tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8256768237365664642024-03-14T03:20:10.534-07:00BOOKED FOR LIFEAnyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book.SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-37075659226255140902009-01-25T20:31:00.000-08:002009-01-25T21:10:42.347-08:00A LONG WAY GONE<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-lpwuXQSsdggjIEVIm4cefbbVNWxSxA7w7RlkwHK-fhyNE0wcYUtj2B449LnDoENTRockLf9epmFBXVf7lmj8MUaoeGIr7Sku4uRCZZCKwVbcQOaa_dG9mLB4FqR1UORmNpjSFXF5kJJ/s1600-h/a_long_way_gone.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG-lpwuXQSsdggjIEVIm4cefbbVNWxSxA7w7RlkwHK-fhyNE0wcYUtj2B449LnDoENTRockLf9epmFBXVf7lmj8MUaoeGIr7Sku4uRCZZCKwVbcQOaa_dG9mLB4FqR1UORmNpjSFXF5kJJ/s400/a_long_way_gone.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5295464609102474386" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">We have all heard about the conflicts, despair, poverty, genocide and what not, taking place in different parts of Africa. The Dark continent - as it is called - has been a very ignored part of our planet. While we are busy in our daily lives, worrying about taxes, governments, terrorists, economy, poverty and disease, there are children dying an anonymous death in inhospitable environments.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">A Long way gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah is one book I picked up on recommendation from, who else, Sari Bua...My guide to good book read. This bestselling novel is a true story of the author and his experiences as a twelve year old, growing up in civil war stricken Sierra Leone. When rebels attack his village, Ishmael and his friends are forced to run for their lives, because they know that if they are caught, they'd be forced to join the rebel army. For months together, they continue to evade the rebels, running through thick forests, villages, losing friends and family on the way, while the rebel army continues to systematically destroy the nation, pillaging, raping and murdering indiscriminately. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">After months of evading, Beah and his friends find themselves in a village controlled by the National Army. They think they are safe in the village but the army compels him to fight against the rebels, as a revenge for the atrocities against him and his family. Despite being so young, Ishmael readily joins the cause and fights for over 2 years, turning into a cold-blooded killer who goes about killing and maiming others. He lives a constantly drug-induced life with an endless supply of marijuana. Though he starts out thinking he is fighting for a good cause, he finds himself descending further and further into moral decay.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">He is taken to Freetown and handed over to a UNICEF rehabilitation program where he struggles to overcome his drug addiction and also to give up his violent past. It takes a lot of time and effort on his part to be integrated into what is termed as a "civilised society".</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">The story is a grim reminder of all the trials and tribulations of children in other parts of the world..that children are spending their childhood with guns and bombs. While Beah was able to escape this life to a better one in America, about 300,000 child soldiers are still in Sierra Leone, trying to get back to a normal life. The story also makes us wonder about the vulnerability of a young mind and how a good person was lured into killer ways. Though the ending might seem pretty abrupt, it is still a good read.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">A LONG WAY GONE is an important book and is worth the read. Especially for those of us who have had a well sheltered and protected childhood, and how lucky we are. It should make us sit up and take notice that children who should enjoy their childhood, are left to fend for themselves and being turned into cold-blooded killers, as we continue to struggle with something as petty as traffic. It surely makes us think.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana;">A WONDERFUL READ. MUST HAVE.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Excerpt:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 25px; font-family:Calibri;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">My high school friends have begun to suspect I haven’t told them the full story of my life. “Why did you leave Sierra Leone?” “Because there is a war.” “Did you witness some of the fighting?” “Everyone in the country did.” “You mean, you saw people running around with guns and shooting each other?” “Yes, all the time.” “</span></span></span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Cool</span></span></span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">.” I smile a little. “You should tell us about it sometime.” “Yes, sometime.”</span></span></span></span><br /></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-47893865708708014982008-11-29T02:20:00.000-08:002008-11-29T03:22:35.307-08:00NIGHT<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFfoJYihKk3Vf-yxmTHJ1IchdK_BBxECml0wbhM1NE6FO-RH_Dfyav1acq0pxAVxgRhhj4tGAkX-_b3eaUrHMESnhyphenhyphengJ6lDQ6qmYxQYFlePs6Z5i7sBDFumFrmlXMXM49jAzwAl1HF3OP/s1600-h/00024.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijFfoJYihKk3Vf-yxmTHJ1IchdK_BBxECml0wbhM1NE6FO-RH_Dfyav1acq0pxAVxgRhhj4tGAkX-_b3eaUrHMESnhyphenhyphengJ6lDQ6qmYxQYFlePs6Z5i7sBDFumFrmlXMXM49jAzwAl1HF3OP/s320/00024.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274028339428445746" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:'trebuchet ms';"> </span><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We have all heard the story of Anne Frank, which familiarized us with the atrocities on jews in Nazi Germany. In the ranks of those war time classics, is NIGHT by Elie Wiesel. This little known Nobel Prize Winning book is a horryfying account of a time when the world watched the cruelty as silent spectators. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Elie Wiesel, author and narrator of NIGHT, a true story of the Holocaust, managed to live through Hitler’s criminal atrocities and write down his experiences in the concentration camps. He begins his dramatic stories in 1941 in the small city of Sighet located in Transylvania. Elie, a young boy , along with his family of four, found them selves bombarded and split up by the Hitler lead Germans and deported to nearby concentration camps. Throughout the book, Wiesel explains his experiences with the belief in God, what provides for him and others a will to live, and the important realities of life. