There are a lot British writers who have infatuated me in a most enduring manner. Of these, Oscar Wide and Somerset Maugham do stand in very supreme positions.
Their styles of writing do differ, yet what impresses me is that they both did have a level of insight, that could have been simply divine.
Even though I have read many works of both, in my childhood days, there is one story from each person, that I have used continuously for a long time. These are the Happy Prince and Princess September.
Being not very bad in telling stories, one of my easiest methods to enchant my little daughter, when she crossed her 3 years of age, was to draw her into the fascinating world of English childrens stories. Among all the fairy tales, and other stories, that came out of my ancient memory, the above mentioned themes used to stand apart.
In many ways, both stories used to affect my daughter immensely, and if I did try, replacing certain words with some very poignant ones, tears could swell in her eyes, uncontrollably. I had to be careful
The devotion of the swallow to the Prince (Happy Prince) and the entreaties of the little bird, when it was imprisoned in the golden cage (Princess September), both could inflame intense emotional storms in my child.
At times, she would plead with me to control my words, and that it did affect her; and at times, I myself used to be affected by the very words that I had used. Actually, I have used the same stories when taking training programmes for children, with remarkable affects of attention from the children.
But beyond all this, I have discerned that, even though, superficially these stories do have very childlike appearances, they do contain an immensity of human understandings, and deep emotions that seek to bring out the pathos that lie in the small mindless actions of ours, that can cause unnecessary suffering to others, including fellow beings.
And beyond all that, there are actually simmering social statements, in both the stories, which the reader can sense. And these themes do have an appeal that can definitely transcend the barriers of time. For, many books come like lightening, and disappear with the bang and the ringing whisper of a thunder; but others, like the ones that I have mentioned, do linger on, even though one may feel that they are just feeble candle lights. And to traverse lengthy darkness, a dependable candle light is far better than the momentary sparkle of a thunder and lightening.
A small quotation from Princess September:
QUOTE
Wake up, wake up, little bird, she said.
She began to cry and her tears fell on the little bird. He opened his
eyes and felt that the bars of the cage were no longer round him.
I cannot sing unless Im free and if I cannot sing, I die, he said.
The Princess gave a great sob.
Then take your freedom, she said, I shut you in a golden cage because I loved you and wanted to have you all to myself. But I never knew it would kill you. Go. Fly away among the trees that are round the lake and fly over the green rice-fields. I love you enough to let you be happy in your own way.
Quoting from Happy Prince:�
Far away, continued the statue in a low musical voice, far away in a little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion- flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queens maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.
I am waited for in Egypt, said the Swallow. My friends are flying up and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.
Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, said the Prince, will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.
I dont think I like boys, answered the Swallow. Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the millers sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect
I know that I may be being presumptuous, for these stories may be very commonly known over there. But, I need to express my enduring admiration.
W___�: thanks for the rejoinder. But, my views are more of a romantic type. I prepared one writing for posting.
Here it is:
There are many writings all over the world, many very interesting, and with colourful stories. And most of them have very complicated stories, filled with the most appealing tragedies. And many seem to be filled with deep insights of the mysteries of life.
In comparison, I can even claim the many English stories are singularly simple, and straightforward. Then what is so superior about English classics?
The greatness of English classics exists in the fact that they represent a social scene, which is entirely at variance with most other language social systems. For, even when there is pathos and tragedy, or laughter and joy, the individuals who live through the characters have a strange level of elevated individualism that is not discernable in most other language systems. Be they young, old, wise, rich, poor, dependent or independent, criminal or innocent, the individuals exist with an unnatural level of personal dignity.
Reading such books elevates the mind to that level of social interaction. Yet, what I say here is of no significance to a native English speaker, for he or she has not much experience of non-English social scene.
That was just an introduction. Beyond that I would like to talk about the various writers who have attracted me. It must be admitted that many classical writers may seem to be tedious to read, and hence boring; yet, it all depends on how one approaches, and also on having someone to advice on what to read. For example, if one starts on Shakespeare, in most probability, it is a real route to a cul de sac . Yet, there are passages in the bards writings, which may really add to ones language quality.
