Reading

Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance: I first read and fell in love with Murakami with Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. His larger-than-self prose, with its abstract, introspective philosophising appealed instantly. Here was a kindred spirit, who looked ceaselessly for meaning in everyday life. My love affair intensified with Kafka on the Shore. Its fantasy, its recognition and understanding of emotion and action shook and settled me like no other book in that tumultuous time, for it made sense of and left unanswered life-and-death questions. But like all my loves, Murakami waned rather suddenly, and I did not like South of the Border West of the Sun or Hard-boiled Wonderland and the Edge of the World; they were both too fantanstical and lead nowhere. With Dance Dance Dance, my love for Murakami has resurrected, albeit to lesser heights.

Dance Dance Dance is like Kafka; it leaves many questions unanswered. Instead of being miffed, I see a different purpose there now: some questions are unanswered because answers are not necessary. Life can be lived well even without them, and there will be no less beauty for their absence. It is important, though, to ask questions. To accept responsibility. To look for meaning. To sometimes stand at the edge of our existences and call unconsciously, hopelessly for the Sheep Man. And in the end, and always, to dance. Not in the face of grave, life-threatening difficulties; that is not when human beings give up, says Murakami. They give up in the face of everyday hopelessness, of relentless, changeless routine, of long, grey, unbending, stark roads. It is here we must learn to dance, to keep our feet moving lest we fall and give in to the illusion of helplessness. Murakami's project in Dance Dance Dance is precisely that - the gathering of a courage necessary to live our everyday lives, and to live them with grace and responsibility. 

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Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass: I have mixed feelings about this book. To be sure, The Subtle Knife was a let down after the concise and beautifully descriptive prose of Northern Lights. While The Amber Spyglass has something of Northern Lights' magic, it fails on a more important scale: it leaves major plot ends unanswered, and that, for a fantasy novel (if for no other), is an irredeemable folly. The good bits first: Pullman really knows how to create these half-children, they who grow up before their time, and rise beautifully to the challenge of adulthood (and more). Will and Lyra are all that; they have strength, courage and steadfastness. Pullman strikes a snag in two areas: internal logic of fantasy lands and of plot. By the former, I mean his logic for the creation and functioning of magical lands: that of the many worlds, and specifically, of Cittegazze, Lord Asriel's world and mulefa-land. One might go so far as to forgive this; after all, Pullman's creation is not as comprehensive as, say, Tolkien's. The latter shortcoming, however, is plainly unforgivable. To poke only a few holes: Whence came the witches' prophecy? What is the precise nature of the connection between love/coming of age and the sraf? What is the link between these particular children, their love and Dust? Without these, Pullman's world is sadly bereft of completeness. 

My favourite parts of the book are these three: the parting of Lyra and Pantalaimon, telling the ghosts stories of the real-world, the blossoming of love between Will and Lyra. Pullman paints emotion well. In the world of the dead, Lyra's remembrance of everyday life - the simple pleasures of earth and stone and tree - becomes a catalyst for both the kindling of fierce hope in the ghosts and to draw out goodness from the harpies. Will and Lyra's first love is beautiful: their understanding and want, and the bitterness of parting. Pullman's love is defined by these: the glow and magic of a connection both emotional and physical, the necessity of priorities over togetherness, and the transformation that love makes possible. Love is not great, I remember reading somewhere, because of some inherent virtue; love makes us want to be and to do good, and that is its gift and its blessing. The Amber Spyglass is a good book, not a great one; it will not outlive Northern Lights, but bits of it will become good memories.