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">An important theme and aspect of Night to me is how beliefs and ways of thinking can change during a person’s life and how these ways change throughout the book. It is easy to understand that such an awful experience to a young child can change his ways of thinking, especially about life in general. How can seeing so many people die in such harsh ways not make a child around the age of fifteen see life as unfair and worthless? As I read through the book, I slowly began to realize, due to Wiesel’s amazing descriptions and ability to allow the reader to feel how he was felt, how a person could go through this drastic change in faith. Elie begins his horrible journey with a complete faith in God, and an amazing will to learn as much as possible about his own religion. He even goes against his father’s rules to find a person, Moshe the Beadle, which can help him accomplish this. However, when in the summer of 1944 he is deported to Aushwitz and his encounters begin to add up, he slowly starts to question the truths about God and even God’s own existence. Young Elie first begins to question God when he states, “What are You, my God, compared to this afflicted crowd…What does Your Greatness mean, Lord of the universe…” As the story proceeds, he goes on to explain how he was “the accuser,” and “God the accused…terribly alone in a world without God” .In another instance he imagines God as the one on the podium, being hung, instead of the Jews. Furthermore, Elie even begins going against his religion’s rituals and does not fast during the proper week. He is forced to believe that the only way he could live is not with God’s help, but with his own gut feelings. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After reading and examining Wiesel’s written work, I definitely began to understand young Elie’s reasoning on religion, and even understood how he could almost put more faith and trust in to Hitler due to Hitler’s ability to keep a promise, even though Hitler’s loyalty is what ultimately lead to millions of deaths. Without Wiesel’s incorporation of dialogue from characters and his own thoughts of religion, I do not think I could have been so persuaded</span></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Now that Elie’s will to live was not under his faith in God, another theme arises in his search for a will to live and survive.. I feel like Night stands for the only actual good part of their imprisonment at the concentration camps. Sleep was always a necessity and need for the imprisoned Jews. It was part of the hope for survival; therefore, a will to live. Next, being a child, his initial basis and reason for survival was because he is never separated from his father. Being able to stay in close quarters with his father allows him to remain strong and have a helping hand to fall back on. However, as the story progresses, his father begins to become ill and Elie is obligated to not only fight for his own survival, but also his father’s. This situation begins with Elie’s fight to stay with his dad, but turns out to become his will to survive. Instead of placing his mind on surviving through Hitler’s wishes, he puts his thoughts and energy on keeping his father alive, which ultimately leads to his own survival. To further create this theme, Wiesel introduces two characters that portray the extents people will go to in order to survive. Nearing the end of the novel, the Jews are forced to run for forty-two miles to Gleitwitz. During this expedition, Elie watches as two characters, the Rabbi and his son, lose each other due to the son running away to drop the dead weight of his old father. At first, Elie is appalled of this nature, but slowly begins to realize the same with his own father.</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Another huge example and theme that Wiesel emphasizes as a will to live is the fight for food throughout the account. Inside the concentration camps, the prisoners are rationed very small amounts of food, if not deprived. Young Elie along with all of the other prisoners yearns for as much soup, bread, and water as possible. The imprisonment begins with people wanting to aid in the survival of other prisoners with the sharing of their personal supplies. It was their need for survival. However, as time passes, Elie witnesses many horrible accounts of almost animal like behavior. From Meir beating and stealing from his father on the train to masses of people killing each other to obtain the last bite of bread, Elie could not believe how such a situation could change the actions of civilized people. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> With the shock of feeling it would be okay to let his father die for his own survival to the realizations of how people can change under intense circumstances, other themes are incorporated when Elie begins to find many astonishments about the truths, realities, and harshness of life. Along with these realizations, Elie most importantly finds out the truth of death, and at only the young age of fifteen. Elie witnesses more deaths than most people could even imagine. He not only sees corpses lying in snow and being smothered by other dying people, but he also witnesses the brutal death of innocent people through cremation, hangings, starvation, beatings, and even pure sadness. He also observes how and why people could not maintain the will to live, even though he is able to maintain it the whole time. He learns about inhumanity through the actions of the Germans. This goes right along with death, but he could not believe how he and the others were treated like animals. At one point, Elie states how he felt like “cattle or merchandise” as the prisoners were lined up, pointed at, and “selected.” </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 18px; -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; "><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the preface to the book, Robert Brown describes how some people either do not believe in the horrific mass killing or do not care about it. Night was created to give an account that these awful events did occur, and Wiesel does a great job to get the effectiveness of the event across to his readers. To manage this, he is able to include characters like his father, who represents Elie’s main hope of survival and will to live; Madam Schachter, who represents the scary, psychological, but honest aspects of the event; and Elie’s friends (the brothers), who represent the need to work together; which all are apparent themes of the novel. Wiesel also used these characters to show how others were feeling, enabling readers to understand that everyone maintained different feelings and beliefs of the situation. Because of the ability to incorporate all of these measures, Wiesel intended for all people to be able to read and learn from his experiences. Sometimes people can be ignorant to the aspects, feelings, and events in life. Wiesel created this book so that for years to come, people will be able to believe and understand the cruelty, harshness, and reality not only of the Holocaust, but other events that could possibly occur in life.</span></span></span></div></span></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-72093055056210047412008-11-29T01:53:00.000-08:002008-11-29T03:21:01.914-08:00A WALK TO REMEMBER<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcSpdGgzK12wgcOeUF0E2bX6U6sAgpzGlEmQ7yZFwz8FQ1-G4vlQ5MhxpFdv7odXl_hFXxZILErMnDwGhTVa_a0WIEmeKQa7cZb1o78OcgEo0P8IwDu67ELjouQVaQP77DHRPUJqOqimJ/s1600-h/n67648.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 189px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlcSpdGgzK12wgcOeUF0E2bX6U6sAgpzGlEmQ7yZFwz8FQ1-G4vlQ5MhxpFdv7odXl_hFXxZILErMnDwGhTVa_a0WIEmeKQa7cZb1o78OcgEo0P8IwDu67ELjouQVaQP77DHRPUJqOqimJ/s320/n67648.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274020942740336642" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am a sucker for romance and romantic novels, no denying that fact. That is probably the reason why Nicholas Sparks finds his way into the list of my favourite authors. I happened to watch the movie first then read the book.