Category Archives: The Book on The Nightstand

“A good book should leave you slightly exhausted at the end. You live several lives while reading it”. (William Styron)

The perfect paragraph to describe how I felt about this book.
I found it browsing through an used book section in a weekend market. Rows upon rows of heaped books sealed in plastic covers, like miniature towers.

The Thirteenth Tale was the last brick on one of these towers, sitting there like the finishing touch, the end of a building process.
The name itself was enough to arouse my curiosity but I didn’t buy it then. By the next day I felt sorry I didn’t. Luck or fate or the God of Books made it so that a friend of mine went to that market not long after and I asked her to look for the book. That is how it got to me in the end. More and more, I’m beginning to think that we are meant to read some books at a certain time to fully appreciate their stories.

I had started reading it on the 31 of January and finished by the 2 of the following month. A nice combination of 2’s. And if I add the mention of 2 of my favorite books which are brought forth at different times (Wuthering Heights is one) as the story goes on and the fact that the story revolves around twins, the number 2 becomes even more prominent.

Two women are the protagonists, one telling her story, the other listening and taking notes: Mrs Winter, the famous author of 12 previously published stories, now old and ailing, and Miss Lea, a young avid reader, whose mission is to put on paper the last story, the elusive 13th tale, the famous writer’s life story. Others have tried to convince Mrs Winter to let them write it but she has always evaded the truth, conjuring up other tales instead, to lure them away from her best kept secret: her true identity.
The book has the elements of a Gothic story: the old large house, tragic love stories, a baby abandoned on a doorstep with a crumpled page from Jane Eyre (this is the second) stuck in the bag he was placed in, even a “ghost”. It tells about the Angelfield family, a man’s obsession with his sister – the beautiful Isabelle, and the birth of twins Emmeline and Adeline. As the book slowly reveals its secrets, one cannot help but make assumptions and try to get one step ahead of the writer. Is Mrs Winter one of the twins, and if yes, which one, the quiet, sweet, plump Emmeline, or the wiry, energetic, strange Adeline? With every word, with every event, the reader is brought closer to the riddle only to be offered an unexpected answer at the end.

I found myself turning page after page, anxious to see the mystery solved. The real world became just a place I had to go back to but didn’t really want to, and I resurfaced from the story as if from underwater, dazed and totally ensnared in its events.
The poetic language, the vulnerability of the young writer, the suffering of the elder one, past and present, pain and relief, all intertwined to make for a very enjoyable read.

There is a book I read every few years, a book with covers yellowed by age and coffee stained pages. I found it ages ago it seems, in the bookcase my parents had in the living room. Every time I hold it in my hands I make a mental note to ask them how it got there and every time I forget.

It never crossed my mind to write a review for it until now. I do so today (after I finished re-reading the book just yesterday) because I don’t want this book to be forgotten, because it deserves more than that. Much more. Every time I read it I find new meaning in its words and even though I know sections of it by heart, I still look forward to reading them.

The story, ah, the story! Who hasn’t heard of Don Juan, one of the most famous myths in literature! His name is like a cloak under which hide young noble men whose only pursuit in life is the pleasure of the flesh. A myth as old almost as time itself. And yet, this story is alive. Every word seems to burn the page, rushing like blood through the veins after a quick run. It never falters and every page brings about a new and unforeseeable turn.

The events start in 1640, the year Miguel de Mañara turns fourteen. We get a glimpse into his family life and we see his hot- tempered father, one of the richest nobles of Spain, and his quiet religious mother whose heart hides a secret known to very few. Their lives play out against the background of a tormented country weakened by constant wars, where the gap between the rich and the poor is like an abyss with an invisible end, and where the Inquisition sees with its ever watchful eye and reaches with its greedy hands into the lives of people.

Miguel is the main character of the tale, and we get to see him grow from the young, timid boy, whose emotions are greater than he can control, to the impetuous ruthless young nobleman whose money and adventures make him feared throughout the land.

There are two people who will influence his life, both priests and both chosen by his parents, but they are as different as night and day, and under their teachings and their advice his life alters with dramatic consequences. Will he follow the path of his good Padre Gregorio, will he succumb to the twisted views of Trifon, or will he find another way? Will his search for love bring him peace or will it crush him? Questions I never tire of reading the answers to, time and again.

I started on Hemingway’s book with a tingle of anticipation. I had never read any of his work before and A Moveable Feast had whispered to me for a while until I found it on the shelves of a bookstore and took it home.
The story takes place from 1921 to 1926, when Hemingway was young and in love and had given up his job as a journalist to become a full time writer. He and his wife were living in Paris, an inexpensive city where you could live cheaply and well “even if you were poor”. The city‘s cafes and restaurants are most prominent in his memories, for there doesn’t seem to be a single page where drink or food would not be mentioned.

The book starts quite suddenly, as if Hemingway was just then in the middle of a story he was telling and it follows at a steady pace all through the end. Whether he is talking about the places, the people or his writing (which was one of my favorite parts), his tone varies very slightly when he reminisces about the past and his encounters with the famous writers of that time. Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, Ford Madox Ford and T.S. Eliot are but a few of those he mentions, sometimes with less than glowing words. One that seemed to have made a more lasting impression was Scott Fitzgerald, and there appeared to be a dual attitude to this friendship, as if Hemingway couldn’t make up his mind if he disliked or admired him. Or maybe it was a bit of both.

I found it rather difficult to relate to some parts of the book like the races and the drinking, but the seemingly easy, bohemian life, had a melody which made me envy those who were fortunate enough to live it. The walks, the books, the cafes, the fellow writers, all part of a world that was and can never be again, a time when “we were very poor and very happy”.

Read in December 2010

I found this book in a bookshop selling used books. There were 2 copies left on a big table, among other books. The name and the author were completely unknown to me but the first and the last sentence convinced me to buy it and I’ve never regretted. The pic of the book I got from the internet, as the book in itself is no longer in my possession.

If I were to make an analogy I would say this book is like a circle. It starts and ends in perfect symmetry. It is a mix of passion, desire, philosophy, mystery and love, seasoned with a pinch of politics and a peak into the Indian culture – a love story set in an exotic land, a house with a mysterious past and a secret that will tear through the almost perfect bohemian life of the two characters like a sharp knife.
The main character is a young Indian writer caught between two worlds, one filled with desire for his beautiful wife and the other with attempts at writing a book. As the story gradually unfolds it becomes a struggle to balance the two and in the end, it takes a heartbreaking decision to finally find the much needed inspiration and to discover that in order to create, he must sacrifice everything else.