Tag Archives: old

Nabokov’s Little Girl

I really love Nabokov ‘s description of a 12 year old girl. Nabokov claims that he did not know any such girl when he wrote “Lolita”. I do not know how great writers do it:
 
“We washed zillions of dishes. ‘Zillions’ you know is schoolmarm’s slang for many-many-many-many. Oh yes, last but not least, as Mother says — Now let me see — what was it? I know we made shadow-graphs. Gee, what fun.”?
 

I don’t read much, but I have read the Harry Potter series a zillion times.


From Krishnapriya’s Orkut Profile:

Favorite Writers: Marquez

Enjoyed, but not appreciated: Mario Puzo, Ayn Rand.

Paulo Coehlo is great.

And I love Dan Brown. Why? Dan Brown is cool, and he knows the stuff.

And:

“You know, I missed you terribly, Lo.”

“I did not. Fact I’ve been revoltingly unfaithful to you, but it does not matter one bit, because you’ve stopped caring for me, anyway. You drive much faster than my mummy, mister.”

“The word is incest,”said Lo—and walked into the closet, walked out again with a young golden giggle, opened the adjoining door, and after carefully peering inside with her strange smoky eyes lest she make another mistake, retired to the bathroom.

Gail Wynand, My Favorite Fictional Character

“Gail Wynand lived with his father in the basement of an old house in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. His father was a longshoreman, a tall, silent, illiterate man who had never gone to school. His own father and his grandfather were of the same kind, and they knew of nothing but poverty in their family. But somewhere far back in the line there had been a root of aristocracy, the glory of some noble ancestor and then some tragedy, long since forgotten, that had brought the descendants to the gutter. Something about all the Wynands–in tenement, saloon and jail–did not fit their surroundings. Gail’s father was known on the waterfront as the Duke. 

Gail’s mother had died of consumption when he was two years old. He was an only son. He knew vaguely that there had been some great drama in his father’s marriage; he had seen a picture of his mother; she did not look and she was not dressed like the women of their neighborhood; she was very beautiful. All life had gone out of his father when she died. He loved Gail; but it was the kind of devotion that did not require two sentences a week. 

Gail did not look like his mother or father. He was a throwback to something no one could quite figure out; the distance had to be reckoned, not in generations, but in centuries. He was always too tall for his age, and too thin. The boys called him Stretch Wynand. Nobody knew what he used for muscles; they knew only that he used it. 

He had worked at one job after another since early childhood. For a long while he sold newspapers on street corners. One day he walked up to the pressroom boss and stated that they should start a new service–delivering the paper to the reader’s door in the morning; he explained how and why it would boost circulation. “Yeah?” said the boss. “I know it will work,” said Wynand. “Well, you don’t run things around here,” said the boss. “You’re a fool,” said Wynand.

He lost the job.  Continue reading

Terry Pratchett isn’t jolly. He’s angry’

People are very bad at reading writers. If you aren’t paying attention, it is hard to know what goes on inside their minds. I am not angry when I write, much of the time. I laugh and laugh and laugh. But, the people who read my blog assume that I am angry. I am very slow to temper. A lot of post-processing happens before I write. It’s hard to write when the anger consumes you. 

‘Terry Pratchett isn’t jolly. He’s angry’

“I want to tell you about my friend Terry Pratchett, and it’s not easy. I’m going to tell you something you may not know. Some people have encountered an affable man with a beard and a hat. They believe they have met Sir Terry Pratchett. They have not. Some years ago I ran into someone who said, “What a jolly old elf Sir Terry is,” he said. And I thought, No. No, he’s not.”

 

The Fraud That Is Pankaj Mishra

It is so easy to fool people. A bright fellow cannot miss this. But, it is worse. If you do not fool people, you are at their mercy. Pankaj Mishra is instinctively shrewd. He could not have missed this. When people say that “Pankaj Mishra is very shrewd”, they are not merely damning with faint praise. Any bloke who has “made it” through some contemptible swindle evokes such loud gasps in the average man.