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Nicholas Sparks begins this book, A WALK TO REMEMBER, by promising that "first you will smile, and then you will cry --- don't say that you haven't been warned". A WALK TO REMEMBER is a heart wrenching account of a young, first love and the choices and steps a person will take to provide another with happiness. <br /><br />Devoted readers of Nicholas Sparks are already familiar with his earlier works, THE NOTEBOOK and MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE, as well as his extraordinary ability to accurately illustrate his characters and the setting around them. He finds the perfect words to describe the nature of the characters, so much so that the reader can identify with the feelings in their hearts. This book is no exception, it lets the readers explore their own feelings and memories of love. <br /><br />Nicholas Sparks writes about a young man and woman in 1958 on the coast in Morehead City in Beaufort, North Carolina. Landon Carter is a seventeen-year-old high school senior whose father is a United States congressman. He and his father are strangers --- his father is on the road quite a bit of the time and he spends the majority of time being raised by his mother. His father insists that he needs to run for student body president to increase his chances of getting into a good college. His father believes that "We Carters always win" and he wants to mold Landon into a miniature version of himself. <br /><br />Landon wins the election and one of his responsibilities is attending the homecoming dance. Due to the fact he has just broken up with his girlfriend, he doesn't have a date and in a panic, he pulls out his yearbook and scans the pages for someone available. He finally decides on Jamie Sullivan, a junior, who is the minister's daughter, knowing that nobody else will ask her to the dance. Jamie wears old sweaters, plaid skirts and her hair up in a bun. She carries the Bible wherever she goes and believes that whatever happens in life is according to the Lord's plan. She is obviously not your typical high school student and not someone in whom Landon or his friends would be interested. <br /><br />Both Landon and Jamie star in the school Christmas play that Jamie's father has written. The play details the personal story of his life after his wife's death and his search for love and the meaning of life within his daughter. Jamie plays the angel and Landon, the lead male role. Over time, in rehearsals and occasional talks together on her front porch, Landon starts to like Jamie. As a result, he becomes a better person, helping her do good deeds and accompanying her to the orphanage. The opening night of the play, he is amazed when he first sees her walk on the stage dressed as an angel, with her hair loose and flowing down her back. She glitters onstage and he falls for her true beauty. <br /><br />With plot twists and turns and an untold secret that will change their lives forever, Landon and Jamie fall in love. Pain and sorrow lie ahead but the story lets you believe in the power of love and that dreams do come true. Their story is unforgettable and as you wipe your tears away, you come to an unbelievable end --- the sort of story that only Nicholas Sparks can tell. <br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Though the plot seems somewhat cliched and nothing new, it is the trademark Nicholas Sparks treatment that makes you fall in love with this one. The movie version of this book is somewhat different in its execution, but it is a good read nevert</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">heless. A recommended read if you love romantic novels. And watch the movie too :)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;font-family:Verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana;">P.S. Since i had wanted to put up the review as soon as I could, most of the content of this one has been taken from bookreporter.com. This review is not my work entirely, and I promise to write up another one here for this one, sometime in the near future.</span></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-30787281615266861262008-11-28T23:53:00.000-08:002008-11-29T03:25:17.936-08:00SYBIL<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9klEYO07U9T9dIcItU-gSBfe3xJ7REM2epJeatc-qDLpgstyZIrD34vRRbTt5GR75st6mq-ylWnHJEb3FdqQBgFTQM-ESSz9lnynpF0adBqkT1Ud_doqGMjgwT4aFZ8SwCqj5qjfxyea/s1600-h/sybil.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 191px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9klEYO07U9T9dIcItU-gSBfe3xJ7REM2epJeatc-qDLpgstyZIrD34vRRbTt5GR75st6mq-ylWnHJEb3FdqQBgFTQM-ESSz9lnynpF0adBqkT1Ud_doqGMjgwT4aFZ8SwCqj5qjfxyea/s320/sybil.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273994125990163586" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have been ignoring my book blog for quite a while now, despite reading a lot of books lately. My initial aplogies to my book blog. I want to make up to you by making you feel a little special this year and dressing you up suitably with a lot more posts and a better look.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, coming to the review part. I've read a few good books in the last four months. I think it is high time I posted a review on those. I choose the most recent book I read, for my review.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My mother does not read. Anything. Even a newspaper. And not certainly English. Hence I was surprised when she told me about this amazing book she's read many many years ago. SYBIL. I kept hearing on and off about it from her and decided to pick it up for my collection. After many trips to book stores and being told that the book is out of stock, I finally managed to find it at Odyssey, about a month back. And I started reading it with immediate effect. I am glad I did.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">SYBIL is a book published in 1973, written by Flora Rheta Schreiber about a true-life story of a woman suffering from multiple personality disorder. I had never heard of the book, and until I finished reading it, I didnt know that SYBIL is actually a pseudonym of a woman named Shirley Arden Mason. Hers is perhaps the most famous case of multiple personality disorder. The pseudonym was given to protect her privacy.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">SYBIL, was born on 25th January, 1923 in Minnesota. She had a history of blackouts and emotional breakouts, and finally entered psychotherapy with Dr Cornelia Wilbur a Freudian Psychiatrist. Their sessions together form the basis for this book and its narrative. After extensive therapy, it is discovered that SYBIL has 16 different personalities, which disassociate themselves from the central personality. The biggest task is to integrate these disassociated ones with the central one in order to have SYBIL lead a normal life. The book is based on the therapy, treatment and triumph of this woman to overcome a mental disability, which would take several years of determination and sometimes hopelessness. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was a shocking read for me, in a way scary, when I thought what would I do if I were in that situation. Would I recover from it? How would I feel when unknown people come up to me and claim to know me? It was an eerie read, but surely engrossing.