I think I can write from an laymans level about such writers as Agatha Christie, Bernard Shaw, Mark Twain, O. Henry, Arthur Conan Doyle, H. G. Wells, Somerset Maugham, Oscar Wilde, Jack London, Robert Louis Stevenson, George Eliot, Charles Dickens, Sir. Walters Scott, Sir. Winston Churchill, Jack London, Baroness Orczy, A.J. Cronin, Daniel Defoe, Margaret Michelle, Shakespeare etc. Yet, what is there to write?
It would be most interesting to go through the attractive parts of their writings.
Somerset Maugham is a very beautiful writer, with tremendous levels of insight, possibly of a mystical level. His short stories are simply wonderful. And his control over words, and phrases are also simply beautiful.
Yet, when dealing with the beauty of words, one man simply is unbeatable. That is, Oscar Wilde. In the case of command and control over language, he simply is the Lord of the language . The immensity of his words, and the way he uses them to construct epigrams are plainly of the divine levels. One can discern the rare attachment of talent to genius.
R.L.Stevensons stories also are of themes that carry one to the mood of a bygone English era.
Actually, I would like to bring out the beauty in many of these authors works. Yet, at the moment I am hindered by the fact that I am now not in my base, as such I do not have any books with me. I hope to depend on my memory.
Somerset Maugham is an ancient favourite of mine. At the moment, I have one book of his in front of me. That is The Moon and Sixpence.
Many of his short stories are simply fascinating, and in many ways disturbing. For, I seem to sense a brutal level of understandings in his writings. At times, the way the themes are dealt with do border on a singular level of mercilessness, which can leave one with a terror in ones mind. This terror is not one connected to the supernatural, but to the winding ways of destiny. One gets to feel the vastness of the ocean known as time, traversing which can reach or leave one on strange, and possibly, unexpected shores of time and space.
I read The Moon and Sixpence some eight years back. It is claimed to be based on the life of Paul Gaugin, the painter. I do not know much about the world of painting.
The protagonist of this story is Charles Strickland, an unassuming family man, with a dominating wife. He is a London stockbroker. One fine day, he leaves his wife and children, and moves to Paris. Being bored of the heights, he has literally gone in seek of the depths of the social experience.
Beneath his tranquil exterior is a very turbulent ambition: To achieve some strange levels of attainments in painting. It is a passion that defies human logic. There is something of the demonic in him that pursues him and also possibly persuades him to travel strange routes.
In his endeavour to reach his spiritual aims, he has admirable mental stamina, yet so sharp is his sense of purpose, he seems to lose all feelings of human compassion; even to the exclusion of himself. He has no compassion for anyone, including himself. In his devilish struggle to reach his strange level of salvation, he uses the persons who come to his aid and help, with pitiless selfishness. Once they are used, they are discarded with an awesome sense of disposing waste.
The painter ultimately finds his spiritual home in Tahiti. Here Maugham does continue the mood that many Englishmen felt in non-European places. Where they found adulation from the natives. A sense of being a hallowed being, which an Englishman can never achieve among his own fellowmen.
The book has a terrible mood, and a strange mental taste that lingers on. When I first started reading this book, I had a feeling that it could be just another tedious one like many of Maughams lengthy novels. Yet, when I finished it, the feeling it gave me, I remember, was one of being overwhelmed.
Before closing this writing, I want to mention another book. That is the Crusaders Tomb, by A. J. Cronin. There is a certain level of similarity in the themes, for this book is also about a painter: Stephan Desmonde. The similarity exists in other themes: like both enduring terrible hardships in their search for salvation. Also, both do have a slight admiration of non-English nations. (For, I have sensed in many books of A. J. Cronin, a pervading feeling that nations like France, China etc. do have social moods that lends respect to genius, and talent, while England takes a very indifferent attitude to them. Even in such simple novels like Shannons Way, this feeling is there).