But, there is a strong element of condescension in all this. Even his admirers know that there is not a single notable thought in the work of this smarty. When I asked a writer why she likes “The Romantics”—it is not even a proper novel—she said that she liked his “inquiry into autodidacticism”. A boy said that Pankaj Mishra is very “westernized”. The condescension I sense is not too unlike what his subordinates feel toward an editor whose prose is a notch above that of a headmaster. If he were stripped of his position, they would have spat on his face.

Pankaj Mishra does not know elementary social science. But, unlike his lame critics and admirers, Pankaj Mishra writes eighteen-carat, impeccable English. I’d be the last to miss that it is jealousy which motivates his critics. His prose would not have had any bearing upon this, but Pankaj has oiled his way into the bed of the British Prime Minister’s cousin. They could not have missed this. But, what stays his admirers is the hope that “what he could do, they could do better”. They would better be polite. I am sure that Pankaj Mishra knows this.

Pankaj’s critics have long been pointing out that he is “oddly resentful of the social mobility of other Indians”. Some critics believe that this is self-loathing. Rupa Subramanya writes:

“He must therefore, one presumes, be especially riled that Modi and his many fans at Madison Square Garden are a reminder of his socio-economic origin in India, from which he’s fled so nimbly.”

Deepika Ahlawat observes:

“Note Mishra’s fetishisation of formal education throughout, his mockery of Modi’s background, his disdain of popular culture, and his Socratic horror of democracy. This is a vicious and yet tragic piece. Because Mishra stares at Modi and sees only himself. Just less popular, less powerful and immensely less significant.”

This might as well be true. But, imagine a leftist young man coming of age when India was at the cusp of liberalization. There is no need to imagine. Read Pankaj’s “Butter Chicken In Ludhiana”. This class-conscious philistine traveled across the country, making class/provincial distinctions, sneering at everyone and everything. When he tried to find out what liberalization, westernization and modernization had wrought, it was clear that everything had gone from worse to bad. The progress was already “traveling too fast”. What to do?

What did he infer? Like the provincial-minded NRI who comes back to India, bawling, seething with resentment toward the “white man” who snubbed him, he said, “These people sure are too westernized.” This is not surprising.  The liberals who once said that liberalization is not the path to progress did not swallow their pride when they were proven wrong. They claimed that the progress is imaginary.

The economist Ludwig Von Mises made the same observation about the critics of industrial revolution and capitalism in the 19th century in “The Anti-Capitalistic Mentality”:

“The main criticism leveled against the principle of equality under the law by the eulogists of the good old days is that it has abolished the privileges of rank and dignity. It has, they say, atomized” society, dissolved its “organic” subdivisions into “amorphous” masses. The “much too many” are now supreme, and their mean materialism has superseded the noble standards of ages gone by. Money is king. Quite worthless people enjoy riches and abundance, while meritorious and worthy people go empty-handed. This criticism tacitly implies that under the ancien regime the aristocrats were distinguished by their virtue and that they owed their rank and their revenues to their moral and cultural superiority. It is hardly necessary to debunk this fable. Without expressing any judgment of value, the historian cannot help emphasizing that the high aristocracy of the main European countries were the descendants of those soldiers, courtiers and courtesans who, in the religious and constitutional struggles of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, had cleverly sided with the party that remained victorious in their respective countries. While the conservative and the “progressive” foes of capitalism disagree with regard to the evaluation of the old standards, they fully agree in condemning the standards of capitalistic society. As they see it, not those who deserve well of their fellow men acquire wealth and prestige, but frivolous unworthy people. Both groups pretend to aim at the substitution of fairer methods of “distribution” for the manifestly unfair methods prevailing under laissez-faire capitalsm.”

In a manner eerily reminiscent of the inanities of the 19th century eulogists of the past, Indian intellectuals now pit the liberalized India against its socialistic past. The abstractions are the same. The concretes differ.

Pankaj’s ancestors were thrown into penury by some legislation or the other, and he probably grew up listening to the moans of the adults who spoke resentfully of the nouveau riche. This perhaps got permanently etched into his subconscious. This, he will never tell you.