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I find it difficult to write a review on this true-life story. I would recommend it as a must read, though. I found it hard to put down and the case of 16 different personalities to a woman are perplexing and baffling. It is scary, but still, it is definitely worth a read.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Instead of giving just the excerpts, I'll attach a sketch of the 16 personalities of SYBIL ISABEL DORSETT. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" -webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family:'times new roman';"><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sybil Isabel Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1923): a depleted person; the waking self.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Victoria Antoinette Scharleau</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(1926): nicknamed Vicky; a self-assured, sophisticated, attractive blonde; the memory trace of Sybil's selves.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Peggy Lou Baldwin</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1926): an assertive, enthusiastic, and often angry pixie with a pug nose, a Dutch haircut, and a mischievous smile.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Peggy Ann Baldwin </span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(1926): a counterpart of Peggy Lou with similar physical characteristics; she is more often fearful than angry.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mary Lucinda Saunders Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1933): a thoughtful, contemplative, maternal, homeloving person; she is plump and has long dark-brown hair parted on the side.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Marcia Lynn Dorsett </span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(1927): last name sometimes Baldwin; a writer and painter; extremely emotional; she has a shield-shaped face, gray eyes, and brown hair parted on the side.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Vanessa Gail Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1935): intensely dramatic and extremely attractive; a tall redhead with a willowy figure, light brown eyes, and an expressive oval face.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mike Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1928): one of Sybil's two male selves; a builder and a carpenter, he has olive skin, dark hair, and brown eyes.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sid Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1928): one of Sybil's two male selves; a carpenter and a general handyman; he has fair skin, dark hair, and blue eyes.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Nancy Lou Ann Baldwin</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (date undetermined): interested in politics as fulfillment of biblical prophecy and intensely afraid of Roman Catholics; fey; her physical characteristics resemble those of the Peggys.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sybil Ann Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1928): listless to the point of neurasthenia; pale and timid with ash-blonde hair, an oval face, and a straight nose.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Ruthie Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (date undetermined): a baby; one of the lesser developed selves.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Clara Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (date undetermined): intensely religious; highly critical of the waking Sybil.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Helen Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1929): intensely afraid but determined to achieve fulfillment; she has light brown hair, hazel eyes, a straight nose, and thin lips.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Marjorie Dorsett</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1928): serene, vivacious, and quick to laugh; a tease; a small, willowy brunette with fair skin and a pug nose.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Blonde </span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(1946): nameless; a perpetual teenager; has blonde curly hair and a lilting voice.</span></span></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The New Sybil</span></span></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 204, 255);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> (1965): the seventeenth self; an amalgam of the other sixteen selves.</span></span></span></span></span></p></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-77002438568340793622008-03-11T08:07:00.000-07:002008-11-29T03:30:52.460-08:00A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXeYp1qz90QwgC2JS_J_n9x8ufLdRaydXs4_5yfniuaQt7UBr6k-tmMsBFuYDt5W2ngr8yHcHt0IHJbQfn-xwFl_bauNi40HnNzWABrc2kxICgVU2w-7f4CC55KbIgVMf-YNw9NtRNkIQ1/s1600-h/thousand-sp-suns-comp.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176533454104426994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXeYp1qz90QwgC2JS_J_n9x8ufLdRaydXs4_5yfniuaQt7UBr6k-tmMsBFuYDt5W2ngr8yHcHt0IHJbQfn-xwFl_bauNi40HnNzWABrc2kxICgVU2w-7f4CC55KbIgVMf-YNw9NtRNkIQ1/s320/thousand-sp-suns-comp.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yes Anoop, I've finally read this one. Your review was helpful in making me decide which book to pick up from my ever-piling collection. After the very touching "THE KITE RUNNER", Khaled Hosseini's "A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS" is yet another winner by the author.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Almost everyone is aware of the stupendous success of Hosseini's last work (THE KITE RUNNER) published almost five years ago, and comparisons are bound to happen by THE KITE RUNNER loyalists. In my personal opinion, a comparison between these two books would be totally unfair to the story they present.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS is a story set amidst the backdrop of Afghanistan and introoduces us to the lives of two women, over a period of forty years. One is Mariam, born in 1959, who is an illegitimate child of a wealthy man from Herat. After a terrible tragedy strikes Mariam at age 15, she is married to a man from Kabul who is almost three times her age. Mariam's husband Rasheed, who seems a pleasant man at first, turns out to be a lecherous, violent man as the story progresses. Mariam suffers a lot at the hands of Rasheed who treats her no better than a useless house-cat.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On the other hand, Hosseini introduces us to Laila, born into the house-hold of a teacher. Laila is much younger than Mariam. She is educated under the guidance of her father, even though the kids still have the opportunity to go to school in the Afghanistan that she lives in. However, as the Soviet troops start to crumble and the mujahideen start running amok, tragedy strikes her and she loses her family and her childhood sweetheart Tariq. Circumstances force her to take cover with Rasheed and his wife Mariam.