Beyond these similarities, the personalities are entirely different. The latter person is a very caring person with a lot of human sides to him, while the former is the very antonym of him. Yet, both do share a strange mental pull towards achieving perfection, and a painful level of the power of endurance. And ultimately both do seem to have no eagerness to achieve the adulation of their fellow humans. As if they existed beyond the boundaries of human evaluation.
Crusaders Tomb is a slightly lengthy book, and one could say that it might be tedious to the non-passionate reader. I think that this book was also published under another title: A Thing of Beauty.
Quoting from The Moon and Sixpence:
QUOTE
What on earth can it be that two people so dissimilar as you and Strickland could aim at? I asked, smiling.
Beauty
A large order, I murmured.
Do you know how men can be so obsessed by love that they are deaf and blind to everything else in the world? They are as little their own masters as the slaves chained to the benches of a galley. The passion that held Strickland in bondage was no less tyrannical than love.
How strange that you should say that! I answered. For long ago I had the idea that he was possessed by a devil.
And the passion that held Strickland was a passion to create beauty. It gave him no peace. It urged him hither and thither. He was eternally a pilgrim, haunted by a divine nostalgia, and the demon within him was ruthless. There are men whose desire for truth is so great that to attain it they will shatter the very foundation of their world.� Of such was Strickland, only beauty with him took the place of truth.
Quoting from Crusaders Tomb (last chapter):
How often, in these last few years, had he heard from its small beginning, yet ever growing, swelling to a chorus, that panegyric on his son, the same fulsome words and phrases used a moment ago by the young art mistress to her class. All the evidence of failure that seemed so certain, the cut-and-dried opinions of those who presumed to know, finally disproved; Stephan, his son, a great artist...yes, even the word genius was now being used without reserve. There was no pride in him at the thought, no belated triumph, but rather a strange bewildered sadness, and thinking of the pain and disappointment of a lifetime crowned too late, he wondered if it had all been worth it.� Was any picture worth itthe greatest masterpiece ever wrought? What was beauty, after all, that men should martyr themselves in its pursuit, die for it, like the saints of old?
In my childhood, I did not have the chance to read the great variety that must have existed in the English West.
What I did get were the [I]Phantom, Mandrake the Magician, Tarzan, Casper, Spooky, Windy the good little Witch, Richie Rich etc. Sometimes I used to get Donald Duck [I]and Mickey Mouse[/I]. Tintin and Asterisk, I came across when I was in the college.
Now my daughter avidly watches the Cartoon network, and is enthralled by the modern cartoon characters, who come with the wizardry that computer based animation has gifted. Sometimes I also watch the same. Possibly, they are good, yet I feel they do lack a certain amount of mystique that the old comics used to give me.
I used to like The Phantom. The mysterious person who comes riding out of the Denkali jungles in perfect purples, on his white horse, accompanied by his dog-which-is-not-a-dog-but-a-wolf, used to charge my imagination with the most enchanting of themes. No one knew what he was made of, but he was the Ghost-who-walks, and the man who couldnt die. And many of his themes simply were wild, and wilder still were the areas he roamed. He was Mr. Walker when he roamed not only the cities, but also when he came to his strange abode in the American deserts, that stood towering as a pillar-the Walkers Table.
Yet, over the years, this image of Phantom was driven to the ground. He married, had kids, and every part of family life came out with the danger that portended staleness. The mystique nature was lost and now the modern Phantom cannot entice me; but still the ancient one,-who came mixed with the themes of Undersea Gangsters, Hijackers, Oil thieves, Women of Gold, Shakespearean dramas, the Tom-Tom beating in the deep jungles that moved messages over the grasslands and through the dark woods, the Pygmy Bandar and their poison arrows, the Good Sign that lent security through the generations with spectacular commitment, the Bad Sign that lingered on, the whispers that rang through the ancient ports in the Seven Seas about the exploits of the Phantom-the Ghost Who Walks, the Jungle Olympics where the games were not just a competition between the competitors but also with perils that could make a even a brave man pause, Guran the ancient man, who knew all the tales of the past,-well the list is long- still fascinates me.