Observe. This is how Pankaj ends his critique of Patrick French’s saner work on India:

“Some of the best works of narrative non-fiction in recent months—Rana Dasgupta’s Granta essay on Delhi, Siddhartha Deb’s article in Caravan on Arindam Chaudhuri and Sonia Faleiro’s Beautiful Thing—have plunged us into this teeming universe of euphoric desires, resentments and fears, the cities where thousands of Gatsbys and Babbitts are reinventing themselves madly in a manic quest for status and prestige. If there is one thing the Radia tapes reveal most clearly, it is that writers and journalists have only begun to capture the particular exuberance, tawdriness, cruelty and melancholy of India’s own Jazz Age. French’s book manages to remain unaware of this country, even as it heralds the New India where adivasis may not have potable water but can drink Sula wine.”

But, what does Rana Dasupta’s and Siddhartha Deb’s narrative non-fiction have in common? They same resentment and pettiness that drives Pankaj Mishra. It is not surprising that Pankaj Mishra’s “Butter Chicken In Ludhiana” was inspired by Thorsten Veblen’s “1899 work, “The Theory Of The Leisure Class”.  Like Mishra, Veblen sneered at the development in the 19th century United States. Like many such mediocrities, this dude too was surprised by the success of his work. But, the critics called Veblen “more than a little mad” in the United States where such nonsense rarely goes unchallenged.

Now, it is fashionable to call foreign journalists and thinkers “Curzons without an empire”, but the truth is that the best analysis of India has come out of them. Unlike Mishra’s Bloomberg rant, Patrick Foulis’ article on Modi in The Economist is well-written, and, I think, largely true. I have never read a sane thinker who believes that the British ruined IndiaMishra seems to believe in that sort of nonsense. But, then, I haven’t really seen anyone criticizing Mishra’s views on society, politics and economics. The criticism is often not directed at some view of Pankaj Mishra or the other. They hint that he does not  even have point.

Yes. What is the guy even trying to say?

Women Are Too Smart To Even Try

A social nerd sure is too happy.

In the battle between nerds and jocks, the jocks have always the last laugh. Well, almost. For much of human history. But, what might happen if the influential nerds decide to oust jocks from positions of power? The nerds will engage in traditional jock pursuits, pressurizing others nerds to follow suit. The traditional nerd pursuits will take a backseat. The nerds are now living a lie, attending the social gatherings they do not want to attend and exchanging meaningless words with jocks when they would rather be writing novels, doing Math or learning to program.

The old neurotypical taunt will be hurled against the nerds who refuse to toe the official line: “Apart from writing and Facebook, do you have a life? You must be really sad!” The influential nerds will see them as traitors to their own tribe. The influential nerds will claim that the nerdy nerds are violating their own nature while they themselves itch to do “their own thing”. The media will publish studies on how the nerd-jock gap is being bridged, with the nerds replacing the jocks in traditional jock pursuits like sales and marketing. (No nerd is yet a successful politician.)

The nerd is rising. Slowly, but assiduously. 

One day, the long-suffering nerd finds himself old, long past his prime. He has not written the novels he had wanted to write when he was a teen. He has not invented anything worth mentioning. He is still recovering from a hangover from the previous night’s party. Then he hauls himself to work, where he is beaten fair and square by the jocks. They are pros at office intrigue. A social nerd sure is too happy. Like the much ridiculed post-menopausal cat woman.

If you know what this means, it is not hard to understand why women claim that women are too smart to even try their hand at traditional male pursuits. Satoshi Kanazawa is probably right:

“Contrary to what they may have told you, it is very unlikely that money, promotions, the corner office, social status, and political power will make women happy.  Similarly, it is very unlikely that quitting their jobs, dropping out of the rat race, and becoming stay-at-home dads to spend all their times with their children will make men happy.”

The traditional male pursuits are not useless. But, neither are the wide, shallow networks created by jocks. That is how humans built culture.