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS isn't a story of two women fighting it out with the Taliban. It is a story of the hardships, the trials, tribulations and triumphs of two women in the backdrop of a more than challenging life. Its a story of warmth, friendship, love, affection and every other beautiful human sentiment in the face of adversity. A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS is a story of many Mariams and Lailas who suffered a cruel fate in the war ravaged Afghanistan.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Personally, I would still say that THE KITE RUNNER remains my favourite. Having said that, I would not like to discount the fact that A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS makes for a very good read. If you are a fan of Khaled Hosseini, chances are, you will end up appreciating his writing and narrative style even further.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For those who haven't read it yet..Here's an excerpt:<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mariam was five years old the first time she heard the word harami.<br /></span></div></em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It happened on a Thursday. It must have, because Mariam remembered that she had been restless and preoccupied that day, the way she was only on Thursdays, the day when Jalil visited her at the kolba. To pass the time until the moment that she would see him at last, crossing the knee-high grass in the clearing and waving, Mariam had climbed a chair and taken down her mother's Chinese tea set. The tea set was the sole relic that Mariam's mother, Nana, had of her own mother, who had died when Nana was two. Nana cherished each blue-and-white porcelain piece, the graceful curve of the pot's spout, the hand-painted finches and chrysanthemums, the dragon on the sugar bowl, meant to ward off evil.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was this last piece that slipped from Mariam's fingers, that fell to the wooden floorboards of the kolba and shattered.<br /></span></div></em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When Nana saw the bowl, her face flushed red and her upper lip shivered, and her eyes, both the lazy one and the good, settled on Mariam in a flat, unblinking way. Nana looked so mad that Mariam feared the jinn would enter her mother's body again. But the jinn didn't come, not that time. Instead, Nana grabbed Mariam by the wrists, pulled her close, and, through gritted teeth, said, "You are a clumsy little harami. This is my reward for everything I've endured. An heirloom-breaking, clumsy little harami."<br /></span></div></em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">At the time, Mariam did not understand. She did not know what this word harami—bastard—meant. Nor was she old enough to appreciate the injustice, to see that it is the creators of the harami who are culpable, not the harami, whose only sin is being born. Mariam did surmise, by the way Nana said the word, that it was an ugly, loathsome thing to be a harami, like an insect, like the scurrying cockroaches Nana was always cursing and sweeping out of the kolba. <br /></span></div></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></div><em><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Later, when she was older, Mariam did understand. It was the way Nana uttered the word—not so much saying it as spitting it at her—that made Mariam feel the full sting of it. She understood then what Nana meant, that a harami was an unwanted thing; that she, Mariam, was an illegitimate person who would never have legitimate claim to the things other people had, things such as love, family, home, acceptance.</span><br /></div></em></span></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-24519080984894828782008-02-12T22:50:00.000-08:002008-11-29T03:25:57.221-08:00THE BOOK THIEF<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwUHLqDHiteN8pw4E67as_OJUPwrY6ZNY8_emVJfheoaroNtclVK56J-IjkFY58gSBe0p49kpA_OJVFG-Z7UEh4KWL5CHvf9niwYaqyQpa49-lldgVI4zVrarOsI7OGNDjKEMLolbyJv_/s1600-h/9780375931000.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169120105678252178" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwUHLqDHiteN8pw4E67as_OJUPwrY6ZNY8_emVJfheoaroNtclVK56J-IjkFY58gSBe0p49kpA_OJVFG-Z7UEh4KWL5CHvf9niwYaqyQpa49-lldgVI4zVrarOsI7OGNDjKEMLolbyJv_/s320/9780375931000.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Phew!! Finally done with this one... After an un-put-downable "THE KITE RUNNER", Markus Zusak's literary genius "THE BOOK THIEF" was the next one on my list. I was still under the "KITE RUNNER-HANG-OVER" as I like to call it, when I picked up this one from the list of piling unread books in my collection. If you think that the title is captivating, then I suggest you start reading this book to understand what "captivating" means...<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">We've all read THE DIARY OF ANNE FRANK, NIGHT and other books that give us an insight into the Nazi Germany of Hitler. This book visits Germany in that era, through the eyes of one force that was widely prevalent then-- DEATH. The author appropriately uses Death to narrate the events unfolding in the life of 9-year old Liesel Meminger. Coz death travelled everywhere.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Death has its first encounter with Liesel in a train on which she is travelling with her mother and her brother, to a foster home at Himmel Street. Death takes away her brother, but is somehow transfixed by Liesel. It is then that Liesel, the book thief, does her first act of thievery. She picks up a book from the graveyard, thus starting on a journey of multiple book stealing sessions.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Her foster parents are good to her. Hans Hubermann, her foster father helps her to learn how to read and is the most comforting force in her life. Rosa, her foster mother, is a strict woman who swears a lot. But loves her nevertheless. Apart from them, she find solace in her best friend Rudy, who is a huge fan of Jesse Owens and wants to emulate him. There is also a jew named Max who is hidden by the Hubermanns in their basement, with whom Liesel forges brotherly attatchment.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">The Book Thief is an amazing read for anyone. It gives a complete different perspective of the Nazi Germany, though still painting the grim pictures of that era. It still gives you hope amids despair and contains some really amazing moments. Its a definite must read for all book lovers. MUST BUY!!!!<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><strong><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Excerpts<br /></span></span></div></strong><strong><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><u><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">DEATH AND CHOCOLATE</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div></u></strong><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">First the colors.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Then the humans.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">That's usually how I see things.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Or at least, how I try.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">***HERE IS A SMALL FACT ***<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">You are going to die.