My favourite Polish export (not the Pope)

Reader's block. You're just not able to settle into a book. You try one, discard it, pick up another, only to toss into that pile you call 'for later'. You begin to feel you'll never finish a book again. You blame yourself and become so irritable that one day your partner tells you to quit belly-aching, roll over and go to sleep. And then one day you bump into a book that brings back the magic of reading, and all is well again. As you may have guessed by now, it was so with me until I came by Travels with Herodotus by Ryszard Kapuscinski.

I first came across Kapuscinski in The Soccer War, as the 4 1/2 readers of this blog already know. So I won't bother with a long introduction, to Kapuscinski, the writer and journalist. Suffice to say, Travels with Herodotus was his last book before he died earlier this year, a part-memoir and part-meditation.

Kapuscinksi begins by saying he was presented with a copy of Herodotus' The Histories just as he was headed for his first overseas assignment - to India. In fact, Herodotus remains a reassuring presence as the young Polish journalist embarks on his journeys with eagerness, naivete and the air of one who is blithely unworried about where his next meal will come from.

Reading through the book, one doesn't quite know who's the better teacher - Kapuscinski or Herodotus. But there's no need to compare. Both of them have valuable lessons for the journalist. Kapuscinksi, then in his 30s, writes of Herodotus,

I was quite consciously trying to learn the art of reportage and Herodotus struck me as a valuable teacher.

And he goes onto to tell you why the ancient Greek writer was a good reporter.

But to the extent that it is possible to do so - and, given the epoch, this speaks to a tremendous expenditure of effort and to great personal determination - he tries to check everything, to get to the sources, to establish the fact.

That should tell you not to google.

A little later in the book, Kapuscinski speaks of a moment of epiphany while in Algiers. A coup has taken place, but on the streets there's nothing to show for it,

...it was here in Algiers, several years after I had begun working as a reporter, that it slowly began to dawn on me that I had set myself on an erroneous path back then. Until that awakening I had been searching for spectacular imagery...it was the fallacy that one can interpret the world only by means of what it chooses to show us in the hours of its convulsions, when it is rocked by shots and explosion, engulfed in flames...

Lessons for journalists, lessons on writing, Travels with Herodotus also underlines some of the faultlines of the world we live in today, the struggle between militant Islam and the rest of the world for one. It is certainly a book to be read again & again. Let me quote Kapuscinski one final time,

One must read Herodotus's book - and every great book - repeatedly; with each reading it will reveal another layer, previously overlooked themes, images and meanings. For within every great book there are several others.

There are at least a couple of more books of his I'd like to read, Shah of Shahs and Imperium, among them. Who woulda thunk RK would one day replace Joseph Conrad as my favourite Polish writer?

A candlestick for Uncut

For a little more than two and a half years, my daily regimen in office has been: walk in, switch on comp, chat with colleagues and login to India Uncut, the moment the machine's warmed up. And so I'm chuffed that Amit Varma has won the Bastiat Prize for Journalism, 2007 for his columns in Mint.

I met Varma while covering the 2005 India-Pakistan test series. During the first test in Mohali, this long-haired friendly chap, mentioned he had a blog. Since then, IU has been a regular fixture in my life. His writing points me towards where I hope to go some day.

Here's his post on winning the prize. More power to him!

Writers & Editors

Writer Kurt Vonnegut Jr. scoffs at those who feel creative writing courses are infra dig:

"Listen, there were creative writing teachers long before there were creative writing courses, and they were called and continue to be called editors."

Read the entire piece at New York Times, which talks about how life need not be the only 'school' for writers.

Two Lives

With just two pages to go before I finished Two Lives, I remembered Vikram Seth is also a poet. A quick scan through the pages after I was done revealed that though this is no The Golden Gate, his novel in verse, the prose is nothing if not rhythmic. Almost as if Seth sung out his lines as he wrote them. (I actually think such writing would be instinctive for him). Here's a simple example I've picked out,

"A patient rang the doorbell; he was in acute distress. Henny told him that Shanti was too ill to help him. But when Shanti came out of his room and recognised the man, he told Henny that he could not go into hospital without treating him."

Of course, one might think there's not much to that sentence, but I'm pretty much convinced that rhythm matters deeply to Seth. Perhaps it is because the only other book I've read of his is An Equal Music. In Two Lives, Seth also reveals something of the way he approached this book,

In a double biography, an intertwined meditation, where the author is anomalous third briad, sometimes visible, sometimes not, there are intriguing possibilities of structure. For one thing, in what order should one recount events? ...Though I now know where to end this book, I did not at first know where to begin it...

It's a reminder that even celebrated writers are mortal (and therefore like me!), and that matters of form, structure and substance need to be worked on even by them, much like a random post in any blog! Two Lives also answers partly, the quesiton of what happened to the Jews who survived Hitler and what life was like for those who stayed on in Berlin after it was bombed out in the closing days of World War II. Indeed, this review quotes a line that may tell you more about the man who shaped the 20th century,

Shanti left Germany in 1936, though not before coming across Hitler in a Berlin park, surrounded by SS men. "He had a bridge in his mouth and he was made up with lipstick and all," he told the author. "I thought he might be a homo - but later on I found out they were going to film him in color."