I had bought Sylvia Plath’s (Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sylvia_Plath) novel, The Bell Jar, almost a year
back in one of the numerous book exhibitions in the city. I thought it needed a
certain mood to be read or it will probably depress me knowing her story – I was
in “see positive, think positive, hear positive” mode for some time. Picked it
up as a treat last weekend for finishing the exams better than I thought it
would go. After reading first page, it was feeling like how aged wine would
probably feel to a connoisseur. So far it has been a very stark perspective of
how things look from the other side of the gender divide – hypocritical men and
stereotyped expectations. But the writing is from a true master of the craft –
to write one sentence like her would be genius. What could she have accomplished
if she stayed beyond 30 years?
Sylvia Plath reminds me of another troubled genius, Amy Winehouse,
who took her life at age 27 – I had listened to songs from the album Back to
Black like Love is a Losing Game, Rehab, Back to Black in repeat for hundreds of
times. I still don’t know jazz from blues or any such, but these are songs that
somehow never bore me, never gets old or stale. Lyrics, irreverent singing,
voice and music is one package in which you can still hear new nuances even
after listening too many times. If only somehow they could cross the mark of 30
years. Maybe genius is depressing like having too high expectations out of life.
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I wish I could read for hours, putting my feet up on the table, in
a reclining chair, with a bag of peanuts like in olden days – finish a book in
one sitting and standup with legs that have gone to sleep. The mental images
created, the film in which the set, characters and the landscape all imagined
with author’s guidance could be played to full. But now it is like a film in ten
installments, store away the images and rewind and start from where I left off.
Looking forward to a good episode of a classic at end of a long
day…
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