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">***Reaction to the ***AFOREMENTIONED fact<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Does this worry you?I<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">urge you--don't be afraid.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I'm nothing if not fair.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">--Of course, an introduction.A beginning.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">Where are my manners?I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps.The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see--the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">***A SMALL THEORY ***<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses. In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">As I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I've been performing this job. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decision--to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors.Still, it's possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from?Which brings me to my next point.It's the leftover humans.The survivors.They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's the story of one of those perpetual survivors--an expert at being left behind.It's just a small story really, about, among other things:<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">* A girl<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">* Some words<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">* An accordionist<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">* Some fanatical Germans<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">* A Jewish fist fighter<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">* And quite a lot of thievery<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">I saw the book thief three times.</span></span><br /></div></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-50902910085781251732007-12-14T00:07:00.000-08:002008-11-29T03:31:23.246-08:00THE KITE RUNNER<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4tmAq7YIucRFAhysj7Ke0LKMvSrT9BaMfXzghYDmANGyt3tByiXiwtnKIT_A1LxKsQmVJtgNw7CG2-y8XccDXKoHvml0MaQaa3L4cWLZH-7o_50JeExuMZppmzXomxyEev7-tIF9SO0a/s1600-h/Kite%20runner.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143749295892077490" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4tmAq7YIucRFAhysj7Ke0LKMvSrT9BaMfXzghYDmANGyt3tByiXiwtnKIT_A1LxKsQmVJtgNw7CG2-y8XccDXKoHvml0MaQaa3L4cWLZH-7o_50JeExuMZppmzXomxyEev7-tIF9SO0a/s320/Kite%2520runner.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is the second book I picked up to read after exams, and finished it in my personal record breaking single sitting. Never has any other book captivated and enthralled me like THE KITE RUNNER. I came to know about this book thanks to, yet again, Sari Bua. She is the same aunt who introduced me to The Chicken Soup for the Soul book many years earlier.<br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">THE KITE RUNNER is a book, which I ventured out into reading due to the fact that it has been made into a major motion picture and its advance screening at various places was generating rave reviews. As it normally happens with me, most of the times the books recommended with the "must-read" or "awesome" tag, end up disappointing me spectacularly. That series of disappointments has finally come to an end with THE KITE RUNNER.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Khaled Hosseini’s debut novel, THE KITE RUNNER, starts out by describing the relationship between two Afghan boys --- Amir, who is the novel’s narrator and the son of a well-known Kabul businessman, and Hassan, the son of Ali, a servant in the household of Amir’s father. Amir is a Pashtun and Sunni Muslim, while Hassan is a Hazara and a Shi’a. Despite their ethnic and religious differences, Amir and Hassan grow to be friends, although sometimes Amir is troubled to label their relationship as "friendship".<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Amir relationship with his father is often a source of tension in his life. He comes to feel that maybe Baba (his father) supports Hassan more than him. Baba feels that Amir isn't strong enough to carry the legacy of his father. Whenever Amir falls into trouble, its usually Hassan who comes to his rescue. Desperate to prove himself to his father, Amir turns to the kite flying tournament, and at the age of 12, with the assistance of Hassan, he wins the annual tournament in Kabul. Hassan, the best Kite-runner in all of Afghanistan, offers to run down and bring the kite which Amir last sliced to win the tournament. But Amir’s victory turns into a nightmare when he witnesses a vicious assault against Hassan, and fails to come to his aid. Amir’s cowardice is compounded by a later act of betrayal that causes Ali and Hassan to leave their home, and he now faces the nightmare prospect of bearing the burden of his ill-fated choices for the rest of his life.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">A few years later, the Russians invade Afghanistan, and Amir and Baba are forced to flee the country for California. In America, Amir graduates, marries and becomes a successful novelist. Amir’s world is shaken in 2001 when he receives a call from his father’s best friend, informing him that “There is a way to be good again.” That call launches him on a harrowing journey to rescue Hassan’s son Sohrab, orphaned by the brutal Taliban, and at the same time redeem himself from the torment of his youthful mistakes.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is one of the books that you can't put down that easily. Hosseini's writing is like a beautiful poetry. Every word takes you deeper into the heart of Afghanistan, over a period of 30 years. The story of Amir and Hassan's friendship lingers in your mind long after you've put down the book. As I read it, I just had a haunting feeling that I was there first hand, looking at all the events taking place. Khaled Hosseini's writing is so powerful that you feel the pain, the friendship, the betrayal with each page that you turn. For a debut novel, THE KITE RUNNER is just breathe-takingly well written. A sure must read for everyone.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="center" style="text-align: justify;"><strong><em><span style="color:#ff0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Excerpts from the book:</span></span></em></strong></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="center"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><em></em></span></strong></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><u><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Excerpt # 1:</span></strong></u></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"><div style="text-align: justify;">December 2001<br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I became what I am today at the age of twelve, on a frigid overcast day in the winter of 1975. I remember the precise moment, crouching behind a crumbling mud wall, peeking into the alley near the frozen creek. That was a long time ago, but it’s wrong what they say about the past, I’ve learned, about how you can bury it. Because the past claws its way out. Looking back now, I realize I have been peeking into that deserted alley for the last twenty-six years.