shift gear, even if it's for a tiny little bit.

Lessons learned:

1. Beware of abandoning a book too early: surprises are everywhere.

2. Chick lit is good. But chick lit that cleverly combines food, Venice, and dysfunctional families is SO much better.

If she knew what she wants.

LUCIA IN LONDON
EF BENSON

It's a book (series, actually) that can only be described as the discovery of the year. Written in the 20s. Richly satirical. Set in provincial England 'society'. And as stunningly funny a collection of characters as Wodehouse would dream up.

Lucia, herself, is the most unlikely of heroines, being a scheming, manipulative social climber who redefines shallow with every passing chapter. Her 'friends' and neighbours aren't too far behind in the shallowness stakes, either, and are constantly trying to outwit her, even while armed with equally low intelligence.

The resultant escapades are hysterically funny, and this one, for instance, trips from ouija boards, to opera, to miniature golf, to museums. It's a must-read for anyone who enjoys Wodehouse, and you wouldn't believe it was written close t0 ninety years ago.

I've managed to get my hands on the next book in the series, and will definitely hunt down the rest of the Mapp and Lucia books. It seems that Tom Holt has written two Lucia novels, as well, but those will have to wait.

Lessons learned:

1. Wodehouse has company.

2. There are no characters in fiction quite as eccentric as the English.

He was a boy/ She was a girl/ Can I make it any more obvious?

DANCE DANCE DANCE
HARUKI MURAKAMI

Sequel to A Wild Sheep Chase. And just as perfect.

Lessons learned:

1. Fantasy, when blended this effortlessly with reality, is much more entertaining than straight fiction than can ever be.

2. Somehow, I'm getting less and less time to read -- a fact that annoys me even more than reading less in the first place.

3. With all due respect to blogging, it's time to write, as well.

4. I've joined a Japanese company. My principal client is Japanese. I'm reading more Murakami than ever. Is this a sign?

Every day/ Is silent and grey.

DANCING WITH MULES
MORAG PRUNTY

Irish chick lit. (Guess I'm in the mood to travel.)

Not as good as Fielding. About on par with Weisberger and Keyes. Better than Ahern.

Lessons learned:

1. It's only the names that make chick lit differ from country to country. London's Bridget is Dublin's Clodagh. (Is Bombay's Arti.)

2. Why do all chick lit novels look the same? Funky typography. Fashion illustration-type women doing one of the following:
a. gossiping,
b. reading,
c. balancing toddler on hip,
d. sipping coffee,
e. drinking copiously at a bar.
Is there some sort of template they hand out to chick litterateurs?

Now, the sun's gone to hell/ And the moon's riding high.

Finished The Murder Room 30,000 feet above the Madras-Bangalore flight path (make that 20,000: it was an ATR, and I'm not very good with numbers).

Lessons learned:

1. Love James. For being -- like Wodehouse -- a writer first, and a master of the genre in which she writes later.

2. When will I ever stop trying to outguess a murder mystery?

So, I/ Should have realised a lot of things before.

THE MURDER ROOM
PD JAMES

British classic crime interlude. This is another incredibly reassuring genre of books for me, and James is an old favourite.

Set in England. Featuring well-read Detective Inspectors. Dealing with regular, garden-variety murder. As opposed to obscure, psychopathic killers who need to be 'profiled' by the FBI before they can be caught.

Written elegantly. Never to be confused with the thriller-to-be-read-on-a-flight made popular by the Americans. I've heard this quality described as 'not dumbed-down', but it's a little more than that, I think. A book like this is clearly crafted to be a novel first, and a detective story second.

This one, for instance, takes you to an invented London museum devoted to war memorabilia. And stars mild-mannered, poetry-writing Scotland Yard Commander Adam Dalgliesh.

A hundred pages in, and loving this familiar feeling.

Blackbird singing/ In the dead of night.

STRANGE BEDPERSONS
JENNIFER CRUSIE

Chick lit interlude. Crusie's one of the funniest. And romance novels have always been a staple of my literary diet, even back in the days when I read Sartre and Shakespeare more regularly.

Lessons learned:

1. You are more like the 19 year-old you than you'd like to believe. At least, I am.

2. And that's not a bad thing.

Trying to get up/ That great big hill/ Of hope.

Take a protagonist you identify with strongly. Add a handful of your favourite ingredients: duality, fantasy, escapism, stereotypes, Italy, writing, literary pastiche, and black humour. Shake together viciously, and serve cold. Lady Oracle was a fabulously good read, one I finished barely minutes after the Sheilaroos' tragic exit from the World Cup.

Lessons learned:

1. Book sales are wonderful, if only to remind you of writers you'd always meant to read more of, but forgot.

2. Feel like writing again, and it's a good feeling.

3. Time to renew my membership at Bangalore's one and only online library.

She's an extraordinary girl/ In an ordinary world.

LADY ORACLE
MARGARET ATWOOD

Needed to read something dramatically different from Pamuk. Normally a situation in which I immediately reach for a cheap-and-cheerful trashy bestseller. Except none was at hand.

What I did find, though, was an early Atwood that I've been meaning to read for a while.

Less than halfway through (so sue me, the World Cup only comes around once in five years!), and I'm struck by the lightness of her tone. There's also a certain familiarity to the way she writes, a sort of literary deja vu. Maybe I'm identifying too closely with her protagonist, but I can't help but wonder if it'll last through the book.

And, more importantly, if it does, will it shed any light on the plotline of my life? Hmmm.

Did I ask too much?/ More than a lot?

Spoke too soon. Barely 24 hours after my last post, I abandoned My Name is Red. Too darn convoluted for my little mind.

Lessons learned:

1. Second chances are good. (And safer in literature, than in life.) But if you were right the first time, it doesn't mean you have to be wrong the next. Or vice versa.

2. No more Pamuk, no matter how earnestly brilliant he looks in author photographs.

3. How I love first-person narratives. Even when the narrator switches with every chapter.

Slip inside/ The eye of your mind.

MY NAME IS RED
ORHAN PAMUK

The first Pamuk book I read was Snow. Read halfway, and then, sheepishly gave up, is a more accurate description.

You know the feeling, when you put down a book to answer the phone, and find yourself fixing a cup of cocoa, or turning on the telly. Basically, anything besides returning to it immediately. In my mind, it's like falling out of love. Happens to all of us, but practising with books makes it a little easier to accept.

Not that it wasn't beautiful, or intriguing, or lush with sensory detail. Nor that it wasn't a distinctly unique voice. (Aside: This is what I love about blogging. In a post about one of the best writers of our time, I can still use a double negative and get away with it. Absolute power does corrupt absolutely.) It just got to a point where I tired of all the lush, evocative description, and wondered what the heck would actually happen to the protagonist.

From the very first word, I knew this one would be different. And it is. Hypnotic, and lyrical, of course. But also less self-indulgent, I think. For starters, it's something of a murder mystery, rather than a somewhat self-absorbed personal journey. Second, it's told fascinatingly. I loathe literary devices that take precedence over narrative, and I'm pleased to say that isn't the case with this novel. It's clever, yes, but rather effortlessly so. Its characters belong to a time and place far, far removed from this one: the Istanbul of the world's most skilled miniaturists.

And I can't wait to get back to it.