Then there were the very brief talks that Phantom was a White colonialist, who held his colonial sway over the black natives, and the jungle tribes with his tomfoolery. I dont know whether he was one. Possibly! For he had an uncanny resemblance, to at least some of them.
Yet, when the film of Phantom came, it was a complete disaster for my imagination. It punctured it. I cannot say if I liked it or not. It was a very funny Phantom, to say the least. Had it been a tale of some other person, it might have not hurt. But this film Phantom was not the person who had the mystery about him, rather he was a most common person, with some muscles, who moved not faster-than-lightning (as the -old jungle saying-goes) but literally ran and climbed, with the most ordinary of gaits and efforts.
In the modern days, with its Internets, mobile phones, satellite TV, and vile bureaucracies, how can the Phantom (living in the Skull Cave, sitting on the Skull Throne) and his Jungle Patrol exist?
It is very difficult to find persons who share the same reading habits as you. There are immense number of writers, and an innumerable array of themes.
I remember a number of authors who awoke my imagination, during my younger days. There were a wide variety of them. For one thing, I was not tied up to any particular philosophy, even though in my school days, I was an atheist, and also a communist. The latter affliction I got from reading too many Russian and Chinese themes, coupled with what I saw in my nation.
I dont get time to read modern novels much, even though I still read odd authors like Sidney Sheldon. Among authors from a little bit earlier years, Joseph Hiller who wrote the Catch 22 was attractive. I really do believe that his book God knows if it had been about certain other religions, would have really invited a fatwa for his beheading.
I remember Frank Yerby, the American author. He caught my attention through his book: Gillian. It was a really interesting book, which made me read many of this other novels, many of which had themes in exotic locale.
Then there was Alister Maclean, who did write books connected to the Second World War. I think that Guns of Navarone was his. Ice Station Zebra, also I think was his.
Harrold Robbins was an author who I did read with much appetite. I can still remember the theme of : No: 47, Park Avenue.
James Hadley Chase was simply a supreme personality. May be, he was a genius in his own genre. His versatility was of a supernatural level. What all themes and what all titles!
In this context, I still remember Perry Mason, the creation of Erle Stanley Gardner. I still recommend this series of books to all who want to get acquainted with legal terms, and courtroom phrases. All the books started with the words: Case of the .
I cant miss Arthur Hailey. The first book of his I read was Hotel, then came a number of them: Money Changers, In High Places, Final Diagnosis. They were all very informative, yet in recent times, I believe the world has immensely changed, from the scenarios described in them.
I did read Barbara Cartland, who seems to have lived with an enduring infatuation for those of noble blood. Yet, her books were not boring.
Then there is : Gone with the Wind. By Margaret Michelle. The immortal classic which carries the mood of the American Civil War. Yet, I have many times tried to decipher whether the protagonist, was really a likable lady, or someone with mean manners, and malicious character. And, what about Reth Butler? In life, he could have represented the men who threw to wind the basic qualities of refinement and cultured conventions, that were the endearing attributes of the English race. And replaced it with crass opportunism, and craze for private profit, masquerading it as the fabled spirit of adventure of the same race. Yet, the book is simply great!
There was: Rebecca, the book by Daphne du Maurier. I remember seeing the film version made by Alfred Hitch****, in the compay of another person. He literally shivered throughout the show; I could manage to keep my wits, because I knew the theme.
In those day, A. J. Cronin also was a deeply liked author of mine. He hooked me with his Shannons Way. Yet, one young lady who now lives in the US told me that it was a sort of Mills & Boon story. But I really liked the story, and set me on to read almost all his books. Later his novel, The Citadel came again to me, as a prose text in my college days.