<br /></div></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"></div><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">One day last summer, my friend Rahim Khan called from Pakistan. He asked me to come see him. Standing in the kitchen with the receiver to my ear, I knew it wasn’t just Rahim Khan on the line. It was my past of unatoned sins. After I hung up, I went for a walk along Spreckels Lake on the northern edge of Golden Gate Park. The early-afternoon sun sparkled on the water where dozens of miniature boats sailed, propelled by a crisp breeze. Then I glanced up and saw a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky. They danced high above the trees on the west end of the park, over the windmills, floating side by side like a pair of eyes looking down on San Francisco, the city I now call home. And suddenly Hassan’s voice whispered in my head: </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For you, a thousand times over</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. Hassan the harelipped kite runner.<br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I sat on a park bench near a willow tree. I thought about something Rahim Khan said just before he hung up, almost as an afterthought. There is a way to be good again. I looked up at those twin kites. I thought about Hassan. Thought about Baba. Ali. Kabul. I thought of the life I had lived until the winter of 1975 came along and changed everything. And made me what I am today.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><em></em></span></strong></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><u><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Excerpt # 2:</span></strong></u></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left"><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><u></u></span></strong></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Then he would remind us that there was a brotherhood between people who fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time can break.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Hassan and I fed from the same breasts. We took our first steps on the same lawn in the same yard. And under the same roof, we spoke our first words.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Mine was </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Baba</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">His was </span><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Amir</span></em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">. My name.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="left" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Looking back on it now, the foundation of what happened in the winter of 1975 - and all that followed - was already laid in those first words.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div align="left"><strong><u></u></strong></div></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-50855154361709014172007-12-13T23:56:00.000-08:002007-12-14T00:06:20.620-08:00Back again...<em>Alright, so it HAS been a while. Most of my blogs have been neglected for over a month and a half now and I plan to make amends. My book review blog has, thus far, been the one with the least number of posts.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>I can explain the reasons for the same, provided anyone wants to actually hear them. Well, I haven't really had the time to catch up on books due to exams and other stuff. I kept buying so many books, without actually reading most of them. I now have more than a dozen books to finish, and I continue to load my book-shelf with a few more every month. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Finally, exams are over and I am back to reading again. I have read just two since exams got over--<strong>BITTER CHOCOLATE by Pinky Virani</strong> and <strong>THE KITE RUNNER by Khaled</strong> <strong>Hosseini</strong>. I liked both of them, and find myself comfortable in writing the review of THE KITE RUNNER first. </em><br /><em></em><br /><em>As for all you lovers of books and stories, my earnest appeal to you again is --<strong>BUY ORIGINAL PLEASE</strong>. It creeps me out when people pick up books for less than half of their original price from sidewalks. If you truly love books, dont do it. Worse of all, <strong>STOP GIFTING ME PIRATED VERSION!!!!</strong></em>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-39928932658863788372007-09-23T23:26:00.000-07:002008-11-29T03:28:26.378-08:00Chicken Soup for the Soul series<a href="http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n23/RebeccaBusch/100_0250.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 201px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 183px" height="212" alt="" src="http://i108.photobucket.com/albums/n23/RebeccaBusch/100_0250.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://i206.photobucket.com/albums/bb57/hottie_ca12/Picture091.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 271px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" height="240" alt="" src="http://i206.photobucket.com/albums/bb57/hottie_ca12/Picture091.jpg" border="0" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I got my first </span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Chicken soup for the soul book</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen, as a gift over 8 years ago. Even now, Chicken Soup series of books continue to draw me to bookstores. I may not pick up any other book that i desperately want, but if I find a Chicken Soup title, I hardly give it a second thought.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I have 3 books to my collection. Each is a thick book of powerful, morale boosting true stories of people coming from all walks of life. Each has a very inspiring and soothing tale to tell, and each story touches and reaches out to different people.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When I was given the first book, I had no clue as to why the title was so wierd. Being a vegetarian, I thought it was a gross thing to name a book that way. Back then as a 11 yr old, I didn't realise the importance of Chicken Soup for good health as they have a soothing effect on the body. Chicken Soup for the soul does the same. Instead of soothing your body, it soothes your soul.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Every story from these books is like a mountain of inspiration. It acts as a balm to heal old wounds, but that of the heart. It's about opening up your heart to other's experiences and being affected by it. It's to have your spirit rekindled with hope and love. It's to give you the courage to go after your dreams. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And all these stories I read were so simple and yet beautiful. These are stories that I think people want to hear about, no matter their nationality, age or gender. These stories carry with them encouraging and inspiring messages that I think most people will understand and can resonate with.<br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul was one book I liked in particular. It helped me a great deal in my latter teen years to cope with many diffuculties. My trivialities seemed to resolve at once. I knew I wasnt the only person in the world going through that troublesome adoloscent phase. I connected with others like me and knew at once, that life, will be OKAY.</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Quite often, my eyes would suddenly well up in tears as I read one great story, and before I could have the chance to dry up, the next story brought on another bout of tears.<br /></div><span><div style="text-align: justify;">Each story is short, easy to read, digestible and filled with goodness<br /></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm sure glad the authors Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen didn't give up the idea of publishing their first Chicken Soup for the Soul book. Their story of creating and eventually publishing this book was in itself an inspiring story to be told. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After 3 long years of hard work to put together the book and rejections from 140 publishers, their vision to uplift humanity through this book finally came through. Chicken Soup for the Soul was finally published under Health Communications, Inc. The president of the company, Peter Vegso caught the vision of the authors and the spirit of the book and agreed to publish it.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On June 28, 1993, Chicken Soup for the Soul was launched and the rest was history. These books have gone on to become bestsellers for many titles. With over 80 million of copies of Chicken Soup books sold all over the world, it made publishing history.<br /></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Currently, I am reading Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul. For someone who's had a life long dream to make the world a better place, with the pen, it has started out to be a great read. I expected a lot from this book, and it has gone much further ahead of my expectations. Thus far. </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In the end, I suggest a Chicken Soup title for everyone. They have a book, a story for everyone. And I guarantee you, you'll find your life reflected in many of the stories that you read.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;"></span></div></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-825676823736566464.post-24707456208993037812007-09-13T00:19:00.000-07:002008-11-29T03:27:55.583-08:00John Wright's Indian Summers<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicMEfYgONwXW7RCZMvWJPGm1xz9Y7f_v2kVr3trz4j-KMgXU3yNz6j_0Lk9pRfVnlrX8OIFnAKu2UTpozlR6V44yQXvvBoh36bJyV0saBBFyoTQigIqL2f8JQo6YpP0pz-wD4ADYV17cKa/s1600-h/067099927X.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143732811807595426" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicMEfYgONwXW7RCZMvWJPGm1xz9Y7f_v2kVr3trz4j-KMgXU3yNz6j_0Lk9pRfVnlrX8OIFnAKu2UTpozlR6V44yQXvvBoh36bJyV0saBBFyoTQigIqL2f8JQo6YpP0pz-wD4ADYV17cKa/s320/067099927X.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As My blog description suggests that they would contain more stuff about Raikkonen, Books, Sports and ME... it has been more of the ME and less of other elements. My beloved Raikkonen hasn't been written about enough either. So I thought, let me write something about the books I'm reading/have read.<br />These days I'm a bit tied up with studies, so I guess I will write about one of the nicest books I've read in the recent times.<br /><br /></span></span><strong><span style="color:#ff0000;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">John Wright's Indian Summers</span></span></em></span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> is an enthralling read for all the Indian cricket aficionados. Indian cricket's first foreign coach, the New Zealander gives vivid details of his long and successful stint at the helm of cricketing world's most star packed team. Of course, after the World Cup '07 we all label them more as fading stars, but during his time the ream flourished and reached dizzying heights. New stars were born and a new confidence along with team spirit was seen in quite a while.<br /><br />The book describes Wright's appointment to the job and he tells us about his experience from the moment he landed to the moment he took off. The Cricketing board's meetings over tea, the ruckus that the meetings would turn out to be and above all, we get to see the apathy of the cricket board. Most of it we already know, but much is said, albeit between the lines.<br /><br />The most fascinating thing for me in the book was the discovery of John Wright as the-not-so-quiet-coach. While in the limelight of things, he never spoke out much to the press. He kept to himself and his job and we always thought here was a soft coach we have who may buckle under the pressure of being in an unknown place. But as one read the book, we get to know the reprimanding side of the coach, who'd settle for nothing less than the best from the boys. He mentions many not-so-dirty-incidents of the dressing room that though make interesting read, fail to lift eyebrows. Mind you. NO NAMES ARE MENTIONED.<br /><br />Nevertheless, it is a very good read and worth spending money on if you would like to see the Indian cricketing scene from the eyes of a good coach. It is an account of an honest man, who did much for Indian Cricket (read trainers, physio and proper equipments and facilities, previously not available). This one isn't sensational but definitely gets you a few laughs. Here are some excerpts to help you decide on reading it.<br /><br /></span></span><span style="color:#ff0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ON TEAM SELECTIONS:</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />"The first six or seven selections were straightforward. But when it got down to the marginal selections, those last three or four spots that determine the balance of the team and your ability to develop new players, the zonal factor kicked in and things would get interesting," he wrote.<br />"It was easy to tell when selectors had come to a meeting with an agenda... If their boys weren't picked, they tended to cross their arms, clam up and take no further part in the meeting."</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span><span style="color:#ff0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Care to guess who Wright's talking about here?</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"In Jodhpur, a guy with the biggest diamond ear-studs I'd ever seen wandered into our viewing area as if it was his private box. I went nuts demanding to know who the hell he was and, more to the point, who the hell he thought he was. The answer to both questions was that he was India's biggest beer baron." [page 43] - it's the one and only Vijay Mallya!</span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span><div align="justify"><span style="color:#ff0000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Experience that was India...</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />"People would stop me in the street to thank for being 'our' coach. It was humbling, but also guilt-inducing, because many of those who thanked me for doing a well-paid job that I loved led lives of day-to-day struggle. The gratitude and support I received from ordinary Indians was the most positive force I've ever encountered, in that it simultaneously lifted me and kept my feet on the ground." [page 70]</span></span></div>SMRITIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16358922626954236385noreply@blogger.com2